I open the door mid-scowl, prepared to keep arguing—and instantly regret it.
Because Rowan King is standing there. Barefoot. Shirtless. With his hair still a little messy and a towel slung casually around his neck.
But there’s something else. A tightness around his eyes. A tension in his jaw that wasn’t there last night. Like maybe waking up wrapped around me wasn’t as casual for him as he’s pretending.
I blink.
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you done staring?”
“No,” I blurt.
His mouth twitches.
I shove past him. “I hate you.”
“Noted.”
I retreat to the edge of the bed, drop into a dramatic sprawl, and pretend I’m not deeply, dangerously aware of the mattress indentation beside me. It’s still warm.
Which is rude, honestly. The least he could do is take his infuriating body heat with him when he leaves.
From the bathroom, I hear the water start up.
Shower.
Right. Of course. Because he has the nerve to be shirtless and clean while I sit here marinating in confusion and the smell of lavender dog shampoo.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My arm brushes the pillow he slept on. It smells like him.
Also rude.
Steam rolls out under the crack in the bathroom door, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Do not picture it.
I picture it.
Worse: I remember it.
The way he used to towel off casually, like being half-naked in front of me wasn’t a big deal. The way water would bead on his collarbone. The way my knees would forget how to knee.
The water shuts off.
I bolt upright. Morally, if not legally criminal thoughts.
A few minutes later, Rowan pads into the room, hair damp, towel slung around his waist, finally pulling on a T-shirt.
He barely glances at me—just at the clock—then grabs his phone from the dresser.
Completely unaffected.
Meanwhile, I’m in full emotional cardiac arrest on the duvet, pretending I’m not trying to remember if I shaved both legs evenly yesterday.
“We’re expected at breakfast in twenty.”
“Define expected.”
“Expected, as in I will not carry you there, and I don’t want to have to explain why my girlfriend is still recovering from a light snuggle.” His tone is all business now, but I catch the way his fingers drum once against his thigh. Nervous habit he thinks I’ve forgotten. “The partners will be watching.”
