A strange, strangled sound gets caught in the back of my throat.
It’s Penn, alright. But he’s wearing gray sweatpants.
Only gray sweatpants.
I struggle to speak. “What are you…”
Skin. There is far too much skin. My shirtless intruder leans one arm against the doorframe, and as he runs a hand through his damp hair, his bicep flexes. I nearly choke.
This is an attack.
I bring a hand to my forehead to block my view, because, well, abs.
I do not remember such abs on Real Penn. I used to see him shirtless all the time. As a kid, hopping over our backyard sprinkler. In high school, curled up on our couch with a bag of Cheetos. In college, playing beer pong with the aggressive determination of an Olympian.
Did he have abs then? Did I simply not notice?
My head feels like a balloon ready to lift from my body. I can’t handle the combination of acute existential panic plus Penn’s bare chest and low-slung gray sweatpants.
I reach for the desk to steady myself but accidentally bump a stack of diaries instead, sending a fuzzy pink journal to the floor.
Penn’s attention falls to where it lands on the brightly patterned rug, joining a sea of books and folders. “You know,” he says,“the idea of a library is that you own these books, so you don’t have to read them all at once.”
“The idea of knocking is to ask permission for entry,” I tell him. “Not to burst in half naked.” Penn looks down at his torso, as if he doesn’t understand. The slight movement makes everything contract. Exhaling, I sputter, “Knock and wait, okay? And keep the wardrobe PG in communal areas.”
Penn’s lips twitch. He says nothing.
Despite my clear request for privacy, he shifts past me to study the bookshelves. “PG,” he says to himself, brushing his fingers along the spines. The muscles in his back move. It’s obscene. “This from the woman who answers the door in a negligee?” His gaze slants toward me before he turns back to the bookshelf, grinning.
Anger returns, red-hot and pulsing in my chest.
It’s just—howdarePenn barge in here? Looking likethat. Inmydream house.
On aSunday.
“From now on, I shall wear nothing but winter coats,” I vow. “And how do you know the wordnegligee, anyway? I thought your vocabulary cut off at anything over six letters.”
Penn shrugs, absentmindedly paging through a paperback. “Believe it or not, Wynne, there have been women who wanted me to see them in lingerie.”
I roll my eyes, resenting the uncomfortable heat low in my belly.
“I’ll admit it, though.” He eyes me. “That scarf-and-nightie set was a good look. Points for creativity.”
“Ditto your disco-wear. Make sure to fluff up your chest hair even more next time, huh?”
Penn’s smirk inches up. “Make sure you stop blushing before I get the wrong idea,huh?”
Growing fury fizzes in my veins. “I’m just angry-blushing,” I explain.
“Mm, I’ve heard about that,” Penn deadpans. “Angry-blushing. Sounds serious.”
I want to throw the pile of books in his face. Scream. Ram myself into the bookshelf like it’s the Narnia closet.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
“Dinner’s almost ready.” I must look puzzled, because he adds, “I owe you a meal. I had three Disco Diner cotton candies on the house. And that was just today.”
“Disgusting.”
