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My hands come up fast and smack him away. ‘Get out,’ I demand.
He rolls his eyes. He actually rolls his eyes at me. What’s he on? ‘Get in the shower.’
‘I will not.’ I pivot on my heel . . . and go nowhere.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asks, calm as can be, seizing me and opening the shower door.
I wriggle like a demented worm to no avail, and then the fact that no steam is emanating from the shower cubicle grabs my attention. I stop fighting him, but only long enough to spot the shower dial and note that the twat turned it the wrong way. Then my squirming hits new heights as I come closer to the spray. ‘Becker,’ I yelp, kicking back into his shin, getting some mild satisfaction from the curse that bursts from him. ‘You’ve turned it to cold.’ He completely ignores me and shoves me into the cubicle. ‘No!’ The water hits me like a million ice spears, stabbing my skin, and my body goes into shock. Every muscle shuts down as I’m attacked by the icy water. ‘Oh my God.’ My words come out broken and my teeth begin to chatter, the material of my shorts and vest clinging to me and my hair soaking up every freezing drop raining down over my defenceless body.
‘There,’ I hear him say as I slowly shuffle around, finding him on the other side of the glass – the dry, warm side – brushing off his hands, a smug smile stretched from ear to ear. ‘Wasn’t so hard, was it?’
I’m so fucking cold, I could cry. ‘I hate you,’ I choke, making a grab for the door handle, my only purpose now to escape. But he pushes against the frame, keeping me prisoner in the ice box. ‘Let me out.’
His head cocks and he brings his face close, pushing his lips to the glass and giving it a smacker of a kiss. ‘You looked like you needed to cool off, princess.’
I mentally scream and finally find the sense to swing around and locate the temperature gauge, flipping it to the maximum heat and pinning myself to the tiles while it warms up. Taking the sponge, I hold it under the spray and squirt some shower gel on it. ‘When I get out of this shower, you’d better be gone.’
‘Or else?’ He raises an interested eyebrow that I only just catch before steam engulfs the glass and his infuriatingly handsome face is no longer visible.
I have no or else. ‘Get out.’ I toss the drenched sponge over the top of the door and hope he’s close enough to cop the soppy bomb. Then I begin to strip out of my sodden pyjamas, my skin burning from the mix of cold and hot, as I mutter under my breath every name for Becker I can think of. He expects me to return to work like nothing’s happened? Is he insane?
The shower door swings open and the sponge sails through the steam, slapping me right in the face before dropping heavily to the shower floor. ‘You’ll need that.’ The door closes, and I stand with my eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths. ‘You still smell of me.’
I don’t rise to his taunt, but I do bite down on my lip and slowly sink down to collect the sponge. Then I start to wash the smell of Becker Hunt from my skin.
I’ve been standing looking at the bathroom door for an age, wrapped in a towel, psyching myself up to face him again. I know he’s still here. I might not be able to smell him on my body any longer, but I can smell his scent lingering in the air. And I can feel him close by. He’s gone full-force into wind-up-merchant mode. Irritating mode. Joker mode. It’s like nothing ever happened.
Just get dressed and go out. Pretend he isn’t even there. Sounds simple in theory. In practice, though, I’m aiming for the impossible. But I’m willing to give it a go.
On entering the small space of my apartment, I catch him sprawled on the couch, looking comfy and at home. I resist the overwhelming urge to go over and batter him with a pillow, instead heading straight for my wardrobe. Grabbing the first thing I lay my hands on – some jeans and an oversized blush-coloured shirt – along with some underwear, I pelt back to the bathroom, chickening out on my brash intention of dressing in front of him. After last night, I’m zapped dry of brazenness, and I hate him for it.
I ignore the feel of his eyes on me as I make my hasty escape and shut the door, throwing my clothes on a nearby rail. My urgency to be out of here won’t allow time to moisturise, so I throw on my clothes, haphazardly slap on some make-up, then blast my hair with the dryer. It’s the fastest I’ve ever got ready.
