Page 165 of Trouble from Abroad
“Thanks.” I gather my essentials: toothbrush, golden under-eye patches for the jet-lag puff, favorite body oil, and the shampoo I’d die before switching brands. I stop when my hands shake so bad, I’m one slip away from a toiletries avalanche.
“I’ll be done in thirty minutes. Just need to finish my run.”
“Is that how long I have to shower?” I ask, skeptical.
“Why? Do you need more?”
In his defense, he sounds sincere, totally unaware I need at least double that. While he waits for an answer, the doctor grabs the edge of his shirt to dry the sweat from his forehead—I know I should look away, but I don't. Instead, I get a full view of his abs’ abs.
That’s right. His six-pack has six-packs. And I do mean approximately. Although I try to get to the actual number, my brain short-circuits somewhere between ‘obliques’ and ‘holy hell’.
By the time he pulls the T-shirt down, I feel like I’ve been microwaved on full power. I’m sizzling, still spinning, one beep away from exploding. My skin feels so hot, it might as well be melting off my bones, and I’m half expecting the smoke alarm to blast off. At the very least, I’m going to need burn cream not to be left with permanent scars.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll manage,” I lie through my teeth and hope for the best. I just really need him gone. And I need that shower too. More than ever.
“Okay, then, I’ll leave you to it and go hit the treadmill.” He taps once on the doorframe, and I hear him sprinting down the stairs. Maybe that’s to keep his heart rate up.
* * *
My pulse races too. Difference is, I’m standing still, rooted to the floor where he left me.
I shower the flight off my body and slide the fogged glass open, reaching for a towel—except there is none.
What. The. Hell.
I twist my hair, squeezing out as much water as possible, then run my hands briskly over my arms and legs, sweeping away the lingering droplets. I’m trapped in a tempered glass cage of wet humiliation.Do I air-dry like a heathen?I step out onto the bathmat and walk while dragging my feet over it in an attempt to not leave a wet trail behind me. I curse under my breath as I check the cupboards.
Nothing. Not a single towel in sight.
“All the stuff I need?” I all but yelp as I fling open a cabinet again, as if a towel will magically appear just to save me from this indignity.“All the stuff I need?”In what universe does that not include a towel?
I crack the bathroom door open and yell, “Dr. Preston?” Nothing. Just my voice bouncing back at me. Great, now the house is mocking me too. Fantastic.
I glance at the toilet paper roll. One. Single. Roll. Not nearly enough to cosplay as a mummy on my way back to my room.
All right. Time for a strategic retreat. Or, as I’ll call it later, The Great Naked Escape.
Odds are, if he didn’t hear me scream his name, he won’t catch my naked wet butt making a run for it.
I grab thesmallesthand towel in world history—praying to every higher power that it’s a freshly changed one—and dry whatever I can. Then I press it to my chest, as my chosen private part to hide, and gather my things like my life depends on them. Unfortunately, wet skin coated in body oil equals immediate betrayal. On my third step into the corridor, my shampoo slips from my hold.
Mia,thisis how you die. Of a fall, or shame, still to be determined.
CHAPTER FOUR
preston
I should leave.
My feet should turn, take the steps back down—I should do anything except stand here. But somehow, I can’t seem to move.
The music blaring in my headphones barely registers now; it’s morphed into static buzzing in the background as I watch her.
I’m standing there, sweaty, feeling incredibly exposed, and wearing only my gym shorts.
Mia bends, chasing after a bottle that’s rolled across the floor. Her back arches, hips tipping up just enough to make my mouth go dry. That ass. So lush and full. God, it’s devastatingly perfect.
Her thighs are thick and pressed together, hiding a secret I’d sell my soul to hear—and see.
