Page 17 of Glitter Rose
“Thoughtful.” There’s that hint of a smile again. “You raid everyone’s apartments?”
“Yep. Especially the ones who deserve it.” I cross my arms. “Jacob had three espresso machines. Three. What person needs that many ways to make the same drink?”
He laughs, the rusty undertone gone.
“Glad my commentary on wealth inequality amuses you.”
“It’s not that.” He holds up a pair of boxer briefs with tiny pineapples. “Sexy.”
I snatch it from his hand. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Bathroom’s through there if you want to clean up.” I point toward the hallway. “Water doesn’t run anymore, but I can bring you a bucket and set up a chair in the shower stall. Drain still works. Do you?—”
“I can manage.” He gathers the clothes. “Though I might need a hand getting there.”
I offer my shoulder without comment. He’s heavy against me, his skin warm where it touches mine. We make slow progress toward the bathroom, his breath catching when he puts weight on his injured ankle.
“You smell like cologne,” he murmurs, so close his breath tickles my ear.
“Better than blood and sweat.”
“Didn’t say it was bad.”
I ease him onto the closed toilet lid while I drag a wooden chair into the massive walk-in shower.
“Stay here.” I hurry to the kitchen, filling two buckets with water from my rainwater reserves and return, setting thebuckets in the shower stall beside the chair. “There’s soap on the shelf here. And… yeah. Need anything else?”
“Depends.” He smirks. “You offering to help me wash my back?”
A tiny whimper escapes me. “I—no, that’s not?—”
“Relax, princess. I’m kidding.”
“I am relaxed.” I back toward the door. “Super relaxed.”
“Paris.”
Just my name. Nothing special about how he says it. So why does my stomach do that weird fluttery thing? “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I’d rather have his sarcasm.
“I’ll be in the kitchen. Yell if you need anything.” I close the bathroom door behind me, leaning against it. Through the wood, I hear soft grunts as he moves around.
This is fine. Totally normal. A half-naked stranger in my bathroom. A dangerous, gorgeous stranger.
“Get it together.” I push off from the door. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I retreat to the kitchen, filling the sink with water. My reflection ripples on the surface, still wild-eyed and flushed. I strip off my bloodstained shirt, standing in my sports bra as I scrub my face, neck, and arms with a clean cloth. The cool water feels heavenly against my heated skin.
From the bathroom, I hear the soft thud of something dropping and the splash of water.
Knox. Naked and wet. A wall away.
I dunk my entire head under the water, hoping it might cool thoughts that have no business in my brain after four hundred and six days of perfect isolation.
It doesn’t help at all.
