Until I hear footsteps.
Not the pitter-patter of tiny bare feet but the heavy, manly kind of footsteps.
Footsteps with a direction and a purpose.
Footsteps coming this way.
Oh, shit!
The hairs on my arms stand pin straight despite the steam in room as I go from slightly sozzled to immediately panicked, sobering in more ways than one.
The water sloshes over the rim of the tub as I pull myself up quickly, my hands gripping the side of the tub. My heart misses a beat at the sound of a voice, and though I can’t make out the words, it’s definitely masculine. He also seems to be on the phone. Or talking to himself.
My fingers slide on the slippery surface of the tub as I try to climb out, and I end up half-submerged and spluttering. Then I realise this, whoever this is, is now in the master bedroom. My first fleeting thought is intruder, but he isn’t exactly being quiet as the door to the bedroom closes. Closes definitely.
Okay, slams.
Shit! Oh, shit!
Do I get out?
Stay in?
Duck so low I potentially drown?
Where is there a straw when you need one? This is all the turtle’s fault. There’s never a straw around when you want one!
I swallow over the lump in my throat before realising this isn’t likely to be an intruder but a man returning to his home.
To his bedroom.
Possibly to his bathroom.
Please, Mr Hayes, don’t need to pee!
I don’t decide, my hand instinctively reaching for my towel as the door to the bathroom suddenly creaks open. Light floods the room, and I freeze with my boobs squashed to the side of tub and my arm outstretched. From the corner of my eye, a blur of black and white and tan crosses from one side of the bathroom to the other.
Black, white, and tan isn’t a beagle. It’s a man. A man with his phone pressed between his ear and his raised shoulder as he untucks his shirt from dark suit pants. He begins to unfasten his watch, then his cufflinks, dropping each to the vanity, barely sparing it a glance. Which is just as well because, mirror! A mirror I can just about see myself in. And oh, my Lord, Carson Hayes III isn’t a fifty-year-old man. I find myself squinting in his direction, guessing he’s somewhere around thirty-five. And with a profile that looks like it could’ve been carved from marble.
Unless . . .
Maybe Carson Hayes likes men around that age, and this is his boyfriend? If so, I approve of his taste. He obviously likes the whole Wall Street titan look on his men. And then I realise I’m getting a little off track as he dips out of sight, swallowed by the recessed shower, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces.
“This has fucked up my whole weekend.” American? Why do I find this surprising? “I just got home.” So probably not a boyfriend of Carson Hayes but the man himself? “The flight was redirected. Yeah, a total ball ache, in more ways than one.” His deep chuckle reverberates through the space. “I’ll be in the city for the weekend, at least.”
The subsequent sound of cascading water muffles the rest of his words, which is just as well because, what the what what? The whole weekend?
It’s awkward enough that he obviously doesn’t remember he loaned out his home, but I do not need to be discovered naked in his bathtub, for crying out loud! I need to get out of here before—
Motherfluff!
He strides across the bathroom once more—the man will wear a hole in the tile at this rate—pausing halfway between the shower and door, still holding his phone. And also his shirt.
I wonder if Carson Hayes the first and second were ever as ripped as the third, because the 3.0 version has shoulders and biceps for days. Plus, he has an ass only a blind girl wouldn’t notice. Thick, my mind unhelpfully supplies. And yes, I’m still squinting, but I’m pretty sure the eventual crow’s feet will be worth it.
He undoes his belt onehanded, the fly of his pants next, and like a magician’s tablecloth, his pants disappear. The long line of his toned thigh is almost bronze in the light, and by the bulge in his black boxer briefs, he’s buying the right-sized prophylactics.
“Yes, I’m aware.” His voice brings my attention back to his conversation. And his frown.
I too am aware. Aware that I suddenly feel very hot. But please, as lovely to look at as you are, please, please go away. Let me climb out of the bath and escape before you actually see me—see more of me than we’d both be comfortable with!
As though hearing my plea, he grabs one of the nicely folded towels and walks back into his bedroom. But the water in the bath scarcely has time to swish with my movement before he’s back again.