Page 72 of Top Shelf

Me: I wasn’t timing it.

Lulu: I was. At least three minutes without a pause

Carina: Did you want him to stop?

My thumb stills over the screen, and the sound of the shower echoes down the hall.

Me: No.

Every single profile circle starts bobbing up and down at the same time.

Lulu: This is what I’ve been TRYING TO SAY

Zoe: You’ve been trying to say a lot of things.

Lulu: HIS THUMB WAS ON HER JAW, ZOE.

Nia: Okay, thumb on the jaw is compelling evidence.

Carina: Any further developments since returning to the marital residence?

Me: “Marital residence” makes this sound like a police report.

Nia: Answer the question, Grant

Me: He’s currently showering.

Lulu: HEIDI.

Me: He just played hockey. People shower after hockey.

Carina: Have you kissed him again?

My eyes flick toward the hallway before I can stop them.

Me: Not yet

Lulu: YET

Me: Goodnight.

Lulu sends five hot-face emojis and an eggplant which I choose to ignore in favor of locking my phone and tossing it on the couch.

The shower keeps running, and I ignore it. I twist on the spot, trying to make myself comfortable until I realize it’s because of what I’m wearing. Jeans are not home-wear, and I’ve got firm rules about jeans after seven p.m. They’re for public outings only, not couches or beds—and certainly not for standing in a living room while pretending not to think about my naked fake husband behind a shower door.

I head for the bedroom to change, already thinking about the soft shorts I’ll put on and what TV show I’ll pretend to watch until he comes out. But when I walk in, I realize the ensuite door is open just enough for steam to curl out into the room—and for me to see Viktor naked before my brain has time to perform any emergency protocols.

He stands under the spray with his hand braced against the tile and the other wrapped around his cock.

I’m frozen in place, unable to move because somehow, as a doctor of physical therapy, I’ve suddenly forgotten how bodies move.

Water sheets over his shoulders, down the dark treeline across his chest, and over the tight pull of his stomach. His head is bowed, wet hair falling forward and into his eyes that watch his own hand move in a slow, firm rhythm. The sight of him, so massive and naked and flushed, goes through me so sharply I grab the doorframe.

But then my brain catches up like a slap.

“Oh my god!”

I spin on my heel so fast I smack my shoulder into the door. “Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry. The door was open, and I thought—I mean, I didn’t think, which is obvious because if I’d thought, I wouldn’t be standing here feeling guilty in the doorway.”