Page 80 of Across the Boards

One step at a time, I remind myself, focusing back on my work. Traditional dating. Clear boundaries. Eyes wide open.

And absolutely no more “not-coffee” until I’m sure of what I want.

Even if part of me already knows.

* * *

Wednesday arriveswith a crisis I didn’t anticipate. I’m in the middle of finalizing edits on a technical manual when a deafening pop followed by an ominous gurgling sound emanates from my utility closet. Ten minutes and several frantic calls later, I’ve confirmed my worst fear: my water heater has given up the ghost. Maintenance can’t replace it until tomorrow at the earliest.

No hot water. On the day of my first official date with Brody.

I glance at the clock—4:15 PM. Our reservation is at 7:30. The emergency plumber who’d examined my defunct water heater had cheerfully suggested I “borrow a neighbor’s shower.” As if that were a normal request to make.

Sarah is my usual emergency contact, but she’s in Scottsdale at a client meeting until at least 7:00, which would leave me rushing. The gym is closed for renovations. My other neighbors are either strangers or a retired couple I exchange pleasantries with but certainly don’t know well enough to ask for shower privileges.

Which leaves exactly one option.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, gathering shampoo, conditioner, and body wash into a shower caddy like a college freshman. “Just reschedule the date.”

But I don’t want to reschedule. Despite my lingering concerns, I’ve been looking forward to tonight—to starting over properly with clear boundaries and expectations. To seeing if there’s something real beneath the attraction and chemistry.

Before I can second-guess myself any further, I march next door and press Brody’s doorbell.

He answers almost immediately, dressed in athletic shorts and a Phoenix training t-shirt, hair damp as if he’s just showered himself. His eyebrows raise slightly at the sight of me—or more specifically, at the sight of my improvised shower caddy.

“Elliot,” he says, surprised. “I thought we were meeting at seven?”

“My water heater exploded.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Not literally exploded, just... died. Dramatically. With alarming noises. Maintenance can’t replace it until tomorrow, and I have a client video call in an hour, and I was hoping—” I pause, suddenly aware of how awkward this request is, especially given our recent history. “I was hoping I could use your shower. Before our date. I promise I’ll be quick.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “You know, when I fantasized about you naked in my house, this wasn’t exactly the scenario I had in mind.”

I feel my cheeks flush but can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Is that a yes or a no, Carter?”

“Yes, of course. Mi casa, su casa. Or at least, mi shower, su shower.” He steps back, ushering me in. “Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right. Towels are in the cabinet under the sink. Feel free to use whatever you need.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” I glance at my watch. “I should have time to shower now before my call if that’s okay? Then I’ll finish getting ready for our date after my meeting.”

“Whatever works for you,” he says easily. “I’m just watching game tape anyway.” He gestures to his laptop on the coffee table, paused on what looks like a Miami game.

“Thank you. I promise I won’t take long.”

“Take your time,” he says, settling back onto his couch. “I’m not going anywhere. Though I might charge a small fee for shower usage.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“One smile. The real kind, where your eyes crinkle at the corners.”

I can’t help it—I give him exactly what he’s asked for, a genuine smile that makes his eyes light up in response.

“Payment accepted,” he says softly. “Shower’s all yours.”

His bathroom is surprisingly neat for a bachelor athlete—clean white tiles, minimal clutter, everything in its place. It smells like him, that combination of soap and subtle cologne that I’ve come to associate with his presence. There’s something oddly personal about seeing his razor on the sink edge, his toothbrush in the holder, the brand of shampoo he uses.

I set my shower caddy on the counter and turn on the water, telling myself this is perfectly normal and not at all intimate or charged with unspoken tension.

The shower helps. Hot water washes away both the physical discomfort of my interrupted morning routine and some of my awkwardness about the situation. By the time I’m finished, wrapped in one of Brody’s fluffy navy towels, I feel almost composed again.

Then I realize my mistake.

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