I closed my eyes and stepped under the spray, tuning him out. If I’d had anywhere else to go, I’d have been out of there…except the shower was amazing. I searched for the shampoo, but there were no little bottles on the shelf built into the wall.
“Can you hand me the shampoo and body wash?” I called.
No answer.
“Hello? There’s no shampoo in here.”
Still no answer.
I poked my head out just as he returned to the bathroom shoving a soft peppermint into his mouth.
“Want one?”
I choked. He was still naked, and the front view, well, now I was the one staring at him like I’d never seen a man before. The longer I got my fill, the bigger it got, and he appeared completely unbothered.
He sauntered across the stone floor and pressed a piece of candy against my lips, which I automatically accepted.
“You’re using all the hot water,” he said huskily.
“Shampoo,” I croaked.
Hand on his hip, he surveyed the bathroom. “I saw some somewhere.” That dark gaze returned to me. “But I just can’t seem to remember where.”
“At least give me the soap.” I pointed toward a bar in the dish by the sink.
“That’s a long way for me to walk.” He then gave me an infuriating look of understanding and pity. “Patch, it seems an awful lot like you’re trying to get me to parade around naked.”
I shoved open the door, knocking it into him, and dripped all the way over to the sink. Sitting on top of his open shave kit were all the little bottles of essentials. I swiped them with an aggravated growl, and when I spun around, the only evidence he’d been in the bathroom was the pile of peppermints on the ledge of the tub.
“Insufferable, way too many muscles, no good, soap stealing—” My mumbling stopped abruptly. Underneath the rainhead was his perfect form stretched tight as he lifted his arms to slick his hair back.
“You found some. Thanks.” He plucked the little bottles from my hands.
I wasn’t sure if the steam was from the heat of the water or my ears.
“I’m not too modest to share a shower.” His innocent tone sounded more like a dare than a casual statement.
“In your dreams.” The door bounced off the rubber seal when I closed it. I turned on the hot water tap to the tub and watched the waterfall cascade into it. The stone tub was so deep, it’d take the rest of my trip for it to fill.
I tested the temperature, which was warm enough, and climbed in even though there was only an inch or two of water in the bottom. The material of the tub was cool, but I leaned back anyway and rested my head on the edge.
As my eyes drifted closed, a glistening image of a solid chest transitioned into a view of the entire naked man only a sheet of glass away. I popped them open and thought about cataloging books, vacuuming, and the biggest dick I’d ever seen. Wait, no, I meant balls of yarn.
“Did you want to go to one of the restaurants for dinner?” His deep voice floated on a billow of steam and settled on my skin. “Or should we do room service since you’re trying to avoid your friend’s fiancé?”
This. This was what gave a girl whiplash. He wouldn’t tell me where the shampoo was and he stole my turn in the shower, but then he was considerate enough to think I might not want to run into Doyle. Whom I did not want to think about while naked.
“Room service works.” I still sounded like some foreign version of myself.
The shower went silent. A big hand bolted out to grab a towel and disappeared back inside. After what felt like an hour but in reality probably wasn’t a full minute, he emerged, the white towel around his neck instead of his waist.
His eyes went straight to my naked form, which had yet to be covered by the water.
“Patch, you make it really hard to be a gentleman.” He gripped the ends of the towel, his eyes tripping over the room as he diverted them. They landed on my face with an intensity that rocked me.
“Would you believe that I am usually modest?” A faint smile ghosted my mouth.
“Nope.” He snatched a soft peppermint from the ledge and stalked toward the vanity.
I watched, mesmerized, as he went through his after-shower routine. There was nothing extraordinary about it, yet I was fascinated.
“You forgot this.” He unwrapped a bath bomb and dropped it into the water, but the only thing I could focus on was the up close and personal view I had of his groin.
I curled my fingers into a ball on the bottom of the tub to keep from doing something insane like touching him. His semi-erection twitched and grew. If breathing wasn’t an automatic function, I would’ve stopped.
The view was replaced by his face, which was no less exquisite, as he squatted beside me. “Any preference for dinner? Or want to be surprised?”
You. I want you for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and two snacks.
As if he sensed the direction my feelings were going, he reached out and traced my lips with his thumb. “Are you listening?”
I nipped the rough pad with my teeth, and his nostrils flared. “Surprise me,” I finally said.
The heat zipping through me had little to do with the bath or the faded remnants of the rum. Poking his leg was no longer necessary. The buzz was definitely all him.
“I’ll give you time to soak.” His thumb took another tour of my lips, and my nipples tightened in reaction.
His palm cupped my face as he traced a hypnotic rhythm. There was nothing but the two of us and this electricity that crackled between us.
“What’s your name?” I asked him for the second time.
He pressed his thumb into my lower lip, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You sure you can handle it?”
I sucked in my cheeks as irritation tried and failed to command my arousal into submission. “I wouldn’t have asked if I couldn’t.”
“Hale.”
He kissed my forehead and vanished from the bathroom, leaving me wound up tight and wanting.
