Tessa lowers herself onto the bed, tucking one foot under her while keeping the other elevated. “He’s probably anxious. Or overstimulated.”
“He’s an asshole,” I say, staring at the steaming evidence of his moral collapse. “He should be tried at The Hague.”
“He’s a baby.”
“He’s a biohazard.”
Waffles walks over and licks my ankle, which I assume is supposed to be an apology, but I’m not accepting personal injury compensation from a dog who just nuked the carpet. I still want to catapult him into the nearest body of water.
I scoop up the mess, gagging because, of course, this is my life now, muttering curses under my breath the whole time as I disinfect the carpet with hotel-grade nonsense. Then I take the bag out, call housekeeping, and seriously consider requesting an exorcist.
Meanwhile, Tessa’s on the bed, cuddling that traitorous fur goblin.
“I’m going to burn down this room,” I inform no one in particular when I return.
Tessa hums, stroking Waffles’s head. “Use a scented candle. Something calming. You’re tense.”
My eye twitches, and I peel off my shirt, walking toward the bathroom with the intention of taking a shower so hot that it resets my ability to make decisions with my body. But I stop in the doorway.
Tessa’s still cradling her ankle. Still pretending she’s unaffected.
But her eyes flick up to me when she thinks I’m not looking.
And that’s when I pivot.
I don’t say anything. I just walk into the bathroom, turn on the tub’s faucet, and twist it toward warm. I stand there like an idiot, watching the water rise, then grab the overpriced bath salts from the welcome basket and dump them in because apparently, I’m a concierge now.
I check the temperature with my hand, adjust it, then adjust it again because suddenly I’m incapable of leaving anything imperfect. I pull a towel from the shelf, shake it out with more force than necessary, and set it on the edge of the tub before I can overthink this any further.
Then I walk back into the bedroom and jerk my chin toward the bathroom door.
“Tub’s ready.”
She blinks at me. “You ran me a bath?”
I don’t answer because the truth is pathetic, and I don’t do pathetic. I ran the bath because she was barely holding it together, and some traitorous muscle memory in me reacted before my brain could shut it down. It’s the same instinct that had me carrying her books freshman year, the same one that made me memorize her coffee order before I even admitted I liked her.
It’s not strategy. It’s me losing control in ways I swore I wouldn’t.
“I—why?” she asks.
“Your ankle’s swollen,” I say, tone flat enough to pass for indifference. “Heat might help.”
She nods once. “Right. Medical necessity.”
“Exactly,” I say, as if I didn’t adjust the water temperature three times.
She walks past me and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and scrub a hand over my face.
I want to be angry. Ineedto be angry. That was the entire point. Keep her at arm’s length, use the situation, get what I need, leave clean.
But all I can think about is the look she gave me right before she kissed me—certain, and so damn honest it still knocks the wind out of me.
And now I’m running baths.
Fantastic.
