Page 4

That’s it.
A.
Towel.
My brows stitch together as I take in the situation. His coverage isn’t from the towels I left on the mattress earlier today. It’s from the shower mat I placed outside the freestanding multi-head shower cubicle.
The scratch in my throat worsens. Not only did I enter the bathroom of an owner without permission, but I also entered while he was showering.
There’s no way I will keep my position now.
Val will have no choice but to let me go.
I try to keep the devastation out of my voice that I will need to rebuild trust with another employer as I say, “I’m s-so sorry. I knocked.” I lower my eyes to my hands knotted in my skirt, hoping a painful twist will stop the rest of my confession. “When you didn’t a-answer, I assumed you ha-hadn’t arrived yet.”
The nerves pushing me to the brink of being sick ease slightly when he replies, “Not that I need to explain myself, but I have poor hearing in my left ear.”
My eyes dart to his left ear before slowly moving to his narrowed gaze. Even hooded, there’s no hiding his frustration.
“Oh.”
His explanation is plausible. You have to face away from the faucets to keep your right ear unclogged, which is nearly impossible with six showerheads.
The stranger moves our conversation forward remarkably fast, like he can’t wait to get rid of me. “Do you have any Band-Aids?”
“F-for?” I ask, lost.
The mat isn’t long enough to wrap around his waist, so it slips between his mannish thighs when he bends down to inspect the cuts on my knees more attentively. I love the crazy tile design they installed when they renovated this bathroom two months ago, but they’re a nightmare to clean since they shred any material you glide over them—knees included.
“I think I have s-some Band-Aids in m-my purse.”
When he raises his eyes to my face, my breath catches at the full intensity of his narrowed gaze. His eyes are green but could be mistaken for blue since the limbal rings are the color of the deepest ocean.
They’re utterly hypnotic, as mesmerizing as his handsome face.
Although he seems unappreciative of my stare, it doesn’t come through in his tone when he asks, “And that is where?”
“Huh?” Excuse my daftness. I can’t recall the last time a man was this close to me and I wasn’t a shaky mess, so my bewilderment is understandable.
I don’t understand my body’s reactions. Fear should be my first emotion, but for some reason, it isn’t. It can’t be the stranger’s soul-stealing looks. I’ve been surrounded by captivating men most of my life, though none have ignited such a fierce response from my body that panic has to fight to make itself known with my gut.
The stranger bounces his eyes between mine for a few seconds before he clarifies, “Your purse.”
“Um.” My nose wrinkles as I wedge my hand between us.
I’m so entranced that I forgot I am carrying my purse.
The stranger’s lips tug as if he appreciates my daftness, before he removes my purse from my grasp. He rummages through my limited belongings like he conducts bag searches regularly before he pulls out a three-strip of Band-Aids.
“Two should cover it, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
He zips up my purse, tosses it next to the bottle of cologne, and then nudges his head to the vanity.
I dart my eyes between him, the vanity, and the Band-Aids three times before the truth hits me.
He wants me to sit on the vanity so he can tend to my wounds.
His efforts to “fix” me might appear chivalrous to others.