I turn to find Barrett staring at me from the doorway. His once perfectly styled hair is now perfectly messy from the humidity and sweat that it endured. And his hands. They’ve been working through his tresses ever since I walked through the front door.
“Do you want to take a shower?”
“Yes. That would be great. Just point me in the right direction.” I glance down the hallway. “Unless you wanted to go first.”
I don’t even let my mind entertain the idea of Barrett naked in the shower.
“Unlike your apartment, there are multiple bathrooms here and none of them require a reservation system.”
“You’re hilarious,” I say, my tone devoid of humor.
Barrett moves to open the door on the left side of the room and it appears I have my own bathroom now. I think I might actually start to cry.
I’ve never had my own bathroom. Not growing up when I shared a bathroom with my two sisters, not when I went to college and used communal bathrooms, and definitely not at my current apartment.
There’s a huge soaking tub and a separate shower stall. A double vanity with two sinks. I guess that’s what double means, but how the heck am I going to choose which one to use? I’ve never had access to two sinks that at least two to four other people haven’t been clamoring to get to. Maybe I’ll use one for morning and one for night. That makes the most sense.
There are white fluffy towels stacked on a shelf next to the shower. They’re so fluffy, only two can fit on the shelf. If I were a gymnast, I could do an entire floor routine in this room.
“Will this do?” Barrett asks from the doorway.
“I suppose it will have to.” I sigh. Barrett shakes his head, then pushes off the door frame to leave.
“Dinner will be in twenty minutes,” he calls as he exits.
“Uh huh,” is my only response. I’m too busy turning the bathtub on and stripping out of my clothes.
Holy freaking bananas. I might get fired from my job because I never leave this tub. That would be ironic.
I sink into the warm water and let it soothe my tired muscles. It’s been a day.
I pop in my earbuds, turn on some relaxing music on my phone, and let my mind wander. The goal is to zone out, meditate, become one with this tub, but instead my brain automatically draws up the image of Barrett on the tennis court. It must be my head injury that has me recalling every detail. Sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his muscular frame. Forearm muscles bunching with every swing. And my favorite, those long fingers of his gripping his racquet handle.
The thought of Barrett has caused an ache between my thighs. If I’m being honest, it’s been there since I saw him standing outside the racquet club.
I bite my lip and trace a finger along the surface of the water, fighting the urge to give into temptation. When I close my eyes again, he’s there. Standing outside the pro shop door, those tantalizing fingers sliding over his jaw.
The water ripples as I move a hand between my legs.
After the busy day, I thought I’d be up for relaxation, but in the end dirty thoughts of Barrett win out.
CHAPTER 11
Barrett
I glance at the clock again. It’s nearly eight o’clock. Fifteen minutes past when I told Chloe to meet me for dinner.
I’ve showered, dressed and heated up the meal Dimitri left for this evening. With an unexpected guest, the portions were light so I threw together a spinach, strawberry and walnut salad from the refrigerator. I’ve watched the clock on the kitchen counter tick off the minutes, my frustration growing with every minute that goes by.
I don’t wait on people, especially in my own home.
I push back my chair and head for the stairs. With each step, my irritation is building.
It doesn’t matter that forty minutes ago I was in the shower with my dick in my hand thinking about Chloe’s perfect ass and full lips. Any calm I felt from that release has left my body and now I can feel every muscle start to ratchet down tight again.
Outside Chloe’s door, I knock.
It’s quiet, and there’s no response.
This time, I bang on it. Still nothing. I push the door open to find an empty room. Chloe’s suitcase is still at the foot of the bed, her bags of books sitting on the sofa untouched. No evidence that she’s attempted to unpack.
That’s when I hear a sound. It’s faint. I move to put my ear to the bathroom door.
The door is solid, not giving me any feedback, but I swear I hear it again.
For a moment, my anger subsides as it occurs to me that she could be hurt. Fred’s shot nailed her in the head pretty hard. Maybe she felt dizzy in the shower and collapsed. Or lost consciousness in the bathtub. I knock on the bathroom door and yell her name. No answer.