Chapter 2 #3
There’s a loud crash—something hits the floor and clatters. Likely one of my glass soap dispensers. Then the scramble of footsteps.
“Who the hell is in here?” she demands, her voice a full octave higher than before.
“It’s—it’s Gavin,” I croak from behind the partition.
“You scared me!” She lets out a long breath. “Why are you hiding like a creep?”
“I’m—I’m not wearing any clothes.” I wince, closing my eyes, heat rushing over my skin.
She gasps before letting out a maniacal giggle. “Wait! Are you fucking with me or are you really naked?”
God—why, of all people, did it have to be Scottie who walked in? I forgot she’s a bit of a menace. Very unpredictable. Definitely unhinged. And somehow still completely magnetic.
“Really naked,” I mutter as mortification settles over me. “I need you to do me a favor,” I add, trying to keep my voice steady despite how embarrassed I am.
“Listen—I get that I probably interrupted a solo date with your hand but I’m not that kind of—”
“I wasn’t—that’s not what I was doing. Can you just grab me some clothes? Or maybe…leave, so I can have a little privacy? Please.”
She mutters, half to herself, “Relax, it’s not like I’ve never seen a naked man before.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Scottie.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going.” She laughs under her breath. “Mr. Prude.”
I hear the doorknob twist.
A pause.
Then another twist.
A tug.
A groan.
A louder tug.
What is she doing?
“So…small hiccup,” she calls out. “I can’t get it open. I think it’s stuck.”
Of course it is.
Racking my brain, I try to think of anything in the bathroom I can use to cover myself. The only thing that comes to mind is the small hand towel hanging next to the sink. It’s barely bigger than a washcloth. It’s not going to cover much.
I take in a deep inhale. “There’s a towel on the counter. Toss it my way.”
Instead of the sound of Scottie scrambling to find it, I’m met with silence.
“Are you still there?”
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “Just—processing the situation.”
I exhale, fighting a laugh. “Scottie.”
“Right, right. Towel. Got it.”
Something soft flutters over the top of the partition and lands on the floor beside me.
I don’t even bother trying to wrap it around my waist, knowing it won’t fit. Instead, I just press it over my dick, secure it with one hand, and try to muster up the courage to step out.
“This is humiliating,” I mumble to myself. “Turn around,” I announce. “And stay turned around.”
“Okay,” she drags with humor in her tone.
Carefully, I walk around the partition.
Scottie stands a few feet away, back to me just like I asked.
Her red hair spills down in loose, messy waves, half-hiding the faded tour dates printed on her band T-shirt.
The list cuts off where the fabric disappears into a pair of snug denim shorts—short enough for the bottom curve of her ass to peek out.
Scottie has always dressed to draw attention—something I’ve noticed longer than I’d care to admit.
If I weren’t naked and praying she doesn’t turn around, I might let myself appreciate the view. Instead, I drag my gaze away.
But the second she hears me move, she glances over her shoulder.
Our eyes meet, and her bright blue ones go wide.
A sharp breath floats past her lips, and she instantly claps a hand over her mouth, like it might trap the sound inside. The color drains from her face, then floods back in full force, her skin turning a deep, blotchy red.
“Oh shit,” she mumbles behind her hand, eyes bouncing up to the ceiling.
“I told you to stay turned around,” I adjust the towel to make sure it’s still covering me. “How was that unclear?”
“I didn’t think you meant literally naked!” she squeaks. “I thought you were being dramatic!”
“Why would I lie about being naked?”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to physically dislodge the image out of her brain. “I don’t know! I just—okay, just tell me when it’s over.” She whips her head forward and drops her chin.
“Stay turned around. I’m dropping the towel so I can use both hands.”
Like she can sense I’m completely exposed, a rush of air bursts out of her as I let go of the towel. Crouching beside the door, I start messing with the frame. It sticks sometimes—something that’s always been a problem during the warmer months.
The door groans as I yank on the frame, the wood shifting reluctantly. I wiggle it, push, pull, and then finally wedge my shoulder against it and give it one solid shove.
With a crack and a reluctant pop, the door swings open.
“There,” I mutter, straightening and grabbing the towel, covering myself up once more. “I’m covered.”
“Promise? Because I’d really hate to trip and fall, accidentally smacking my head on whatever you’ve got going on behind that hand towel. Can you imagine?” She lifts her hands like she’s presenting a billboard. “Coma—caused by penis.”
A strangled sound escapes me—somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Our eyes meet, hers twinkling with amusement, her grin widening, clearly fueled by my discomfort.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, cheeks flushing as she waves her hands. “It’d make a terrible headline: Local woman held captive and injured by naked man.”
I groan, laughing under my breath. “You done torturing me?”
“Oh, I could go on for days,” she admits, trying to hold back another laugh. “But I’ll stop…for now.”
She steps through the doorway, brushing past me with a teasing smile, her gaze flicking to the flimsy towel I’m clutching like a knight’s shield. She’s enjoying this way too much for my liking. And I hate that part of me is enjoying it too—the part that’s always wanted her attention.
Seeing as I don’t usually make a habit of being nude around women I haven’t slept with, there’s really no way to hang on to even a shred of dignity.
Before she slips out into the hall, she pauses in the doorway of my bedroom, looking over her shoulder.
Her eyes trace the length of me, staring at me unabashedly, pausing on my thighs before finally meeting my gaze.
“Nice thigh tattoo.” She winks and disappears.