Page 52 of Torin

“I’ll find you something dry.” He looks me over. “One of my shirts should work.”

I picture myself in one of Torin’s shirts, and a warm little flutter goes through me. “Okay. That’d be great.”

The bathroom is… nice. Recently renovated, with a bunch of expensive-looking toiletries. I turn on the shower, step under the hot water and sigh as it washes away that sticky half-dried feeling.

When I’m done, there’s a pile of clothes waiting outside the door.

I pull on my underwear, then pick up the T-shirt.

It’s dark gray and soft from years of washing, with a faded mountain graphic across the front. As I pull it over my head, I catch the faint clean scent I’ve already started associating with Torin.

I pause with my arms still in the air and breathe it in.

Okay. I really like his shirt.

The shorts he left me are enormous. I hold them against myself and laugh. I could probably fit both legs into one side.

Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

The T-shirt falls halfway down my thighs, the collar slipping toward one shoulder. My hair is damp and curling however it wants, my face bare.

I look... good.

I look like myself.

Then I remember the way Torin looked at me when I came out of the trees in that bikini. The heat in his eyes. The way he tried to hide it and failed.

I look at the shorts in my hands.

Then set them back on the counter.

I leave them there.

When I go back to the terrace, Torin is sprawled on one of the sofas, a glass of iced tea in his hand. Another waits on the table beside him. He glances up.

A smile appears.

“Feeling more comfortable?”

“Much.”

His gaze drops briefly to my bare legs before returning to my face.

“The shorts were a lost cause,” I say.

He laughs. “Yeah. I was afraid of that.”

He hands me a glass. Our fingers brush. My pulse leaps and the glass wobbles in my hand.

I grip it tight. Don’t drop it, Hannah. I put it down extra carefully and sit down.

It’s ice cold. I take a long drink and perch on the sofa.

“How is it?” He’s waiting for my response.

“You made this?”

“Yeah.” He looks at me. “Why?”