Page 43 of Wood You Rather?

But instead of jumping in to help cook, he gathered the random bowls and cutlery. “You’ve got to clean as you go,” he grumbled.

Annoyed, I shot him a glare. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Sure.”

Before he could reach the sink, I elbowed him out of the way and grabbed the faucet nozzle. Replacing my look of annoyance with a wicked grin, I pulled it out and aimed it at him.

“Leave them.”

He cocked a brow. “You wouldn’t. These pants are Italian wool.”

God, he was absurd. “Even more reason to drench you.”

“It’s ironic. You’re willing to spray me with water, but not your dishes.” His eyes danced, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smile.

That was it. He was definitely getting it. “Clean this, Gagnon,” I said, aiming the nozzle at his chest with one hand and yanking on the faucet with the other. The water burst out in a strong spray, drenching his shirt.

He tossed the dishes into the sink and lunged for me, but I jumped out of the way, narrowly missing his grasp. Sadly, the nozzle reached the end of the hose and tugged me back.

“What the fuck was that for?” he yelled.

“Being so goddamn judgmental and uptight,” I countered, aiming for his face.

This time, he was ready, and he bobbed and weaved so the blast missed him, grabbing me at the waist and wrestling me for control of the hose.

I fought him off, but he outmuscled me. He yanked it out of my hand and managed to spray my hip before I took off running.

“Nope,” he yelled again. “You’re not getting away that easily.”

I raced through the empty living room, looping around the piano, and he was hot on my heels. I shrieked when he reached out for me, but I hurtled over the couch just in time.

His eyes were bright, and his wet shirt clung to his muscular chest in a way that was impossible not to gawk at, even as I ran from him.

Thankfully, the house was huge and had minimal furniture, making it easy to evade him.

I bounded up the stairs and darted for the safety of my bedroom, but his legs were much longer. I was down the hall, almost to the threshold, when a thick arm banded around my waist.

“Gotcha,” he growled, slinging me over his shoulder effortlessly. I kicked a bit, laughing as he hoisted me up and stalked down the hall to his room.

Before I could put up a real fight, he was dumping me into his massive walk-in shower and turning on the rain head.

Cold water poured from the ceiling, drenching us both and making me shriek.

“Shit. I should have thought this through.” He took a big step back to avoid the frigid spray, but I wrapped my arms around his leg, keeping him close. When he tried to shake me loose, he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor next to me.

He blinked at me, his hair drenched and water dripping down his face, and guffawed once. Then again. Then he erupted into howling laughter that echoed off the tiled walls.

“Shit, Parker,” he said, reaching up and adjusting the dial. The water instantly warmed. “This was not how I pictured this evening going.”

I pushed my wet hair out of my face and shrugged. “Seems like an improvement over what I can only assume were the world’s most boring plans.”

He considered me for a moment, his eyes locked on mine. Then his focus dipped to my lips, making every cell in my body light up.

He had chased me around the house and slung me over his shoulder like a rag doll, and now we were showering together, albeit fully clothed. What was happening?

Because my stomach was fluttering wildly, and my hands were shaking with the urge to run them through his wet hair and pull his face to mine so I could fuse our mouths.

He was studying me with heat and intensity that immediately set my body ablaze. Being the center of his attention was unnerving and thrilling all at once. I felt naked and exposed but also savored, revered. This man, this big, grouchy lumberjack finance bro, was sitting on the tile floor of his shower, watching me like he couldn’t help himself. And he was ruining his Italian pants in the process.

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