I settled deeper in the tub. Could I have a sexcapade with this man? The hardest part was getting naked, and we were well past that.
I smiled to myself. Even if we never got down to the deed, at least now I had a name to scream in my fantasies.
Hale
* * *
“Just try it.”
I held up the scallop, but she shrank away and shook her head as if it were still alive.
“I have before, and I don’t like them.”
After we’d washed up and dressed, I’d ordered dinner in, opting for surf and turf to cover all my bases. She’d gone straight for the steak.
“You haven’t tasted these.”
She sucked on the Painkiller I’d ordered—without the extra shot of rum—and looked tempted to knock my fork away from her face. I winced when she ate the scallop, pretty sure that nothing would taste good paired with the sweet drink.
She chewed and chewed, her stare getting more lethal by the second.
“It’s delicious.” The admission was a cranky set of words, followed by the prompt theft of another scallop from my plate.
“I beg your pardon. I’m not sure I heard you right.” I cupped my ear and didn’t even bother to hide the victorious smirk on my face.
“You heard me,” she said as she chewed.
“Want to trade?” I offered as I speared a piece of her steak.
“No.” She helped herself to my asparagus too. I stole some of her garlic mashed potatoes. “Do you always share food with people whose names you don’t know?”
My grin broadened. “I do know it.”
She paused before shoving another scallop into her mouth. “No, you don’t.”
“Sure I do, Smithe.” She dropped her fork, and I swiped another bite of her steak. “It’s on your bag.” I leaned over and fingered the tag attached to the strap of her carry- on.
Her cheeks turned a solid red. “You shouldn’t be snooping through my things.”
“First off, your things ar
e everywhere.” I motioned toward the books and clothes and electronics all over the end tables, sofa, and floor. “Second, it was in plain sight on the plane. When you insisted I change shirts.”
I offered her the last scallop, which she took without argument, and pushed back from the table. “Speaking of shirts, we’re going to solve this ex problem of yours once and for all.”
“I don’t have an ex problem,” she called as I went into the closet to retrieve the T-shirt. “And where’s dessert?”
“Right here.” As I came back into the room, I motioned down my body like a television presenter would do to the grand prize on a game show.
“That won’t do.”
If that look like she’d wanted to drag me into the tub with her earlier was any indication, she was a shit liar.
“It’s over there.” I pointed toward the domed dish on the mini bar.
She shot up, but froze with her hand on the metal dome when I picked up a pair of scissors. “What are you doing?”
“You gotta let go. You’re so busy patching everybody else up, you haven’t healed yourself.” I positioned the scissors on the collar, and she rushed me. “It would be better if you did this, but sometimes you need a helping hand.”
“Don’t cut my shirt, you crazy—”
I cut her off before she could call me an obscenity. “He hurt you when he left you broken-hearted. For that, he’s an asshole I’d like to beat to a pulp.” Okay, so I hadn’t meant to say that.
She tugged on one end of the shirt so it was stretched between us in a game of tug of war the fabric couldn’t sustain. I snipped the collar.
“You jackass!”
“This will only hurt for a minute. I promise, once this is out of your life, you’ll feel better. It’s holding you back.” I cut down the logo across the chest.
“You’re deranged.” Smithe still had a hold on the T-shirt like she could save it.
I only wanted to help her let go of her old relationship. For her. So she could move forward. With every snip we moved her closer to that, even if she didn’t see it yet. By the time I’d cut it from one end to the other, I breathed easier. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings not to see the damn thing again.
“I would offer you a go at it, but I’m afraid to put scissors in your hand.”
She looked a little crazed, but we weren’t done yet. I rummaged through her bag until I found the matching sweatpants.
“No!” She pulled on a leg so hard that they ripped right in the crotch.
“We may not need these after all.” I shook the scissors, but cut through the logo for good measure.
“You can’t just destroy people’s clothes.”
“You did a pretty good job of ruining your underwear earlier by swimming in them,” I pointed out, and she lunged again.
“Give me those scissors.”
I held them out of her reach high above my head. She bounced on the balls of her feet, though it wasn’t enough.
“Stop it. You’ll get hurt.”
She pulled on my arm with brute force. I banded my other one around her waist before I tossed the shears behind us.
Delicate hands fisted my shirt and yanked, sending buttons flying.
“What the hell?” I looked down between us.
“You don’t like having your clothes ripped?” She pulled again until there were no buttons left.
I canted my head. “I suppose there could be worse things.”
Rage filled her eyes. A ferocious growl blasted from her lungs. And then she unleashed those fists on me, pummeling my chest.
“Seriously. Vomit on my shirt was way worse than your hands on my skin.”
Abruptly, she stopped. Unhinged. She was the definition in the flesh. Wild-eyed, she looked around the room, for what I didn’t know, but I prayed it wasn’t the scissors.
“This day has been hell on earth because of you!” she yelled.
