Chapter 11
Camila
If you avoid your spouse, this marriage thing isn’t that bad.
I don’t know why people complain about it so much.
I easily survived the weekend living with my husband by staying in my bedroom.
I know I can’t avoid Hess the entire six months of living together, but for our first awkward weekend, it seemed like the best plan.
Easing into this living arrangement is key.
That’s why I’m glad it’s Monday, and I have a long week of work ahead of me.
I’ll barely be home, making this marriage arrangement even easier.
I hang a towel on the hook next to the shower door and stretch my toe into the water, checking the temperature. The perfect amount of warm.
My head tilts back under the spray, fingers working shampoo into my hair when, without warning, the water scalds like liquid fire pouring straight onto my skin—a huge change from what I had before.
I scream, stumbling back out of the flow, fumbling with the knobs, frantically twisting them both directions, but the temperature has gone wild.
The pipes groan, the water sputters, and then—crack! A jet of water bursts from the once-solid wall, spraying the entire bathroom like a busted fire hydrant.
I shriek again, half hop, half fall out of the shower. Shampoo stings my eyes as I grab the nearest towel. I press it against the spraying pipe, but the stream shoots sideways, soaking the mirror, the counter, the floor, everything.
“Camila?” Hess’s voice booms from the other side of the door, followed by pounding. “Are you alright? There’s water coming under the door.”
“The shower!” I yell, water smacking against my face.
The handle rattles. “Let me in!”
The lock clicks, and it’s clear I have one second to get myself decent before Hess will be in here.
I forgo trying to hold my towel over the spraying pipe and drape the soaking fabric around my body as Hess bursts in, ironically also wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
His chest is damp, and his hair drips like he was showering too.
He swears when he sees the geyser exploding from the newly split wall.
“I already turned it off!” I shout over the spray.
“Then why is there so much water?” He leaps forward, spinning the shower knobs.
I slip, trying to back out of his way, yelling as my feet go out from under me. He grabs for me at the same time, but momentum takes us both down in a loud, wet crash. We hit the tile, water pelting us from every angle.
I’m sprawled across him, towel barely hanging on as I grasp his slick shoulders. His hand clamps around my waist to steady me, his other braced against the tile.
“Get off me!” I push against his body.
“You’re the one on top of me!”
We fumble like slapstick clowns, arms tangling, hands slipping on the wet tile, both shouting instructions at each other while water blasts our faces.
My knee digs into his side, and his shoulder slams against mine.
It’s as if this body entanglement is a puzzle neither of us is smart enough to solve.
He wipes at the water rolling into his eyes. “Could you just get off me so I can turn off the water?”
“I told you I already turned it off!”
“And I’m telling you it’s not off!”
He shifts me off him like I’ve been as light as a feather this whole time. “Main water line,” he mutters, hauling himself up. He darts out the door, towel barely hanging on.
I scramble to my feet, glancing down in horror at the puddle of water spread across the bathroom tile.
The pipes groan, then the spray sputters to a stop.
Silence.
I stand there, panting, drenched, clutching my towel in place.
Hess reappears, dripping wet. He wipes a hand over his face, water rolling down his chest. “Pressure surge.” He points at the mangled pipe. “When I turned on my shower, it blew the line.”
“That’s it.” I throw my arms up but catch myself before my towel drops. “We’re moving to my condo.”
“No.” He shakes his head, looking around. “I’ll have a plumber come and get everything fixed this week.”
“A week!” My eyes go wide. “What am I supposed to do without a bathroom for a week?”
“Share mine.” He lifts his shoulders, pulling my gaze to his glistening skin.
And suddenly I’m very aware of the fact that we’re both standing in nothing but soaked towels. Our eyes meet, and the chaos fades into silence, thick and charged.
His gaze drops, lingering on the curve of my collarbone where the towel has slipped just a little. I clutch it tighter and do the one thing I shouldn’t do.
I drop my eyes to his chest.
It’s only fair.
His muscles tell a story: a lifetime of hard work, heavy lifting, and good genes.
“You know, if you wanted me in your shower this badly, all you had to do was ask.” The teasing behind his voice, mixed with a thick drawl, makes my stomach flip.
I swallow, jerking my eyes up to his face and the arrogant lift of his lips.
He’s joking, but I don’t care.
Survival instincts take over. I snap my chin up, kick the door forward, slamming it in his smug, devastatingly attractive face.
There’s a low chuckle as I spin around and rest my back against the door.
Of course there was a pipe break my first week here.
How terribly cliché.
I guess this marriage thing isn’t as easy as I thought.
Hess
When I agreed to marry Camila five and a half years ago, I didn’t anticipate living together or sharing a bathroom with her.
Sharing a bathroom with a woman is not for the faint of heart.
It’s only been a few days of this, but I feel like us living together is taking years off my life.
The bathroom counter looks like a bomb went off. Tubes, brushes, sprays, trinkets, concoctions, bottles—most of it unidentifiable to a layman. All this mayhem is scattered across what used to be my space.
I just stand there, staring, not sure if I’m supposed to live with the chaos or grab the garbage can and throw it all away. Tempting, but instead I push it all aside, everything sliding into a messy pile in the corner.
One bottle accidentally falls to the ground, and I pick it up, reading the label. Midnight Addiction, Bath & Body Works.
Interesting name, given our living arrangements.
I read the description: An edgy, seductive vibe you can’t stay away from.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I say to myself as I pop the cap and sniff. Dark, sharp. The kind of scent that pulls you closer before you realize it’s too late.
Yep. Trouble, plain and simple.
I set the bottle down, hoping I never come in contact with that smell at midnight.
I notice Camila’s handwriting on another bottle.
One of those cheap little travel things you get at Walmart.
It says face wash. I glance in the mirror and lean closer, examining a tiny blemish forming at my hairline.
Figures. I shrug, squeeze some cream into my hand, and rub it over my face, even into the skin under my stubble.
Cool, clean, better than I expected. I rinse it off and pat my hands dry on the towel.
Next, I move to the shower and the takeover happening there.
How can a person have this much crap? You would need an hour-long shower just to use it all.
Sponges, loofahs, three shampoos, two conditioners, a half-empty bottle of “hydrating mask,” a pumice stone, a tub of something called “sugar scrub,” and at least four razors balancing on the shelf.
Are all women like this? I shake my head and grab the first shampoo bottle.
I know this scent. It’s her hair. Warm, sweet, distracting.
Camila smells good. But she’s a nightmare to share a bathroom with.
The plumber said it would be a few more days until her bathroom is ready.
I don’t know if I can last until then.