Page 18 of The Lodge

I’m not thinking about Tyler while I power through two more Sebastian voice memos—I definitely don’t have to rewind them due to daydreaming. No more than twice, anyway.

I’m also not thinking about him while drawing my bath, or when I distractedly pour double the amount of lavender-scented Epsom salt into the water as is strictly necessary.

And when the sun has set and I’ve stripped all the way down, ready to soak my soreness away for a bit, I’m most definitely not thinking about his smile, and how—even in the short time I’ve known him—he’s made me laugh more times than I can count.

At the precise moment I dip a toe into the water, there’s a knock at my front door, its echo so loud in the colossal space that I hear it clearly from the master bathroom.

I completely forgot about dinner delivery—the person who dropped off my breakfast this morning took my order and promised to drop it off between eight and nine. (I requested it on the later side, as I’m a night owl and plan to work until midnight.) I throw on the closest thing I can find, a sage-green guest robe made of the softest satin, and scamper across the penthouse, careful not to slip on the polished concrete floor in my bare feet.

“Thank you so much!” I say, whipping the door open—only to find Tyler himself, in the flesh.

“You’re not the room service guy.”

His eyebrows rise. “And you’re, uh—you might want to—”

Tyler gestures vaguely toward the knotted belt of my robe, averts his gaze to the heavens.

I glance down:oh. The soft satin is gaping all the way from my chest to my navel. One quick adjustment later, I’m no longer giving a minor peep show to my ski instructor–slash–next-door neighbor.

“I was just about to take a salt bath,” I explain.

“With… your dinner?”

“My dinner?” I’m momentarily clueless. “Oh, because I thought you were the room service guy? No. I just forgot he was coming. I don’t normally eat dinner in the bathtub.”

My cheeks grow hot, and he grins.

“No?” he says, eyes twinkling as he leans against the doorframe. “Filet mignon and bubble baths aren’t your ideal pairing?”

“Okay, first of all, I would eat filet mignon pretty much anywhere, no questions asked. But alas, I’m expecting rigatoni arrabbiata—and it’s not a bubble bath. Can I help you?”

He shifts, the soft fabric of his mint-green tee rising just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his stomach.

It is very much as I suspected.

“One of my clients asked if I could fit her in tomorrow,” he says, pulling me back to the conversation. “Would you be able to do your lesson at five instead?”

“Five works,” I say, willing my eyes to stay trained on his face and not his perfect abs. “I’ll bring my own helmet this time—don’t want to press our luck with the whole you-not-breaking-your-face thing.”

“Oh, totally,” he says, nodding. “Now that you’ve seen the Zen Zone for yourself, you know exactly how treacherous it is.”

I laugh. “Hey, the Zen Zone is no freaking joke—I’m soreeverywhere.”

“Hence the bath?” he says.

“Hence the bath.”

His gaze flickers down to my robe, to the triangle of bare skin peeking out just above where I’ve pulled it tight, and then back up to my face.

“I guess you should probably go get in before the water gets cold.”

“Probably, yeah.”

His eyes linger on mine just a bit longer.

“See you at five tomorrow,” I say with a wave.

When he nods, his wavy hair falls around his face like a curtain, and I melt a little. He tucks it behind his ear and smiles. “See you then.”

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