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“Where’s Oliver?” Atlas shook out one of the towels Stella had left in a stack on the covered shelf and handed it to Stella, continuing to glower at Carmel.
“He knew I was having friends over so he went out.” She shrugged.
“All of you get out.Now,” he ordered.
“Ignore him.” Carmel flicked her hand before she re-straddled Louis.
Atlas cursed under his breath and noticed Stella huddled in the towel.
“Do you have anything to change into?”
She shook her head. Even if they did have spare uniforms here, nothing ever fit her. She was tall and busty and, despite the number of meals she’d been forced to skip in the last year, had a very round bottom.
“Come with me.” He shut the doors to the terrace as they walked inside, waved off her concern for the drips she was leaving on the floor, and led her down a flight of stairs into a bedroom.
She faltered at the door, never comfortable around male anger, even when it wasn’t directed at her.
Atlas dug into a drawer, pulling out a folded pair of dark green joggers and a matching hoodie. He dropped them on the bed.
“Have a shower. Warm up. I’ll get rid of them.” He brushed past her.
The shower at her rooming house was down the hall. It was always tepid, always in high demand and always looked moldy despite the fact that she had scrubbed it herself with bleach.
At the very least, she needed to quit dripping on these hardwood floors. She locked herself in the bathroom and stripped off clothes that had been a big purchase for her very thin wallet. She wrung them out as best she could and left them draped on the edge of the tub while she showered.
Until she’d hopped on a train and gotten herself a bed in a youth hostel here in Zermatt, then began taking any housekeeping work she could find, she had never seen anything like these shiny chrome fixtures or these roomy shower stalls with their elegant tile work and fragrant shampoos. She had certainly never used one.
It was such a pampering experience, she could have stayed there all night, but she made herself hurry through it, then dry off with one of the warm, fluffy towels from the heated rack.
The clothes Atlas had provided were very good quality, making her anxious about returning them. The drawstring pants were too long and the pullover hoodie was a size too big. The neckline drooped open across her collarbone and the cuffs fell to her knuckles.
They were soft against her skin, though. Cozy. The pullover held traces of a woodsy cologne filled with subtle notes of smoke and cedar and leather. Wearing his clothes was an intimate experience. It made her feel enveloped by him. Claimed.
She shook off a hot shiver and squeezed her hair with the towel. She didn’t have a comb and wouldn’t presume to use his to re-plait it. She wound the length into a bun that she secured with the pins she’d removed to wash it.
She would need a plastic bag to carry her damp clothes home. There should be one in the housekeeping closet.
She strode back into the bedroom with purpose and nearly ran straight into Atlas.
He had his back to her and wore only his briefs.
“Oh!” She blushed as though she’d never seen a man half-dressed in her life when she’d spent the evening confronted by bananas in hammocks.
Look away, she ordered herself.Retreat!
But she was frozen in shock. Awe, actually. He had broad shoulders and a long spine. All of him was long and lean and his skin held a natural olive tone that was much darker than his sister’s creamy complexion.
“They splashed me.” His voice was thick with fury. He shot his legs into jeans, pulling them up over his muscled buttocks. As he closed the fly with a terse zip, he turned to face her. “I told them to leave or I’ll call the police. They’re like crabs in a bucket, incapable of getting out. I’m calling them anyway, to report that man who was groping you.” He patted his jeans and looked around as though trying to locate his phone.
“No,”she squeaked with panic.
“No to the police? Why not?” He jerked his head toward the door. “Listen to them. They’re out of control. I saw him assault you. He needs to know he can’t get away with it.”
But the police would want her name. They might discover that her father had reported her for theft—which she was guilty of, even if it was a petty amount.
She looked past him toward the door, wanting to leave, but accosted by her strong work ethic. The place was a mess.
He misinterpreted her expression.