When I finally “give up,” I huff a little laugh and head toward his room instead.
His bathroom has towels. And no witnesses.
I step inside, grab one from the neatly folded stack, and turn to leave—just in time for him to walk right past me.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance at me.
He just hooks his thumbs into the waistband of those grey sweatpants and strips them off in one smooth motion.
And there’s… nothing underneath.
Nothing.
My face goes instantly hot, like I’ve stepped into a sauna.
I make a noise—something between a choke and a cough—that I try to disguise as clearing my throat, but it’s useless.
I keep my eyes glued to the floor, willing my legs to move, but my traitorous gaze flicks up at the exact wrong time.
He steps into the shower. Completely bare-assed.
It’s firm. Perfect. And I hate myself for looking.
Except I don’t stop there.
Because when he turns slightly, I catch a flash of the front.
Hard. Really hard.
And yes—really big.
I spin out of the doorway before I make a bigger fool of myself, clutching the towel to my chest like it’s some kind of shield, but my face is still burning as I head for the pool.
It’s too cloudy for tanning.
Not that it matters—he’s not even out here.
So instead of lying in the sun, I’ve spent almost an hour on the pool deck doing yoga poses in my tiniest bikini. Deep stretches, slow bends, every pose I can think of that shows off the way my body moves.
I know he has cameras out here.
I know he’s watching me.
And yes… I like it.
It’s the same way he found me in the gym yesterday—already a little winded, his skin damp with sweat. He’d joined me like it was a coincidence, but I know better.
I hope he’s in his office right now, eyes locked on the monitor, one hand under the desk, making himself come to the sight of me.
By the time I’m done, I’m starving for lunch.
I pad into the kitchen, still in my bikini, hair messy from the humidity. I go straight for the fridge, already prepared to eat ajarred salad with my fingers… or chopsticks… or hell, maybe a fork if I can find one, though I doubt it.
The fridge is just as annoyingly neat as it’s always been—labels facing forward, jars in perfect rows like soldiers. I grab one and twist the lid.
Nothing.
I try again. No luck.
