Never Say Forever

As if that boat hasn’t already sailed.

This is so trippy. Past meeting present with the audacity to look as delicious as my memories, memories I’d told myself had to be rose-tinted. Sadly, I’m not sure he can be thinking the same. He obviously doesn’t even remember me. Which is a good because now there’s nothing to compare me against. It’s been almost five years since any man has seen me naked—since this man has seen me naked—and I’m pretty sure it would’ve been at least five more before I was ready to change that. I’m in pretty good shape—I teach yoga, eat well, and exercise—but I haven’t had the time or the focus to allow a man in my life, never mind letting them see me naked. And my body is very different from . . . does he not recognise me because I look so different or I was just one in a long line of anonymous women?

And then another thought hits.

Oh, God, this is Carson Hayes. The third version! I’m pretty much naked in front of Rose’s friend! I take the opportunity to look at him, really look, not his broad shoulders or pecs, but as the sum of his well-put-together pieces. I can’t believe it’s the same man, yet he is.

All this time, so close yet . . .

Oh, hell. I’ve screwed Carson Hayes. How am I ever going to explain this to Rose?

“You’re not takeout,” he murmurs ponderously, completely unruffled by my immediate frown. “Are you a birthday gift?”

“Is it your birthday?” It’s probably not the question I should be asking, but it’s the one that falls out of my mouth.

“I’m always open to receive gifts in advance.”

“You can’t gift people.” At least, you ought not to be able to.

“Not even willing ones?”

“I’m—”

“Now, don’t go and spoil it. Let me see. I recently read about a naked cleaning service in the city, but the question is, what exactly are you here to clean?” His finger dips into the water by my ankles, swirling it. We both watch the whirlpool-motion before his gaze rakes over me, heavy-lidded and hot, coming to rest on the muslin bra top. My body reacts viscerally, like a muscle memory it had forgotten it possessed. My insides twist pleasantly, an ache building between my legs. “Or would that be service?”

How is this my mountain rescuer? My chevalier? My five-year fantasy? He was sexy before, sexy in my memories, but never quite so brazen.

“You don’t happen to have a twin brother, do you?” I find myself asking. A bolder, though equally sexy identical twin? No, not quite identical. His hair seems darker. And his nose isn’t quite as straight.

“Is that your subtle way of telling me you’re too much for one man to handle?”

My mouth works silently, unable to deny his assertion in any kind of coherent form. The way he’s looking at me? I don’t think he’s teasing.

In the absence of words, I shake my head.

“Good. I don’t generally like to share.”

I really don’t know how to take that as his eyes flick to the sponge, something devilish sparkling in those indigo depths. This is the same man, I’m sure. He must just have an alter ego I hadn’t the pleasure of meeting before. And frighteningly, I’m not so sure I don’t like this version of him.

“If you could just pass me my towel. Please?”

“If you could just tell me what it is you’re doing in my tub.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I slap the water with my hand, which only serves to draw his gaze back to my (somewhat) nakedness. “I’m taking a bath.”

“What kind of intruder breaks in to take a bath?” His lips quirk in the corners, lush and full between. “One who likes being punished or one who doesn’t like to bathe alone?”

I inhale a sharp breath as his long fingers grasp my ankle, heat and the shock of it shooting up my leg as he pulls me closer to him. My reaction is purely visceral. It’s like my body remembers the whole of it.

The whole of him.

Flustered and fluttering, I press my makeshift top back in place with a shaky hand. I raise my chin, though whether against the swish of the water or as a show of opposition, I’m not really sure. In fact, I’m not really sure about anything right now. I just feel hot. Incredibly heated. I really ought to get out of this bath.

“I-I’m Fee.” Elbows clamped to my ribs, I readjust the sponge again. “I’m a friend of Rose.”

“Rose?” His hand withdraws from both my ankle and my bathwater as he sits a little straighter. “You’re not here from Ardeo?”

I shake my head, and though I wonder what Ardeo is, I don’t ask. “She said you knew I’d be here. In your apartment, I mean. Not in your bathtub.” Because I’m not a present. Or takeout, especially if that means what I think it means.