Page 2 of Our Bay Will Come

"Practical water conservation," he counters. "Think of the environment."

Despite myself, I laugh. "That's your angle? Save the planet, take a shower with me?"

"Is it working?" His thumb traces my lower lip, and my resolve wavers dangerously.

I should say no. I should grab my clothes and go. Instead, I hear myself say, "The pancakes better be worth it."

His smile is slow and devastating. "Oh, they will be."

He doesn't wait for me to change my mind. With one fluid motion, he pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine with anurgency that makes my toes curl. I tell myself it's just physical—this crackling electricity between us—but there's something else beneath it that I'm studiously ignoring.

"Shower first," I mumble against his lips, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "Then pancakes. Then I am leaving."

"Whatever you say," Fox agrees, but a knowing look in his eyes suggests he sees right through me.

The bathroom is surprisingly nice for a bachelor pad—clean white tile, a glass-walled shower big enough for two, and not a single dirty towel in sight. Either he cleaned for company, or Fox Carmichael is genuinely the unicorn of single men.

He turns on the water, steam quickly filling the small space, and I find myself watching the play of muscles across his back. The man is built like he was carved from stone, with a collection of scars that tell stories I'm suddenly curious about. I shouldn't be interested. Curiosity leads to conversations, and conversations lead to connections.

"Stop overthinking," he says without turning around.

"I'm not—how did you know I was thinking anything?"

He glances over his shoulder, eyes traveling down my naked body with an appreciation that makes me feel both powerful and vulnerable. "You get this little crease between your eyebrows when analyzing things to death."

"We've known each other less than twenty-four hours. You can't possibly?—"

"You do the same thing when you're reading a menu. Like you're preparing for a final exam instead of ordering dinner." He holds out his hand. "Coming?"

I hesitate, then take his hand and step into the shower. The water is perfect—hot enough to ease the pleasant ache in muscles I'd forgotten I had.

Fox stands behind me, his hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, then down my back in a soothing and arousing caress. "You're tense," he murmurs.

"I'm not great at this part," I admit.

"Which part?"

"The morning after. The domesticity of it."

His hands pause, then continue their path across my skin. "Is that what this is?"

I turn to face him, water streaming between us. "What would you call it?"

"I'd call it taking a shower with a beautiful woman I can't stop thinking about." His honesty is disarming. "No labels required."

"You barely know me."

"I'd like to change that." He reaches for the shampoo, squeezing some into his palm. "Turn around."

I do, suspicion warring with curiosity. "What are you?—"

His fingers thread through my hair, massaging my scalp with a gentle pressure that draws an involuntary sigh from me. It feels ridiculously good.

"My aunt owned a salon," he explains. "I used to help out after school when I wasn't needed at my parents' bakery."

"Of course you did," I mutter. "Let me guess—you also rescue puppies and read to the elderly in your spare time?"

He laughs, the sound echoing in the steamy space. "Not quite. I'm actually kind of an asshole, according to most people who know me."

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