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“Uhh, Madeleine?”
His voice shocks me enough that I drop the glass in the sink. Thankfully, it doesn’t shatter.
“Yeah?” I call out, my voice shakier than I would have liked.
“Do you have any towels in here?”
Of course I forgot to put one out for him. Add poor hostess to my list of deficiencies.
“Check the middle cabinet,” I shout. “There should be one in there.”
“I already checked.”
My eyes dart to the dirty hamper in my room. One, two, three dirty towels are stuffed inside. I cringe. I had to use them yesterday when Mouse came back muddy from our walk. Right. I have no clean towels. Adam is naked in my bathroom and I have nothing to hand him. I yank open the kitchen drawer at my hip and pull out all the tea towels I can find. There are five in total—maybe if he uses them conservatively, they’ll dry off his whole body.
“Adam?” I ask, stepping toward the bathroom door. “I realize this is going to sound weird, but—”
“You have no clean towels.”
“It’s Mouse’s fault! Listen, crack the door and I’ll hand you some of my kitchen towels. They’re small but clean, so they should work.”
He laughs, and I know he’s adding this to the list of things he wants to mock me about. Who doesn’t have a single clean towel in their whole apartment? Madeleine Thatcher, that’s who.
“All right, hand them over,” he says, cracking the door and holding out his hand.
The exchange was supposed to be smooth. I slip the towels through the crack, he grabs them, shuts the door, dries off, and gets the hell out of my apartment.
But I don’t consider Mouse. I don’t consider the fact that he would desperately miss Adam in the few minutes he was in the shower. I don’t consider that Mouse would come bounding forward with enough force to push the bathroom door wide open. It’s the slowest slow-motion experience I’ve ever witnessed.
My hand is stretched out in an attempt to pass Adam the towels.
He’s standing at the threshold of the bathroom, naked and dripping wet. He’s tan from head to toe, and I know this because in the second I have to take in all of his naked glory, I see every inch. EVERY. SINGLE. INCH.
My jaw drops.
The man is miles of toned muscle, tight abs, strong thighs. My gaze roves everywhere—and I mean everywhere—before I come to my senses, dramatically slap my free hand over my eyes, and announce, “You have a scar on your hip!”
He yanks the towels out of my hand. “Bike accident when I was seven. Would you like to see the one on my back as well?”
I shiver at the thought of seeing his butt.
“No—please—I mean no, thank you,” I chirp.
“I was kidding.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“So are you going to turn around? Mouse is standing in the doorway and you’re blocking him, so I can’t shut to the door.”
I jump into action, grab Mouse, and whip around, trying my hardest not to die of mortification. The bathroom door shuts just as I run into the wall. Even then, I’m too scared to take my hand away until I’m safely back in the galley kitchen. I press myself against the refrigerator and try to calm down, but my heart is beating a wild rhythm in my chest, thump, thump, thumping so hard that I feel like my arteries might burst.
My hand finds my mouth and I bite down on my fist to keep from making a sound.
A groan.
A moan.
A laugh.
Anything could spill out, and I don’t want Adam to think I’m losing my mind. I squeeze my eyes closed and I see it all there again. It’s like the residual effects of staring directly at the sun. I turn to face the refrigerator tug it open, swinging the door back and forth, fanning my flushed face.
To be fair, it has been a long time since I’ve seen a naked man, but I know that’s not why I’m reacting the way I am. I’ve dated some cute guys, but I’ve never seen a man like Adam in the flesh. That one second of accidental flashing basically ruined me for any man that might come after him.
The bathroom door opens and I jerk forward toward the sink. By the time Adam walks by, I’m pretending to wash my water glass again.
“That glass looks squeaky clean.”
I drop it on the drying rack and turn, forcing myself to look his way. I can do this. I can be normal.
He’s back to wearing his work clothes, but what does it matter? He’s the sun, remember? Every time I blink, he’s back in the doorway of that bathroom.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I say again, hoping he won’t hold this against me.
He smirks as he uses one of the kitchen towels to dry his hair. “It took you quite a while to look away.”
