“I’m not a gift.”
“Our definitions differ.”
“This is ridiculous,” I begin to splutter. “You shouldn’t be here—you shouldn’t look. A gentleman would excuse himself and leave the room.”
“This is my bathroom. By my reckoning, you should be the one to leave.” His silky-toned words are nothing but a ploy, given the way his gaze roams over me.
But leave?
Right now?
“Oh, I’m sure you’d just love that, wouldn’t you?” I mutter, scanning the immediate vicinity for something that might help when his eyes follow mine to the fallen towel, correctly calculating that it’s out of reach.
“Maybe you should give it a try to find out.”
“What are you doing?” I squeak as he suddenly pushes off from the vanity, negligently pulling a towel from behind him before wrapping a towel around his hips.
“You want me to lose the towel,” he taunts, his hand at the knot. “You’re right. Lose the towel.”
“No!” I’m not sure anything would be evened out, judging from the slight tenting to the downy fabric that I can’t help but notice now.
Honestly, it’s hard.
Hard not to look, I mean.
The other thing isn’t. You know. Hard. But it’s getting there.
While also getting closer as he saunters my way.
With a jolt of panic, I slide a little deeper into the water before my mind registers the lack of bubbles on the surface of the water at this point. I grab the natural sponge balanced on the corner of the tub, a sponge I’d purposely ignored up until this point because what kind of person uses someone else’s sponge, a sponge that has rubbed goodness knows to what bodily bits and crevices? But need overrules everything else right now as I plunge the sponge into the bathwater, squeeze it, then press the water-heavy lump over my nether bits, strategically covering them—covering it?—with both the sponge and my hand.
With a quick glance at my coverings, I glance back up at him, another reprimand at the ready, when the words die on my tongue.
That taunting voice. It’s familiar. I have heard it before.
Those eyes, those cheekbones, and that sharp bicuspid I just know I’ll see when his lips curve into a spontaneous smile.
Oh, my God.
I’m familiar with these features because I know this man.
Can it really be him? Half a world and half a lifetime away, or so it feels.
My nameless lover. My mountain rescuer and my one and only ever one-night stand. It’s not like I’d ever forget him, even if I’d never set eyes on him again after that night in a little hotel on the side of a mountain. Barefoot and my hair in disarray, I’d made my way back down to the garage. I’d put the ridiculous cost of the tow and a new tyre on my credit card, asked for directions back to Nice, and drove Fred out of the little village without once looking back. Physically, at least, because I’ve looked back on that night so many times in my memory.
As hot as he was from the other side of the bathroom, up close, he’s so much more . . . everything. And exactly as I remember him. That’s not exactly true, I realise as he seats himself on the edge of the tub. His hair seems darker, and the creases around his eyes a little more pronounced. He seems sharper, larger if that’s possible, and a lot more intimidating.
“It’s impolite to stare,” I murmur, dragging my gaze from his, not exactly sure which of us the reprimand was for.
“Fair’s fair, beautiful. You had a real good look at me.”
“I am not having this conversation.” I angle an imperious gaze his way. Though, by his amused response, you can’t channel imperious when you’re lying like a prune floating in a puddle. “I’m certain this isn’t how you’re supposed to react finding a strange woman in your bathtub.”
“No? Well, it’s never happened before. Maybe I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave.”
“I think you do, but you’re ignoring the instinct anyway. You might make an effort not to look so delighted,” I mutter, my attention sliding away again, though not entirely from embarrassment. Because looking at him is like staring at a light for too long. Dizzying. “You’re pretty much holding me hostage in your tub.”
“You’re unrestrained. Free to leave anytime.” There’s a certain note in his tone, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something a little thrilling, perhaps. I like it more than I should as I continue to quiver, not entirely unpleasantly, hiding behind a bit of cheesecloth and a sponge. As if the situation wasn’t confusing enough or awkward enough, the sponge chooses this moment to float to the waterline with a watery pop and an accompanying bubble.
I’m not even going to bother denying that, even if farting from nerves is an actual thing, according to my dad. I might be nervous, but not to the point of flatulence as I fish the sponge closer with the tips of my fingers, trying to tactically float it now in such a way as to protect my modesty.