Chapter 29
“I’m back!” I call out when I enter the villa. “Are you here?” I yell again, taking no chances of running into a half-dressed version of Nate, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I turn the latch on the door, locking it from the inside, so even if he comes back to the villa, he can’t get in.
“Oh, sweet privacy,” I breathe with a sigh.
There’s about an hour and a half before dinner, so I quickly gather all my stuff for my shower. I’m mid-shave—like literally hunched over with one leg propped up on the shower bench—when I hear something. I still, nothing moving but my beating heart.
“Hellooo?” My breath holds as I listen for a response.
Nothing.
I even turn the shower off and call again. “Hello? Nate?”
Silence convinces me that I’m fine, so I turn the shower back on and continue shaving. Not even thirty seconds later, I glance up and see Nate reaching for a towel. He hasn’t seen me yet, but I’ve seen him.
Okay, technically, I haven’t seen him. He’s naked, but I can only see from his chest up and from his mid-thighs down. The door is glass, but a two-foot-wide frosted strip runs in the middle of the shower door and walls, giving a little bit of privacy— thankfully .
And there’s steam. Steam makes everything foggy and blurry.
Let’s hope.
Despite the frosted glass and the steam, I still scream, covering my body with my hands. That’s when Nate sees me. His eyes triple in size before he uses his fingers as a shield.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry. It’s my fault for having eyes.”
For having eyes? What?
His free hand goes to his ears, and I notice the AirPods he’s plucking out of them. HE HAD FREAKING AIRPODS IN. I want to kill him.
“I didn’t see anything.” He blindly reaches for a towel while still covering his eyes. “Do you want a towel?”
“No! I want you to leave!”
“I really didn’t see anything.” He backs away with the towel. But instead of wrapping it around his body, he steps forward and drops it on the floor by the shower for me. “Here.”
“Oh my gosh, leave!”
“Going!” He turns, and I look away in case the frosted glass doesn’t cover him as he walks out. “I’ll be by the pool. Just get me when you’re dressed.”
I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the shower wall.
Having Nate Farnsworth walk in on me in the shower was not on my Thailand bingo card.
But here we are.
* * *
Once dressed, I want answers.
My lips purse as I slide open the patio doors. Thankfully, he’s found some clothes. From his spot on the lounge chair, Nate turns with a smirk that only intensifies my anger.
“Easy.” He gives a hesitant laugh while holding up his palms. “I promise I didn’t see anything.”
“How did you even get in the room? I locked the door from the inside.”
“What do you mean? I was already in the room. After my run, I came back here and took a dip in the pool.”
“You were already here?”
“Yes.”
“So I locked you in, not out ?”
“That’s correct.” His smile is more smug than it should be. “I couldn’t hear the shower or anything because I had my AirPods in.”
“You swam with your AirPods in?” I fold my arms, not believing his story. “How convenient.”
“I wasn’t swimming. I was just hanging out in the pool. You can try to blame me all you want, but I was here first, and you’re the one who failed to check outside before stripping down naked. Not to mention, the whole reason why you’re in my room is because you forgot to put your name on the hotel list.”
Yes, I’ve made many mistakes.
It’s just irritating having Nate point them out to me.
“Whatever.” I drop my arms and walk back inside. “I’m done with the bathroom, so you can go take a shower now.”
While gathering my makeup, I notice a tampon box on the bathroom counter. My jaw hardens as I pick it up and march into the closet where Nate is sifting through his suitcase.
“What’s this?” I hold the box up.
He barely glances at me. “I would think it’s self-explanatory.”
“Why is it here?”
“I told you I was going to the gift shop and that I’d get some basics . Just in case.”
My eyes turn into tiny, little daggers. “In case of what?”
“You know.” He shrugs. “In case you need them.”
If it weren’t for the shower incident five minutes ago, maybe I could control my anger, but not now. I open the box and grab a handful of tampons. One by one, I fire them at him like they’re bullets.
“It’s not okay to make PMS jokes,” I say while throwing them. “It’s lazy misogyny!”
He holds his hands up, trying to ward off the Playtex rockets. “Lazy misogyny? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you think it’s funny to make jokes about my period to frame me as an irrational, too-emotional, moody woman you have to put up with at work.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do. There are jokes about my time of the month, cravings, and let’s not forget about the Midol you gave me last month.” I chuck the last few tampons at him then finish with the box.
“I was trying to be nice.” He swats the box away before it hits him in the face.
“Don’t lie.”
“No, seriously. I got the notification that you were starting your period tomorrow, so when I saw the tampons, I just thought I’d help out a little. I didn’t know it would make you this mad.”
“Wait.” I stiffen. “What notification?”
“From the Google calendar you shared with me. The one that tracks your monthly cycle.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket and scrolls through it until he finds what he’s looking for. He holds up the screen, showing me. “See?”
My stomach knots with embarrassment as I squint at the screen. I gasp, covering my mouth with my hand. Sure enough, it’s my Google calendar—the one I use to track the very personal information of my cycle, like spotting, bleeding, energy, mood swings, fatigue, food cravings, bloating, and breast tenderness. But the mortification doesn’t stop there. No, over-achiever Carly also tracks things like breakouts in strange places, libido spikes, and weird period poop habits.
WEIRD PERIOD POOP HABITS.
This is how I die.
Death from humiliation.
It’s all just too much, from the shower fiasco to the Google calendar. This is a level of social pain I’ve never known.
My chest heaves up and down, and I stumble back, sitting on the closet bench. I even hunch over, putting my head between my knees because they say—whoever they are—that this position is good for hyperventilation.
Nate crouches beside me. “Based on your reaction, I’m guessing you didn’t send this to me on purpose.”
My head jerks up. “Why would I send that to you on purpose?”
Not to mention how. How did I send that to him? As someone who prides herself on being extremely detail-oriented, this feels like a major mistake and oversight.
“I don’t know. I don’t have sisters. I thought you were just letting me know when to tread lightly.” My glare makes him rethink his words. “Not tread lightly…just…you know…keeping me in the loop.”
In what world would I need to keep my coworker in the loop about my tender breasts and bathroom habits?
“Just go shower for dinner.” I push him away. “I’ll go outside to get ready.”
From now on, I’ll be wherever Nate is not.