Page 30 of Make Me Yours
She lets out a purr and tucks herself in more snugly, completely unfazed. I slide the tablet out from under her belly and glance back down at the schedule.
Wait a minute…
“A photo shoot?” I blink. “Steele has a photo shoot tomorrow morning?”
How didn’t we talk about this?
He disappeared about fifteen minutes ago to take a shower before going to bed.
Judging from this calendar, I can understand why he felt the need to sack out so early.
I lean against the cushion and stare at the ceiling for a second, wondering how long he’s been handling all this by himself. Beside me, Waffles stretches and lets out the tiniest squeaky yawn before curling back into a little ball of fuzz.
“Your dad’s gonna run himself into the ground if he’s not careful,” I murmur. “Good thing he’s got us now, huh?”
She blinks up at me like she couldn’t agree more.
“All right, you stay here and hold down the fort. I’ll be right back.”
When she doesn’t object, I take that as my cue to move forward with the plan.
With one final look at Waffles stretched out on the couch, I head down the hallway to where the bedrooms are located. My bare feet are silent against the wood floor.
I find Steele’s bedroom door cracked open, and rap my knuckles against the wood.
“Steele? Are you still awake? I have a few questions about the schedule tomorrow.”
I wait a beat, then two.
For a handful of seconds, I consider turning around and heading back to the living room. But the need for answers regarding his itinerary wins out, and I carefully push open the door before peeking inside. The room is shadowy, the only light coming from the bathroom as steam drifts from the doorway.
As I take a few steps toward it, I spot a pile of discardedclothing on the floor. It’s the same hoodie and sweatpants he wore at dinner. Not to mention a pair of gray boxers.
Oh.
Oh.
The small pile of dirty laundry is my signal to turn around and get the hell out of here.
It’s not like we can’t discuss the photo shoot in the morning.
The water shuts off until it’s nothing more than drips hitting the tile.
I take a hasty step in retreat as Steele moves into view. The sight that fills the space is all it takes for air to clog my lungs.
The man is dripping wet.
And naked.
So very naked.
The first thing I notice is that there isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’s all chiseled strength and toned musculature. Every inch is sculpted like a marble statue. His damp hair clings to his forehead as water trails down his pecs and over well-defined abs.
We’ve been friends for a decade, and I’ve seen Steele without a shirt hundreds of times before at the lake or pool.
But I’ve never caught sight of him likethis.
My greedy gaze slides over his broad shoulders. The sinewy muscles bunch and flex as he dries himself with unhurried strokes. I’m mesmerized by the movement as my attention slips to his tapered waist when he twists around to give me an unobstructed view of his backside.
