Page 23 of The Heat Between Us

"Of course," I say quickly. "You don't need to ask. There are clean towels in the bathroom cabinet, and feel free to use whatever products you need. I don't have anything fancy, but there's shampoo and soap at least."

"Thanks," she says, sliding off the stool. "I won't be long."

As she passes me on her way to the bathroom, I catch a whiff of smoke still clinging to her hair, mixed with the antiseptic smell of the hospital. A shower will definitely help her feel more human again.

Once I hear the water running, I lean against the kitchen counter, trying to figure out what to do. Dinner is settled, but we should eat something before. I could start on those burgers I promised her, but maybe something lighter would be better for now.

I'm still contemplating the contents of my refrigerator when my phone buzzes with a text from Max:

*Heard you're playing nurse to the lawyer. Need me to bring over some supplies???*

I roll my eyes and type back: *It's not like that. She needed a place to stay.*

His response is immediate: *Sure it's not, buddy. Just be careful, yeah? You've known her for like 5 minutes.*

I frown at the screen. Max isn't wrong, exactly. But there's something about Chloe that makes those 5 minutes feel like so much more. Still, I appreciate his concern.

*I'm being a gentleman, I promise*, I text back. *But thanks for looking out.*

I set the phone down and head to the guest room to make sure everything is ready for her. The bed is made with fresh sheets, there's a lamp on the nightstand, and I've left a glass of water and her medication on the dresser. It's not much, but it's the best I can do on short notice.

I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly struck by the strangeness of the situation. This time yesterday, I didn't even know Chloe Bennett existed. Now she's in my shower, her presence already changing the feel of my house in subtle ways I can't quite articulate.

What am I doing? This isn't like me—I don't usually bring people into my life this quickly, this intensely. But there was something about those moments in the fire, when we thought we might not make it out, that created a connection I can't explain and can't seem to shake.

I'm still sitting there, lost in thought, when I hear the bathroom door open. Without thinking, I stand and step into the hallway—and freeze.

Chloe stands just outside the bathroom, a towel wrapped tightly around her body, secured just above her breasts. Her dark hair is wet and slicked back, droplets of water tracing paths down her neck and along her collarbones. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, giving her a glow that makes my mouth go dry.

I should look away. I know I should look away. But I can't seem to tear my eyes from her—from the curve of her shoulders, the elegant line of her neck, the way the towel clings to her body, revealing the shape of her while still concealing what lies beneath.

"Sorry," she says softly, but she doesn't move to cover herself further or retreat back into the bathroom. "I forgot to ask where you put my bag."

"It's..." my voice comes out rough, and I have to clear my throat and try again. "It's in the guest room."

She nods but still doesn't move. Her eyes hold mine, and there's something in them—a question, maybe, or a decision being made. I'm aware of my body's response to her, and I shift slightly, hoping my jeans hide what would otherwise be embarrassingly obvious. But the movement only makes things worse, fabric brushing against sensitive skin in a way that sends a jolt through my system.

Time seems to stretch, seconds extending into what feels like minutes as we stand there, looking at each other across the hallway. I should say something, do something to break this tension. But before I can formulate words, Chloe does something that fries my brain.

She lets the towel fall.

The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her completely exposed. Water still glistens on her skin, catching the light from the hallway window. She's beautiful—curves in all the right places, skin pale and perfect except for a small birthmark just below her left breast.

This can't be happening. This isn't real.

"What are you doing?" I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes never leave mine, though I can see uncertainty flickering beneath her boldness.

"I can't get the image of you out of my head," she says, her voice low and slightly raspy, "First saving me from the fire, thenstanding in your kitchen in nothing but a towel. It's driving me crazy."

I swallow hard, trying to think through the blood rushing in my ears. "Chloe, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to," she interrupts. "I want to. Unless..." she hesitates for the first time, vulnerability crossing her face. "Unless I've completely misread the situation."

"You haven't," I say immediately, taking a step toward her. "God, you haven't. I haven't been able to stop thinking about touching you."

The words come out before I can censor them, raw and honest. Her eyelashes flutter at my admission, pupils dilating.

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