Page 66 of All the Forbidden Things

“Upstairs, second door to the right of the landing, there’s a dryer in the en suite, it’s a good one. That’s the room I stay in, so I bought it and just leave it here.”

I nod. “Thanks, I won’t be long, I’ll just nip up and dry it,” I tell her.

“No rush,” she calls out as I head towards the stairs.

I tip my head upside down and blast it with the dryer, and five minutes later I twist it back up into a bun and wind my curly scrunchy around it. I have a lot of hair, and now that it’s dry, it’s harder to contain, but I manage to capture most of it.

“Get real, Billie Wild. It doesn’t matter how you look, he’s not into you. He likes supermodels with legs as long as your entire body.” I give myself a wink. “But . . . it doesn’t hurt to stay positive, you never know, stranger things have happened. Play it cool and unaffected.” I nod at my reflection, head out onto the landing . . . and abruptly stop in my tracks.

Max.

Shirtless.

Again.

Jeans that sit low on his hips. Abs, ink, chest, arms, abs, ink, chest and all the rest that is him walks towards me barefoot while rubbing at his dripping-wet hair with a towel held in one hand and his T-shirt in the other.

Can this man not get dressed before he leaves his bedroom?

I hope not.

He wraps the towel around the back of his neck, the ends hanging over his chest.

Nipples . . . is the word on the tip of my tongue, and that’s exactly where I wish his were. Instead, I stare at them through the ink covering his chest. One emerges through the shading of some kind of tribal design, and the other sits beneath the tail feathers of a bird of prey type creature. A mythical Firebird maybe?

“Bamm?”

I smell him just before I look up and realise he’s right in front of me. A rivulet of water runs right through the centre of his chest, past the beak of the bird inked there, and then down, down to his belly button. My eyes shamelessly follow its path.

“Bamm?” he repeats my name slowly, as if it’s a question.

When did Bamm become my name?

Huh, who the fuck am I kidding? He could call me Salad or HeeHaw, and I’d still answer. I’d rather he didn’t, but if he did, I would.

My whorey eyes slice to meet his bemused expression. He’s trimmed his beard. His jaw isn’t smooth, it’s still covered in dark stubble, but I can see his lips more clearly now. My eyes flick to the indent right in the middle of his chin, along his jaw, up to meet his gaze. Eyes, almost the colour of a bird of prey’s greet me.

“Is that a hawk or a Firebird?” I ask, tipping my chin in the direction of his ink-covered pec.

I watch as he looks down at the tattoo.

“Firebird,” he replies gruffly.

“Cool. I saw the ballet years back when I was still at school. Isn’t she supposed to be orange?”

“Possibly, but I don’t like colour in my tattoos.”

“Me neither, but I have no choice, I’m allergic.”

“Allergic?”

He moves a little closer. The only light is the muted rays of early morning sun attempting to shine through the large arched window at the end of the landing. A myriad of fragrances invades my senses: mint, something earthy mixed with a hint of citrus, and man. Hot as fuck man to be very specific.

“Nickle,” I croak. “Certain colours contain nickel, I’m allergic to nickel. I could insist on vegan ink or just avoid reds and oranges, but rather than take a chance, I just stick to black.”

He nods. He’s so close I can feel his breath float across my cheek and smell the minty freshness of it.

“What’s the one on your back?” he asks.