Page 63 of The Comeback Summer

The room was made up so hastily for us that the housekeeper hadn’t fully stocked it yet; she handed us a couple of tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner, which are now sitting on the dresser next to the bed.

“One second,” I say, grabbing them and heading into the bathroom.

As soon as I open the door, it hits me like the steam billowing out: Josh is behind that white shower curtain. Naked. An image flashes through my mind of us in the shower of his freshman dorm, giggling and kissing as we soaped each other up, Josh’s hands on my body, sliding down between my—

Stop it.Friends don’t picture friends naked.

“Can you give them to me?” Josh sticks his arm out of the curtain, his hand outstretched.

Swallowing, I step toward him and place the small bottles in his hand. I intend to step away quickly, but... I don’t. Something unexpected shivers down my legs. Pure, old-fashioned lust.

“You know,” Josh says, “we could save water if you joined me.”

My breath catches. “I don’t—”

“I’m kidding.”

But is he? He’s still reaching his hand out, like an invitation.

My impulse is to laugh and step away, go back out to the room and wait until it’s my turn to shower. Say goodbye and meet my date. Spend the rest of the night imagining Josh with a beautiful woman in an evening gown. Maybe kissing her good night. Maybe more than that.

That’s the easy choice, thecomfortablechoice. But am I not supposed to be pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone?

Never mind that I am absolutely burning with desire to see Josh naked.

Taking a deep breath, I drop my robe and step into the shower.

The first thing I see, coming into view in the steamy air between us, is Josh’s face. Dark, wet hair falling across his forehead, a shocked expression in his eyes. He does not let his gaze drift downward on my body, not even an inch.

“Hannah...”

“Just conserving water,” I say.

“Of course,” he says, his voice faint.

I’m painfully aware of him. He’s doing a valiant job of maintaining eye contact, but I don’t have that kind of self-control. My eyes drip down the length of his body, and the sight unleashes a whirlwind of memories. I know the exact place onhis chest where my head will fit, the ticklish areas on his rib cage, the angle of his jaw where he loves to be kissed. But there’s a scar on his collarbone that I’ve never seen before, and he’s muscular and tan and so damn masculine it makes me ache between my legs. Familiar and new, all at the same time.

And also. He’s getting hard.

Quickly, I lift my eyes back up to his face. His cheeks are flushed.

“Don’t mind that,” he says, giving an awkward laugh. “It’s an involuntary response.”

I nod. “Of course.”

I’m sure I’m blushing all over. Showering with my ex-boyfriend, who took it upon himself to learn my body, to discover what made me feel good and memorize my responses. What was I thinking? What the actual hell is wrong with me?

I need to distract myself, so I turn to face the water spray, grab the washcloth, and rub the small bar of soap against it, making a lather. Robotically, I wash my arms, trying to forget that Josh is inches behind me and maybe still has an erection and probably is staring at my backside. Maybe he’s thinking that I’m not as youthful as I once was, or noticing the weird pimples I sometimes get on my shoulders or that strange mole on my lower back. My only thought now is to get this over with as soon as possible.

When I try to reach my back, Josh says, “Can I help?”

I stiffen. “Sure.”

He takes the washcloth and rubs it across my shoulder blades, down my spine. All I feel is the gentle scrub of cloth against me, not his hand, and in this position—still facing the spray, with Josh behind me—I can almost pretend like he’s notthere. I take the shampoo, lather it into my hair, then close my eyes and rinse under the water.

As I step back from the spray, squeezing the excess water from my hair, Josh breaks his silence.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, so quietly that it’s almost like he’s talking to himself. He’s behind me, just over my left shoulder.

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