Chapter 6
chapter
six
Evelyn
The bathroom is… magnificent.
Which feels ridiculous to think about a roadside hotel off the interstate. But the shower is enclosed in glass, the tile is warm under my bare feet, and there are actual knobs instead of an audience.
I stare at it for a long moment, hands braced on my naked hips.
You can do this.
I turn the water on, experiment with the temperature, and nearly laugh out loud when I get it just right all on my own. No instructions. No approval. No one hovering with a towel already prepared.
Just me.
The shower itself is bliss. Hot water sluicing over my shoulders, washing away hours of tension I didn’t even realize I was carrying. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the spray soak my hair, my skin, my thoughts.
This—this is what normal feels like. I go through the motions of washing my hair. Using whatever product the hotel offers. It smells nice enough, as does the conditioner.
When I finally turn the water off, I’m smiling.
And then I realize my mistake.
The towel rack is empty.
I stare at it, blinking.
Surely I just… forgot to look properly.
I reach higher. Nothing.
Lower. Still nothing.
The clothes I’d been wearing are dropped on the floor across the room. Out of reach. Mocking me. But I also don’t want to put on dirty clothes on my wet, dripping body.
I wrap my arms around myself, mortification creeping in.
I wanted to do this on my own. I wanted to be capable. Independent. A woman who can manage a shower without incident.
Instead, I’m naked, dripping, and trapped by my own optimism.
I take a steadying breath and clear my throat. “Mitchell?”
Silence.
I try again, louder. “Mitchell?”
Footsteps approach the door.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice cautious. Concerned.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Well—mostly. I just—”
I hesitate, heat rushing to my cheeks even though he can’t see me.
“I may have forgotten to bring in… towels.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough for embarrassment to bloom.
“Oh,” he says. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just… acknowledging. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I wanted to do this properly, and I thought I had everything, and now I feel ridiculous.”
“You don’t need to,” he says immediately. Gently. “Not even a little.”
I swallow. “Could you maybe just toss one to me? You don’t have to come in.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”
The door opens a crack. I see his arm extend blindly, holding out a fluffy white towel like an offering. “I don’t know why some hotels separate the bathroom area like this and put the towels under the sink. Not very convenient,” he says.
I grab the towel, relief washing over me.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“Anytime,” he replies. “Take your time.”
The door closes again.
I wrap the towel around myself, heart pounding—not from embarrassment now, but from the unexpected kindness of it all.
I wanted to prove I could do this alone. But maybe learning to accept help is part of it too. Somehow, that feels just as freeing.
I open the bathroom door slowly, towel secured tight beneath my arms. It’s much smaller than the enormous towels back home, which are more like blankets. This is short, and while it does cover all of my personal bits, a good sneeze might reveal everything.
Mitchell is standing near the window, his back half-turned as promised. He’s given me space without making a production of it.
“I’m decent,” I say quietly.
He turns. His gaze lands on me—and stills.
Not in a way that feels invasive. Still, he doesn’t look away.
He swallows visibly, then clears his throat.
Tiny movements stacked on top of each other.
As if he wasn’t prepared for the reality of me standing there, wrapped in white, hair damp and loose around my shoulders, cheeks still pink from the hot water.
For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.
The air between us hums.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rougher than before.
“Yes,” I say, suddenly very aware of my bare feet against the carpet. “Much better.”
His eyes flick briefly—to the towel, to my collarbone, to my face again—then he steps back, giving me distance like it costs him something.
“Good,” he says. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, his nails scraping against his short hair. “I’ll go ahead and take my turn.”
He gestures toward the bathroom, already moving, already reclaiming control. “I’ll give you privacy,” he adds, passing me with careful space between our bodies. Close enough that I feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
My breath shudders. “Thank you,” I say.
He grabs towels from the shelving beneath the sink, then pauses at the door.
“For the record,” he says quietly, without turning around, “you’re doing great. So ignore that voice in your head that keeps telling you differently.”
My chest tightens. My eyes sting.
Then he’s gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, the sound of running water following a moment later.
I stand there for a second longer than necessary, heart thudding, replaying the way he looked at me—not like a princess, not like a problem, but like a woman who’d surprised him. Intrigued him. Maybe even enticed him.
Then I shake myself and move to my suitcase to pull out some pajamas. I can’t help but recognize that no matter how amazing Mike, the brother and my would-be husband is, I already know he’ll be a little disappointing.
He’s not Mitchell.