Page 38 of The Cuddle Clause
The door slammed behind her with the force of a middle finger.
Silence.
Roman exhaled like he’d just survived a hostage negotiation. I looked at him. Still wet and only wearing a towel. Still looking mildly traumatized.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“I was fine.”
“You were one fake compliment away from needing a decontamination shower.”
He sighed, leaning against the wall like his legs had finally caught up with the moment. “She always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
I walked past him and muttered, “Andyouhave a flair for attracting it. Speaking of showers…” I gently nudged him aside. “My turn.”
The tile was cool against my forehead, and I stayed motionless beneath the steady spray, letting the steam curl around me. Lavender body wash clung to my skin in faint floral wisps. It was supposed to be calming. Centering. All that Pinterest self-care nonsense. Instead, I was standing in a foggy cloud of rage and vanilla essence.
Seraphina had gone through my underwear drawer. She’d practically petted my panties. And Roman? Roman had just stood there, dripping and deer-eyed while she tried to melt into his towel like some supernatural thirst trap from hell.
I’d needed this shower like a woman on the edge needed a stiff drink. But peace, apparently, was too much to ask. I reached up to rinse the conditioner from my hair, and that’s when I felt it.
The water wasn’t draining.
I looked down and nearly slipped from shock.
Murky water pooled around my ankles. Floating in it, like cursed seaweed on the shores of my last nerve, was fur.
Dark. Wet.Roman’shair. And lots of it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I gagged as I stared down at the supernatural soup swirling around my feet.
I glared at the drain, where more clumps had gathered like they were staging a mutiny. Conditioner dripped in thick ribbons from my hair to my shoulders. I was marinating in werewolf back-hair stew. There were no words.
I tried to hold it together. Really, I did. I gave it another thirty seconds—rinsing, re-centering, attempting to preserve the last shreds of my dignity.
And then a clump splashed up and landedonme.
That was it.
I shut off the water so hard the knob squealed, shoved the curtain open with a splash, and grabbed a towel. The conditioner was still soaking through my ends, my robe was nowhere in sight, but I didn’t care. I stomped through the apartment dripping wet, wrapped in vengeance and terry cloth, prepared to raise hell.
Roman was on the couch, reading and snacking on a container of mango like he hadn’t turned the bathtub into his personal shearing pen.
He looked up and froze. Because there I stood, soaked and seething, towel wrapped just barely around everything vital, hair slicked and glistening.
“You,” I hissed, pointing an accusing, wet finger, “owe me hazmat gloves.”
His gaze dropped, then snapped back up with a throat bob that wasnotsubtle. “I… assume this isn’t a skincare complaint?”
“There is fur in the drain,” I snapped. “I was wading in you.”
Roman set his mango down with exaggerated care. “Okay. That’s fair. I’ll take care of it.”
“Damn right you will,” I said, clutching the towel tightly. “I will not hesitate to call Doris and tell her you’re a shape-shifting schnauzer with rabies.”
He winced. “I’m going,” he said, already on his feet. “To the drain. Right now.”
I followed, dripping a slow trail of betrayal across the floor, conditioner sliding in a cold, mocking line down my collarbone.
