Page 97 of Pick-Up
And that’s when I have an epiphany. I’m leaving tomorrow and have yet to use—or even see—the outdoor shower. No one loves an outdoor shower like I do.Brilliant!
I grab a towel and shiver through the too-air-conditioned living room en route to the back entrance. Outside, on the periphery of the house, I spot what looks like a tall wooden slatted fence, painted white, with its own door. Behind it, what I discover is even better than I imagined! It is transformative. I might have been on a nice work trip before, I might have been stressing, but now, for these minutes, I am on vacation—from all the things.
I feel like I can breathe again!
The top and bottom are open like the world’s poshest outdoor bathroom stall, larger than my bedroom at home. The walls that aren’t wooden are sporadically decorated in oversize green tea and cream-colored Moroccan tiles. The floor is a masterpiece of stonework in various gradations from white to gray, small smooth rocks embedded in plaster. In the far corner is a collection of large greenpotted plants in white ceramic planters, seemingly in conversation with each other. Perhaps chatting about how dope this place is.
It’s hot today. Steamier than it’s been. The air has a kind of weight to it, a density. Like I’m swimming through it. And, in light of that, this shower feels like the most ingenious idea I have ever had. This is the thing I need. To wash away my troubles. And also the sand that worked its way into unspeakable crevices during the jellyfish-versus-sarong battle.
I step inside the stall and close the door behind me, slipping off my plastic Birkenstocks and hanging my towel on a hook. Then I pad in my bathing suit over to the shower fixtures. A rain shower like this one, with all its handheld attachments and settings, is above my pay grade. There’s no planet on which I will figure out how to use this properly. So, I just mess with the nobs until water shoots from the overhead nozzle. I find the perfect temperature, the perfect pressure.
Perfect. I sigh.
The water unlocks something. The scent of the frangipani flowers, like a Caribbean honeysuckle, rises with the steam, intensifying into something intoxicating. An iridescent hummingbird flits in through the gap at the top and flits back out. I am in full Cinderella mode! Communing with animals! I hum “Whistle While You Work” and “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes”—a medley!—as I step under the stream, close my eyes and moan. It’s heaven. And I have almost—almost—forgotten about Ethan.
But just thinking about forgetting him sends a flash of hot and bothered through me, radiating all the way down my chest, stomach, arms and legs to my bare fingertips and toes. They seem to alight with extra sensation. I am a live wire.
I try to push him out of mind, as I untie the halter top from around my neck and peel it down to my waist, let the water cascade over me. Prickles hit my skin like tiny wake-up calls. It is frankly not helping to distract me.
“Oh, shit!” says a voice from behind me, startling me from my compulsion. It takes me a split second to realize it’s not in my head.
I whip around, hands flying to cover up my chest on instinct. And there he is in the flesh. Standing in the doorway, wearing only a towel around his waist. Like I manifested him.
Ethan.
Adrenaline thrums through me. Thisreallyisn’t helping.
I am not naked. Not fully. Each of my hands covers one of my boobs. But I sure feel exposed, standing under that stream of water with my straps dangling from my waist, tickling my thighs as they sway.
A breeze passes over the fence, and through its cracks, whispering past my skin. Every nerve ending is open for business.
And the problem is, I like it.
Ethan is staring pointedly down at the ground. But he has not left. And if I thought the white T-shirt would be my undoing, his bare upper body has officially ended me.
He is chiseled but lean—not bulky. A jagged scar down one arm adds an unexpected bad-boy dimension. And reason has left the building. Professional Sasha is hogtied in a basement somewhere. I just don’t give a fuck anymore.
It will be just this once, I tell myself. Or just this trip. Or whatever it needs to be. But I am done fighting it. I want this. Behind my hands, my body has a mind of its own.
“Sorry,” Ethan is saying to the ground. “I didn’t know you were in here.”
“I’m in here,” I say. “And, now, so are you.”
“What happened to resting?”
“I couldn’t rest. I’m restless.”
He runs a hand through his hair, shifts his weight, like he can barely contain himself. “Tell me about it.”
“I thought I just did—want me to tell you more?” It comes out breathy and more loaded than I intended. Anticipation flutters in my chest. There are a lot of things I’d like to tell him right now. Things I’d like to show him.
He bites his lip. And I feel territorial. Almost mad that he’s doing it for me.
“Okay,” he says, pointing a thumb behind him. Hitchhiking to a less charged place. “Well, I’ll go form a single file line outside and wait my turn.” He turns to leave, and I am not having it.
All the pent-up chemistry of the past weeks has come calling and it won’t be denied.
“Oh, but, see, I think that’s a bad idea,” I say, stepping toward him before he can go. I am out of the stream, goose bumps rising on my skin, but water still drips down my body.
