Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
CASSIE
I finish my yoga session with a sigh, collapsing into Child’s Pose and pressing my forehead to the mat.
Big mistake. All that stretching just makes me more aware of my body.
The way the sun warmed my skin. The way my sports bra clung to me.
The way Logan’s eyes had lingered—not that he said anything, but I saw it.
Felt it. The heat between us had been low simmer all morning, but now it’s burning at the edges.
I try to shake it off. Cold shower. That’s what I need.
I head upstairs and strip down quickly, turning on the shower to let it heat up…only to turn it off again.
What am I doing?
I stare at the tile wall like it might give me the answer. But the longer I stand there, the more I feel it—the ache. The frustration. The stubborn little throb deep in my belly that knows exactly what it wants.
No. Bad idea. Do not give in to this.
I press my thighs together. Close my eyes. Try to think of something—literally anything—other than Logan’s ridiculously chiseled body, or his gravel-rough voice, or the way his lips curved when he caught me laughing.
My hand drifts lower. Just a little. Just one second.
I bite my lip and exhale shakily.
And then I hear footsteps. The door pushes open and Logan steps inside.
He’s nonchalantly whistling. In my bathroom.
No. No no no.
Just peeing, I think. Please, just pee and leave.
The curtain’s closed. The water’s off. Maybe he’ll think no one’s in here.
I hold perfectly still, back pressed to the wall, heart pounding in my throat.
The toilet flushes, and then there’s silence followed by a groan and a throat clearing.
Go. Away. Logan.
But instead—swish.
The shower curtain jerks back.
“Jesus—” His voice catches mid-word as his gaze collides with mine.
And then it drags lower.
Slowly.
His eyes widen. And mine? They drop.
He’s naked.
Totally, unashamedly naked.
And good God.
He’s tall and broad and cut like a Greek statue, golden skin still dewy from his nap. His chest is all muscle and perfect proportion, lightly dusted with a trail that leads lower—to abs so defined I could count them, and lower…
Oh my God.
“Cassie,” he says, voice low and hoarse now, “I—I thought the bathroom was empty—”
“Well, surprise,” I whisper, breathless and absolutely not moving. “It’s not. Why are you showering in my bathroom? You literally have your own.”
“The, uh, water pressure isn’t very good.”
Neither of us moves for a beat. We’re both just staring, in shock.
My back is still pressed against the tile. His hand is still holding the curtain. And the space between us is vibrating with heat.
“I didn’t see anything,” he lies.
“You saw everything.”
He exhales, and there’s a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. Nothing I haven’t seen before, though.”
I narrow my eyes. “You could close the curtain now.”
“I could. So could you.”
We stay frozen like that another moment. I cover my boobs like it could give me a shred of decency.
He steps in. Closes the curtain behind him. Inches between us.
His voice? A rasp as he clears his throat.”
“I swear to God, Cassie…I’m trying to be good.”
I tilt my chin up, heart hammering.
“Then you should probably step out of the shower. Not in.”
He braces one hand on the tile beside my head, his chest rising and falling.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“What if I do?” I bite out. I don’t know where that boldness comes from. But I suddenly revel in it.
He groans, but doesn’t touch me. Just breathes me in.
The moment buzzes with electricity…but he doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t move. And neither do I.
Eventually, he steps back, still in the shower, his voice ragged.
“I need to get out of here. Before I lose what’s left of my mind. You’re recovering from that relationship…or whatever. And meanwhile, I’m obsessed with you.”
I’m aching. On fire. And absolutely furious at how much I want more.
“What if we just…showered together,” I say. “You know. Save water. No funny business.”
Are you crazy, Cassie?
What am I even saying?
“This seems far beyond the line of ‘no flirting.’”
“Maybe it’s just an unorthodox friendship we have,” I say.
He hesitates.
I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch. “Just friends, huh?”
I nod slowly, even though there’s nothing remotely friendly about the way my skin hums with awareness. “Just…environmentalists conserving water.”
His gaze drops down my body, then back to my eyes. He lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, might be a growl.
“Fine. No funny business.”
He steps forward. The curtain slides shut behind him, sealing us into the heat.
I turn the water back on, and it rains down between us. Warm. Almost too warm.
We stand there for a second. Frozen. And then I reach for the body wash.
“Turn around,” I say, more breathless than I mean to sound.
He obeys.
I start with his back. Broad and sun-kissed, muscles shifting under my fingers as I lather him slowly. My palms glide over his shoulders, down his arms, and across the curve of his lower back.
His breath catches when I drag the soap lower, over the backs of his thighs.
He turns, and now it’s his front. His chest. God, his chest—carved muscle, taut and tan and already beading with droplets. I rub the soap into him gently, taking my time. His abs flex beneath my touch.
“Cassie…” he warns, voice hoarse.
But I keep going, down his stomach and down the trail of hair until I reach him.
He’s hard.
So hard.
I try not to react—but I wrap my soapy fingers around him anyway. Gently. Slowly. Professionally, I tell myself. Dear God, what’s gotten into me?
My heart hammers in my chest like a bass drum.
As if there’s anything professional or friendly about this.
His head falls back. He makes a low, guttural sound that rattles my bones.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You call this friendship?”
“It’s hygiene,” I reply, as evenly as I can. “Just helping out a roommate in need.”
He watches me with fire in his eyes, then takes my hand…and removes it, to my surprise.
“No. If we ever go down this road again…you’re gonna beg for it.”
I feel like my chest collapses inward when he says that.
Then—without another word—he takes the loofah from my hands.
“Your turn.”
His hands are bigger than mine. And rougher, too.
He scrubs my shoulders, my arms, my sides with deliberate care.
But when he cups my breast in one palm to “wash it,” my breath stutters.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Just washing.”
I arch into his touch anyway.
He moves lower. Washes my stomach. My thighs. And finally he pauses.
“This okay?” he asks, voice almost reverent.
I nod, barely breathing.
And then he touches me. One hand steadying my hip, the other sliding through the lather—right there.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t press.
Just glides and cleanses. Almost like he’s worshipping me.
The air between us is heavy. Soaked with everything we’re not saying.
When he’s done, he steps back, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
“I think we’re clean,” he finally mutters.
“Squeaky,” I whisper.
We take turns standing under the warm water to rinse off. Dry off without looking at each other.
There’s no kiss, and no promises about what this means. Just tension thick enough to drown in.
Back in my room, I get dressed in yoga pants and the first oversized sweatshirt I can find, tug it over my head, and head for the stairs.
I grab my notebook and backpack, and this time—I head out to the coffee shop before I can get distracted again.