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I was a low-maintenance girl in a high-maintenance body, and that was a big deal in my chosen profession. I desperately wanted to be the cool girl who could roll with anything, but pretending I was her left me sick and sunburned. A trip to the Sahara Desert to photograph the dama gazelle? That required long-sleeved UPF 50 clothing, a dorky wide-brimmed hat, and reapplying sunblock every ninety minutes. Leaving my house at all meant packing a bag of snacks because gluten was everywhere, and the last thing I wanted was to miss a shot because I couldn’t get off the toilet.

Even my vagina was a liability. I couldn’t unzip and pee with zero regard for our surroundings. I had to find an appropriate place to squat with tree coverage—which was really fucking hard in the desert, by the way—and keep a pee cloth with me because vaginas don’t shake dry like dicks do. My first job, I’d gotten a UTI from holding it so long.

But my hair. My hair.

It was every bit as high-maintenance as the rest of me and fell apart just as quickly without proper attention. I didn’t care. I needed my hair to be right when everything else was wrong. I needed it.

“What’s the plan?” Seb crossed his arms over his broad chest, looking like a drill sergeant.

“Well, I was going to wash my hair for the first time in a week, but since that’s out of the question, I figure I’ll cry some more and then have a snack.”

“Why is it out of the question?”

I studied my nails.

He blew out a breath and answered his own question. “It hurts too much. Dammit, Lila.”

Here it comes. The lecture. Take your pain meds. Stay in bed and rest instead of galivanting all over the ranch. Good advice that we both knew I wasn’t going to take.

“You have a problem, you come to me. Do you understand? You do not make yourself sick crying on the floor.”

It was a lecture, all right. Just not the one I expected.

“I’m not going to ask you to wash my hair. Did you not hear me say it hasn’t been washed in a week? I was hiking in Yellowstone and then I got stabbed. There could be anything in these curls and you wouldn’t know. Blood. Sweat. Spiders.” Seb hated spiders. “Plus all the tangles. It’s a mess up there.”

He snorted and pushed to his feet. “I dug a bullet out of a friend’s ass cheek once. You think your mess scares me?”

I blinked up at him, and the years melted away. Five years ago, the morning after the jellyfish sting in Crete. As promised, I’d eaten my weight in portokalopita, a pastry made of phyllo and apricots, and then we’d spent the afternoon in bed. I’d snuck out at dawn, knowing what was ahead of me and having zero regrets. I’d wanted to feel normal for once, and what did it matter? He was a one-night stand. It wasn’t like I would see him again.

But I was wrong.

The pounding on the door echoes the pounding in my head.

“Go away,” I mumble. I press my face to the cool tile as my stomach clenches in agony.

Calloused fingers sweep my hair back from my damp cheek. “Shit, Lila. Food poisoning? Let’s get you to the hospital.”

I weakly push him back. “What are you doing here, Seb? How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard.” He scoops me into a sitting position. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

I close my eyes. “It’s not food poisoning. It’s celiac.”

“The portokalopita. It has gluten.” His head thunks gently against the wall. “You should have told me. Is that why you ran away this morning?”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again. I really wanted you to remember me as the adventurous girl who could eat gluten. I wanted to be that girl, if only for a day. Please go away, Seb. I’m such a mess.”

“You think your mess scares me?” He laughs softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Seb reached for his belt buckle. I watched dumbly as he shucked his boots and jeans. “You don’t really think you’re going to shower with me, do you? Because you’re not.”

“I am. You don’t get a choice in that, because you sleep in my bed and I’m not having spiders crawling out of your hair in the middle of the night.” He shuddered at the thought. “But you can choose how we do it. I didn’t see a bathing suit in your suitcase, but you have a bra and panties. So what’s it going to be? Naked or in our underwear?” He smirked down at me. “I vote for naked.”

My gaze dropped to his crotch. I wet my lips nervously. “Um.”

“You keep staring at my dick like that, and things are going to get awkward.”

Even as the words left his lips, the placket of his boxers twitched.