Page 29 of About That Night

He grimaces. “I didn’t even think about that. Damn. I’m glad you left it behind.”

In ten minutes, which isn’t soon enough given my wet shorts, we’re at his apartment. I’ve been in his space before, in New Orleans, and this apartment is similar in that he isn’t a minimalist, nor is he cluttered. He has books and art and worn leather furniture that makes it feel very homey. Everything looks collected over time, with new furniture and vintage pieces mixed together. My own house is an ode to garbage picking and thrift store shopping. Nothing I have was bought new, and none of it means anything to me. It serves a function, nothing more.

“Do you want to take a shower?” he asks as he kicks his shoes off by the front door. I do the same.

I would love a hot shower. My skin still feels cool and damp. “You don’t mind?”

“No, it’s the least I can do. Besides, you smell like the swamp.”

I smack his arm. “Whose fault is that?”

“Guess I didn’t think that one through either. Surprise, surprise.” He walks across the cozy living room. “Bathroom is here. There are clean towels under the sink. Let me get you something to wear.”

“Thanks.” I step into the bathroom and peel his sweatshirt off to hand back to him.

I’m trying to be polite, but he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. His gaze is pinned to my chest. I glance down and realize my nipples are standing at attention beneath the damp nylon of the too-small bikini top. I quickly shift the sweatshirt over them.

“Sorry.”

“I’m not.”

That makes me give a soft laugh. It’s such a Hank response.

He bends over and retrieves a towel for me. He sets it on the sink countertop. “The water takes a minute to heat up.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He’s not leaving. I wait. I watch him.

He’s just standing there in his swim trunks and T-shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Torturing myself.”

And me. I really, really just want to invite him to join me in the shower. “Go. I’ll only be five minutes.”

Hank makes a face. “This sucks.”

He sounds so grumpy that I’m both amused and feel bad for him. “I think you’ll be okay,” I tell him. “For the most part.”

“You don’t know that.” But he leaves the bathroom, softly pulling the door closed behind him.

Relieved, I turn the water on so it can heat up. Then I peel off my shorts and my bikini. I’m going to have to invest in a new suit next summer if I don’t want to be spilling out at every water park and pool party. I’m already younger than the moms of Josiah’s friends, and sometimes I get the impression they think I’m a threat. Like I might try to steal their husbands, which can’t be further from the truth.

I don’t want some other woman’s husband.

I want my own man.

Sticking a hand under the spray, I test the temperature. It’s perfect. Stepping inside, I briefly close my eyes as I tip my head back under the stream.

When I open my eyes, I scream at the top of my lungs.

There’s a massive cockroach on the wall, inches from me.

The bathroom door flies open. “What? What’s wrong?”

Hank yanks back the shower curtain.

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