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My blood goes cold.

Chace.

That’s Chace's voice, and he is standing directly outside this door, and I don't know how long he's been there. I cannot fucking breathe.

Play it cool. He didn't hear anything. He didn't hear anything. If I think it hard enough, maybe it will become true.

I click the vibrator off. Praying to all that’s holy that he couldn't hear it. "Yeah?" My voice sounds all wrong. Too high. Too breathy. Both. Definitely both. I press my free hand flat against the shower wall. Get your shit together, Addie.

"What do you want?" I manage. There’s a pause on the other side of the door, long enough that I consider dissolving directly into the drain.

"You, uh—" Another pause. He sounds strange. "You left your towel back at camp. Figured you'd need it."

My towel. I forgot my fucking towel. Which means I have to unlock this door.

Naked.

Dripping wet.

While holding a vibrator.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Chapter seventeen

Chace

Holy shit.

She's in there touching herself.

I simply came down here to bring her a towel. To be a good person for once, especially after leaving her hanging all day. Because I couldn't tell her the truth. I just couldn't. And after reading her journal, I already felt like enough of an ass for entertaining this thing between us when I know full well I’m not what she deserves.

When I got close enough to see which stall was hers, steam was billowing out over the top of the door, glowing white in the porch light. I was about to knock when I heard a soft buzzing sound, followed by a sharp intake of breath, ending in a moan. I froze.

It took a moment for my brain to register what was happening in there. A fraction of a second later, my dick caught up, hardening instantly.

I should leave. I know I should leave. I am a grown-ass man, and I know exactly what the right thing to do is. It means setting this towel down outside the door and walking back to camp, sitting by that fire, and thinking about literally anything else for the rest of my natural life.

Yet, I’m still standing here.

"I'll unlock the outside door," she calls, her voice slightly breathless in a way that does catastrophic things to my self-control. "You can put it on a hook. I'll stay behind the curtain."

The thought of her in there—wet, naked, with nothing but a curtain between us—is making it really fucking hard to remember why I’m supposed to leave. It’s why I decided yesterday to put an end to whatever this thing is between us. I told her I wouldn't kiss her until she begged me, but right now I'm about thirty seconds from being the one on his knees begging.

The lock clicks softly out of place. I hear her scramble back, the curtain rings sliding shut. Safely behind it. When I open the door, coconut-scented steam hits me like a wall. Instantly, I’m back in her bed last night, imagining she was there with me. Barely holding on to any semblance of self-control. I set the towel on the hook and turn toward the door. This is where I’m supposed to leave. Instead, I close it and turn the lock.

“Chace?” Her voice comes out breathless and uncertain. “What are you doing?”

Because I am a broken, selfish asshole with apparently no functioning impulse control left whatsoever, I say, "Sounds to me like you're having a real good time in there, Sunshine. Only seems fair that your travel partner gets to watch the show."

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Her sharp intake of breath on the other side of the curtain is so quiet I almost miss it. There’s a long pause. The only sound is hot water hitting her bare skin, wearing down what little patience I have left.

“You want to watch me take a shower?”

“Only if you want me to.” I keep my voice even despite feeling anything but. “Your call.”