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Shaking all over, I gripped the doll in my hands tighter and held it like a ball bat, prepared to swing a home run if necessary.
Just as the door to Sarah’s room had been, the opening to the bathroom was also hanging half open. I had to creep closer than I wanted to in order to get a peek inside. When I finally eased in just enough to see the sink, I froze solid. Hermione Granger could've pointed a wand at me and shouted, "Stupefy," and she wouldn't have had a better result. I could only stand there in shocked wonder and gawk. All fear vanished to be replaced by instant fascination.
With his back to me, a sopping wet Mason Lowe wore nothing but a towel as he leaned over the vanity and held onto its sides as if the sink were the only thing keeping him upright.
I could see his slightly bowed face perfectly in the mirror above. He’d squeezed his eyes closed, and a ragged expression contorted his features while creases of haggard regret etched deep grooves into the skin around his mouth and eyes.
I gasped when I saw the scratch marks on his bare, upper back, just under his shoulder blades and right where a pair of feminine fingernails might grip him if he’d had a woman lying under him very recently.
Lashes popping open, he looked up and saw me in the mirror.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Shit!”
As Mason cursed from obvious shock and reeled around, I squeaked out my own surprise and leapt back, freaked because I’d been caught ogling him. We gaped at each other with wide eyes through the opened doorway of the bathroom.
I know, I know. He was naked under that strip of terrycloth—please, God, don’t remind me. The ladylike thing to do in this situation would have been—let me repeat, would have been—to instantly turn away and apologize for intruding into his shower time, and then flee in mortified embarrassment as fast as m
y legs could carry me. I fully realized that.
But seriously. He was naked under that terrycloth. Hello. Fully clothed, Mason Lowe was one hell of a yumsicle. But shirtless, he was simply indescribable. Since I’m so giving, however, I will certainly attempt to describe him to the best of my ability, even though it’ll be such a hardship.
The white towel draped around his waist was loose and had slipped just enough to hang low, showcasing his flat, toned abdomen. A light sprinkle of dark hair growing around his innie bellybutton stretched down, disappearing under the towel, making me want to lick my lips and purr—or more to the point, it made me want to lick those perfect abs and that enticing happy trail.
And brace yourself for this one, ladies: He had a tattoo. I know. I almost spontaneously combusted right then and there. Stretching across his left bulging hip muscle was an honest to God tattoo. It said one, maybe two, words in what looked to be one of those impossible-to-read fonts. And it was somewhat obscured by the beginning of that aggravating towel.
Unable to help myself—hey, you try to restrain with a half-naked, tattooed Mason Lowe in front of you—I tilted my head to the side and leaned forward, squinting in an effort to read—
He snatched up a handful of towel, pulling it snug around his hips and lifting the waistline enough to hide his tattoo completely—the fun hater. Grabbing the door with his other hand as if he was going to slam it in my face, he demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?”
I looked up at his face, and Lord have mercy, I suddenly realized I’d totally neglected to check out the upper half of him. Yeah, I can’t believe I almost missed out on that eye-party, either.
With his hair wet, his thick locks looked extra dark—almost black—and curled even more around his ears and neck. Water droplets dripped off the clumped strands and splashed down the side of his face and throat. More beads streaked across his chest, some having the good sense to cling possessively to his über-defined guns and pecs. Not that I blamed them. If I was a droplet of water and had the great fortune of landing on Mason Lowe, I’d cleave to his muscles too.
He still had that rugged sharp face I adored, but his cheekbones and the cleft in his chin looked extra pronounced in the florescent glow of the bathroom light, while his eyes took on a dreamy silver hue.
A very pissed off dreamy silver hue.
Scowling at me, he lifted his thick eyebrows as if to say, “Well?” which reminded me I hadn’t answered his question yet.
Whoops.
“I…I’m babysitting.” Duh.
But he looked so condemning, as if he thought I’d purposely snuck into his house and had staked out this very bathroom just to catch a peek of him in a towel and try to read his tattoo. It got my dander up.
I scowled back, growing defensive. “What the hell are you doing, taking a shower with the door wide open while I’m babysitting?” I set my hands on my hips and arched my own eyebrows.
Yeah, answer that one, buddy.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he snapped back. “And the latch doesn’t work. I shut it as best as I could, but it still floats open when the exhaust fan is on.”
Oh. Hmm, maybe that’s what Dawn had told me: that the door latch—not the toilet—was broken. My bad.
But that still didn’t excuse his crotchety attitude.
I tried—really—to keep my stare above his neck, but that was like plopping someone onto the ledge of a hundred-story skyscraper and telling them not to look down.