I pulled her flush against my body, desperate to ease her tension. Those honey pools got a little wilder when she felt my erection. Nothing I could do about that. We’d already crossed so many lines I’d lost count, and something about seeing her lose her mind turned me on.
“If it weren’t for me, you’d be hiding from security with no place to sleep.” I dipped my head until her heavy breaths hit me. “You’d be hungry and still not over your ex.”
“What is your obsession with my ex-boyfriend?”
“He hurt you,” I said low, so close to her full lips, but not touching.
“No, he didn’t. I hurt him.”
She recoiled with the admission at the same time I did, yet I couldn’t let her go. My brain automatically went to the worst: she’d cheated.
“I thought there was more,” she whispered. “He was good to me, perfect really, but I—it felt like I was missing out.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’ve never admitted that out loud before.”
“I don’t get it. Why keep the shirt?” I unpeeled her fingers from her eyes.
“To remind me not to throw away good things.”
“You want to get back together with this guy?” Everything in me rebelled at that notion, which was beyond absurd, but there nonetheless.
She scooped up the tattered shirt, and I had the urge to burn it. Just because a dude wore a reading club T-shirt didn’t make him the perfect boyfriend.
Smithe fisted the cotton and paced in a circle.
“It sounds different when I ask myself that in my head.” She paused and looked at me, eyes luminous with confusion.
“Well. Do you?”
Smithe
* * *
“I thought so.”
Until this morning, I’d thought the answer had been an unequivocal yes. Why I hadn’t gotten around to actually expressing that to him in the eight months since our breakup was a mystery for the ages. I’d been busy with work and being single and work. Then he’d found another girlfriend, so that didn’t exactly lend itself to confessing I’d made a mistake.
Except I wasn’t sure I had.
“As in you don’t think so anymore?” He scowled at the shirt in my hands, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it go. It reminded me a partner didn’t have to be spontaneous. Being loved was enough, right?
“He has a girlfriend—”
“When did you break up?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Man works quick, don’t you think?” he said acidly, snatching the sweatpants off the sofa.
“He waited a couple of months.”
“And how long were you together?”
“Two years.”
“This calls for more drastic measures,” he grumbled.
Hale rummaged through drawers until he found what he was looking for and grabbed my hand as he hustled toward the sliding glass doors.
“What are you doing?” He didn’t answer as he lit the fire pit on the back patio. “Hale?”
That got his attention. His jaw tightened. “A guy who is the right one for you doesn’t move on in two months, Patch.”
He might as well have slapped me.
“I broke up with him,” I protested.
“Doesn’t matter. He might fuck someone else because he thinks it will get you out of his system, but a relationship? If his feelings are legit, he waits it out.” He took me by the shoulders. “Scratch that. He fights.”
I wobbled and pain shot through my fingers at my vice-like grip on the T-shirt. The only thing that kept me from falling was his steady grasp.
“Did he fight for you?”
The question rattled around in my brain. It rolled like a marble in a funnel even though I already knew the answer.
“Did he?”
“No,” I whispered. He’d come by the library once, a week and a half after the breakup, but he’d kept the conversation neutral, almost testing to see if we could still be friends. I’d been polite, yet hadn’t wanted to encourage.
“Then he doesn’t deserve you.” He touched his forehead to mine.
“Burn it.”
My body seized at the thought of completely losing what had become my safety blanket. It was a shirt for goodness sake. Hadn’t I wanted more? And yet I couldn’t let go of the past. I might as well have never ended the relationship in the first place. I was still in it, only I was alone.
And he hadn’t fought for me.
I dangled the shirt over the flames. Not a protest or an ‘I can’t live without you’ or a ‘we belong together’. A silent nod and an ‘if that’s what you want’ was all I’d gotten.
I tossed the cotton into the fire. Something loosened inside me, a knot I hadn’t realized was there. I grabbed the sweatpants and threw them in for good measure. There was more out there for me. All I had to do was find it.
I leaned against Hale, who wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder. I relaxed, grateful for the support and the push to let go of the thing that had been weighing me down.
We were quiet as we watched the flames consume the fabric. When all that was left was ash, it felt like I’d finally closed the door after keeping it propped open for so long.
“We need a new name for the book club,” I said.
He laughed in my ear, the sound winding through me all the way to my toes. I covered his arms around me with my own. It felt better than good to be held, especially by someone who recognized what I needed and pushed me toward it.
“You definitely do,” he agreed. “I vote for Sexcapades.”
I wiggled to face him. “You know this is at the library, right?”
He narrowed his gaze. “Is there or is there not sex in the books?”
I blushed thinking about Mrs. Cunningham and Mrs. Pickens, both in their seventies, discussing the merits of a threesome during our last book club. Mr. Jones, who’d insisted men should be allowed in the club—I thought he really had a thing for Mrs. Cunningham—had chugged an entire bottle of water and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief for most of the meeting.
“I don’t pick the selections,” I defended. “It’s a small group. A different person chooses each month, and anything goes.”
“I didn’t ask if you picked.” He lowered his voice and leaned close. “What kind of library are you working at?”
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