Page 17 of Tender Heart
Taking the treads two at a time, I pull my shirt off with one hand as I ascend. It clings to me, and I bump into the rail as it snags on my head and one shoulder, my arm up as I traverse the last few steps and make the landing of the first floor.
My house, my shower.
It’s been too long since I had a hot one. Despite being sweaty from the run, I could use the heat on my muscles. The bedroom door is open, and I stride through and into the bathroom. Kicking the door mostly closed, I lose the rest of my clothes and dump the towel and toiletries where they belong.
The taps relent and, soon enough, steam curls through the small space. I can’t help the long, weighted breath that falls away. My shoulders are a little lighter, even with just this, asimple hot shower. Being back in my bathroom. I’m surprised by how much I missed it. But logical thoughts of funding and needing to start somewhere new douses the kindling of yearning I have for my house. I won’t have it at all if I can’t raise the funds for repairs and the new Fresnel lamp.
I step into the tub, and the instant the hot water rushes my head and shoulders, I groan. God, who would have thought something so simple could mean so much to a man.
“Hello?”
“Fuck,” I mutter, double-checking the curtain is closed well enough.
“I-I... Did you need something?” A huffy, strained sound filters through the steam. “I mean, other than a shower?”
What the hell?
“I think I’m out of shampoo, just so you know,” she adds.
“I’m fine.” The words are short. The sentiment is true, if not a little loaded.
“Okay . . .” Footsteps fade away, then stop.
A moment later, they return, coming to a halt at the bathroom door. “Are you hungry?”
Letting the water wash over me, I rake my hands through my hair. Willing my mind to go anywhere but where it’s currently headed—the twentysomething barely feet from me. In the fucking shower. I obviously did not think this through.
And I’m hard.
“Shit,” I utter, turning toward the wall a little, like that will damn well save me.
“Sorry, is that a yes?” She steps closer.
I drop my forehead to the tile and send the worst thoughts I can muster through my mind. Rotting fish. Errol’s naked body, as I imagine it . . .
“Callum?”
I tilt my head. My name on those elegant lips is not helping my current problem. Instead, I pluck up the soap. “Aye, gimme ten.”
“Good, okay. See you downstairs.”
She sounds fucking happy.
Dammit.
My body latches onto her floaty words, wringing them out for what they are—feminine and sweet.
It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid. That has to be it.
No other explanation is going to fit. Not her. Not now. Not here, and certainly not with me.
Something bangs downstairs. A small cry winds up the stairs, barely audible over the running water.
I kill the water, standing dripping, and listen.
“Shoot!” A pained whimper follows.
Good lord, what now?
