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At the very least, I got to him. He may have walked away, but I won that one in spades.

* * *

After he’s gone, I slump against the wall. Then I ball my hands into fists. He’s right on one thing—there’s no point talking right now, not while feelings are running high. And fuck him if he doesn’t think his are. Emotionally stunted asshole.

I grab a beer from the fridge myself, hesitate, then try the trick he did on the countertop.

I lean the bottle against the edge and karate chop the top with my hand.

All I manage to do is send a jolt of pain searing through my hand. “Ow!” I hiss in pain, my other hand nearly dropping the bottle.

I use the bottle opener like a lady, and the moment the bottle is open, I take a long swig.

This will do. I’ll numb my feelings with a beer, which I haven’t really drunk since college. Very healthy.

But it’s not enough. My body is still zinging from the intensity of what just happened.

I strip my clothes off right there in the kitchen, just as a little fuck-you to Griffin. Let him see them later so he knows I got naked in the middle of this room. Let him use them as jerk-off fodder later when he’s trying to satisfy something he could walk into the next room to take.

Asshole.

I set the beer down on the counter, then get in the shower, blasting it on cold. I don’t want to stay wanting him tonight.

But the moment icy water hits my skin, I shriek.

“Oh, hell no.”

I scramble for the faucet, cranking it so it warms up.

I’ve just gotten it to lukewarm when I hear the knock on the door. It’s not tentative.

I freeze. I squat down in the tub; covered, sort of.

“Sasha.” It’s not a question.

“What do you want?” I’m not willing to be especially kind.

“Can I talk to you?”

I wrap my arms around my knees. “You want to talk? Go ahead.”

“I’m opening the door.”

I jerk the shower curtain open wide. “You heard what I said.”

Griffin opens the door.

I want to stay mad. I want to yell at him to get lost and mean it.

But all I can do is stare.

He’s stripped off his socks, but otherwise, he’s still fully clothed. His white dress shirt’s still tucked into his pants, but it’s unbuttoned at the top, his carved chest visible. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing those thick, corded forearms, currently flexing as he stretches his hands beside him.

“So you finally want to talk?” I ask.

“No.” His voice is raised so I can hear him over the splatter of water, but I can still hear the rasp in it.

My stomach does a little barrel roll, my heart tapping against my ribs. “Then why are you here?”