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I disappear into the bathroom and slam the door.

His laugh follows me.

Asshole.

I strip out of my wet clothes and dig through my bag.

Then I swear.

“What?” Ryder calls through the door.

“Nothing.”

“Sounded like something.”

“I forgot pajamas.”

Silence.

Then, “Best news I’ve had all day.”

I close my eyes. “Ryder.”

“I’ve got a shirt.”

“I don’t want your shirt.”

“Then sleep naked.”

“I hate you.”

“Shirt’s outside the door.”

I wait.

A shadow moves beneath the door.

Then disappears.

I crack it open.

Black T-shirt.

I grab it and shut the door again.

In a moment or weakness, I press the shirt to my nose and inhale.

And then my knees go weak.

Jesus.

It smells like him.

His cologne is a mix of cedar and mountain rain with a hint of motor oil lingering at the edges.

My eyes flutter closed for a moment as I wonder what kind of torture I’m putting myself through. And then I pull his shirt over my head. It hangs to the middle of my thighs.

When I finally walk out, Ryder is stretched across the bed in nothing but gray sweatpants.