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All I do is lower my eyes and whisper, “Thanks.”
He doesn’t say anything.
He just turns away and walks out like I’m not even there, his steps a little too sharp, his fingers still balled in a fist.
I’m only standing there for a minute, but it feels like I’m losing hours.
I can’t even tell if he’s actually angry at me for something he doesn’t understand—or if he’s angrily trying to deny that this feeling building between us is mutual.
Whatever.
I can’t think about it.
I won’t let myself think about it.
So I let myself into the bathroom instead—an expansive space of black-veined granite counters, sinks in dark-matte metal, a ridiculously large mirror, bamboo walls that match the bedroom’s diagonal pattern.
The floor is still that same rough slate without a single seam, tile, or crack.
It feels cooler in here somehow, misted with the scent of the tall fronded fern plants potted in the corners. There’s a massive rainfall shower with seating surrounded by glass and multiple showerheads, plus a skylight letting in a hint of the moon. The bathtub is separate, an enormous sunken thing that’s practically a small pool.
I’m so tempted to take a dip.
But I’m suddenly dead tired.
I just want to wash the glitter off my skin and go to sleep and try to forget where I am—stuck with a man who makes me want him so much I feel depraved.
I strip down quickly, then pile my clothes on the edge of the counter, hang my coat from the hook on the back of the door, and drop my purse on the crumpled stack of my clothing.
When I turn the water on, it takes a little fiddling to not drown myself in the deluge cascading down. I realize it’s running down the sides of the walls, too, pouring from insets high up near slits of windows to create a decorative glassy sheen.
Dang.
He may not be about McMansions, but August still has plenty of that fancy billionaire flash.
I snag a towel from the laid-out stack, step in, and let myself melt under the soothing downpour. It’s honestly just what I need right now—shutting my brain off to let the heat take over and make me think about nothing.
Not August.
Not the way I’m getting all up in my feelings in the most hopeless way.
Not anything except that maybe I was a little drunk.
The hot water pulls me back to my senses, calming me down.
Everything’s going to be fine.
I’ll say good night, curl up in the guest room, try not to wonder about the thread count on the sheets, and sleep. I’m making up all this tension in my head, imagining scenarios that are completely one sided.
Just let it go, because if I don’t, if I just keep brooding ...
Well. We know what happens when I end up in migraine land, don’t we?
And I don’t think August wants to peel a limp squid of a girl off his shower floor with a gash across her head.
That’s almost a porno setup, anyway.
The damsel in distress faints, the hunky guy comes to save her, they get hot and heavy because suddenly once she sees his rippling biceps, she’s completely fine and doesn’t need 911 at all.
