“I’m fine.”
The rug disagrees.
My heel catches the edge, and I stumble.
One second, the room tilts.
The next, Jordan is there.
His arm clamps around my waist and pulls me against him, firm and hot and damp. My palms land on his bare chest.
Oh.
Oh no.
He is solid under my hands. Warm skin. Hard muscle. Water. A heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my fingers.
My brain makes a soft, dying sound.
The towel slips.
I feel it happen more than see it.
Jordan catches it with his other hand.
I should be relieved, yet I am not. Which is between me and God.
His arm stays around my waist. His hand is broad against my back, fingers spread like he can hold all of me without trying. I am suddenly very aware of every place I am soft and every place he is not.
“Breathe,” he says.
I suck in air.
Bad idea. He smells like soap and clean skin and cedar. I want to bite him.
No. Absolutely not.
Professional Natalie is dead in a ditch.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Just once.
Quick.
But I see it.
My stomach flips so hard I almost sag deeper into the arm still locked around my waist.
“You always this clumsy?” he asks.
His voice is low. Almost lazy. Almost dangerous.
“Only when startled by unexpected nudity.”
His eyes sharpen.
