Page 147 of Knotting the Cowboys

He shakes his head, but he's smiling as he steps back.

"I'll be right here. Don't fall in."

"I'm not that drunk," I protest, closing the door with as much dignity as I can muster.

The bathroom is blessedly normal—white tile, clean towels, no spinning. I handle my business, wash my hands twice because I forget I already did it the first time, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Oh boo.

My dress is wrinkled beyond salvation, there's a suspicious stain near the hem that might be barbecue sauce from those wings, and I smell like a combination of bar, truck, and desperation.

When did I become this person? This messy, giggly disaster who gets carried up stairs and admits out loud that her Alpha has pretty eyes?

"Shower," I decide, already struggling with the dress zipper. "Quick shower, then sleep, then tomorrow I'll be mortified like a proper person."

The dress puddles on the floor, followed by everything else. The water is perfect—not too hot, not cold, just right for washing away the film of the day. I use the complimentary shampoo that smells like nothing, scrub myself pink with the tiny bar of soap, and feel marginally more human by the time I shut off the water.

That's when I realize my crucial error.

"Towel," I mutter, staring at the rack where one lonely hand towel hangs. "Where are the body towels?"

I check the cabinet under the sink, behind the door, even the shower itself in case I missed them. Nothing. Just the one tiny towel that might dry approximately one arm if I'm lucky.

"Okay. Okay, it's fine." I use the hand towel to get the worst of the water, then crack the door open. "Mavi? Slight problem."

"What's wrong?" His voice is closer than expected, like he's been hovering.

"No towels. But it's fine! I'll just..." I trail off, realizing I have no end to that sentence.

Air dry? Put the dirty dress back on? Hide in the bathroom forever?

Before I can decide, survival instincts take over.

I dart out of the bathroom, making a beeline for where I remember seeing the bed. If I can just get under the covers?—

"Jesus Christ, Willa!"

I freeze mid-stride, suddenly very aware that I'm completely naked and dripping water on the carpet.

Mavi has his back to me, one hand over his eyes for good measure, his whole body rigid with tension.

"I'm trying to dry off!" I defend, hands attempting to cover things that definitely need more than hands to cover. "It's a process!"

"You're gonna slip and break something," he says through gritted teeth. Without looking, he reaches for something on thechair—his flannel from earlier—and holds it out behind him. "Put this on before you hurt yourself."

I scurry forward and snatch the shirt, pulling it over my head gratefully. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and warm and smelling so strongly of him that my knees go weak for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.

"Is it safe?" he asks, still facing away.

"Define safe," I mutter, but louder I say, "Yes, I'm decent. Ish."

He turns slowly, like I might be lying, and something flashes across his face when he sees me drowning in his shirt.

His jaw works, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Better," he manages. "Now go sit on the bed like a good girl before you find more trouble."

The words shoot straight through me, making me shiver.

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