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I almost drop the phone laughing at his Steve joke. He really does pay attention when I talk.

“I’m in a bathtub that happens to be located inside your penthouse and you want to talk about Steve?”

“Forget I mentioned Steve.”

“I dunno, now I’m kind of thinking about Steve and his cute glasses.” I tease.

“I’ll break his glasses. You’re not allowed to think about other men in my bathtub.”

“Do you use it?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve abandoned it. Squatter’s rights.”

His gaze drops toward the bubbles covering everything below my shoulders.

“Are you naked?”

“That’s generally how baths work, Bishop.”

“The. Fuck.”

Got you.

“Relax. There are bubbles.”

“That’s not helping.” His eyes meet mine through the screen.

“We can talk until bubbles dissolve." The little thrill that goes through me is embarrassingly satisfying.

Then his voice drops. “Careful, Laney.”

My toes curl beneath the water. “Why?”

“Because I’m six hundred miles away, and you’re getting brave.”

“Maybe six hundred miles makes me brave.”

His mouth curves. “We’ll see how brave you are when I get home.”

That backfires spectacularly. I sink another inch beneath the bubbles.

Bishop grins. “What’s wrong now?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No. I really don’t.

We talk until the water starts cooling. About Wilder. His games. My writing, though I refuse to tell him what I’m writing.

Eventually I remember something. “I saw the Kiss Cam video.”

Bishop groans. “Of course you did.”

“At least somebody’s kissing a hockey player.”