Page 5 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

“Better?” he asked, that amused half smile playing on his lips while his eyes conveyed something far more dangerous than amusement.

“Less naked,” I agreed, then winced at my own words. Smooth, Eli. Real smooth. “I mean—yes. Better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome…” He paused, clearly waiting for my name.

“Eli,” I supplied. “Eli Harper. Tricia and Thomas’ son.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “The groundskeeper and housekeeper’s son? I didn’t know they had a son.”

“Adopted,” I clarified, suddenly self-conscious about the difference between my platinum-blond hair and my parents’ darker coloring. It was like having a neon sign above my head flashing NOT BIOLOGICALLY RELATED in case anyone missed the obvious. “About nine years ago, when I was twelve.”

He nodded, processing this information with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Well, Eli Harper, this is certainly an unexpected welcome home.”

“Not exactly how I planned our first meeting,” I admitted, then immediately wanted to kick myself. Way to sound like a stalker, Harper. Why don’t you just confess about the shrine in your bedroom while you’re at it?

“You planned our meeting?” he asked, amusement deepening.

“No! I mean—not planned, exactly. Just… imagined. Generally. With more clothes and less water and definitely not in your bathroom.” I was babbling again, words tumbling out like I was being paid by the syllable. “I should really stop talking now.”

He laughed—a rich, genuine sound that transformed his face from movie-star handsome to breathtakingly human. “Please don’t,” he said, stepping slightly closer. “This is the most entertaining homecoming I’ve had in years. Usually, I just get fruit baskets and awkward small talk.”

I couldn’t help but smile back, some of my mortification easing in the face of his good humor. “Glad I could provide the entertainment. Though I usually charge for my comedy routines.”

“Put it on my tab,” he suggested, making absolutely no move to cover himself.

His stance widened slightly, a subtle but unmistakable display.

“Though I should warn you, I’m very thorough about paying my debts.

” The double entendre hung in the air between us, thick as the steam.

“Now, as much as I’m enjoying this unexpected meet-cute, I should probably shower and get dressed before someone comes looking for either of us.

Unless…” He let the invitation linger, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Right. Yes. Shower. Clothes. Good idea.” I backed toward the door, nearly tripping over the forgotten mop. At this rate, I’d break my neck before I made it out of this bathroom. “I’ll just… go. And let you… not be naked. I mean, get dressed. In private. Which is what normal people do.”

“Normal people are overrated,” he countered, his voice a silky caress. “And they rarely have stories worth telling.”

“As opposed to me, who apparently gives impromptu shower performances for Hollywood stars,” I clarified, edging toward the door. “I’m really sorry about the mess. I’ll come back later to clean up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I think you’ve done enough cleaning for one day.”

I nodded, desperate to escape before I could embarrass myself further. “Right. Well. Welcome home. To your home. Not my home. I mean, I live here, but not here-here. In the cottage. Which is technically your property. Or your family’s. I’m going to stop talking now.”

His laugh followed me as I turned and fled—there was no other word for my strategic retreat—toward the door, my face burning and my heart racing like I’d just run a marathon. While being chased by wolves. Uphill. In the snow.

Jace Carmichael was here. He’d seen me at my absolute worst—half-naked, dripping wet, babbling like an idiot—and he’d laughed. Not at me, but with me. He’d caught me when I fell. Given me his shirt.

And he’d been completely, gloriously naked the entire time, showing not a hint of self-consciousness while I’d been ready to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

I was so, so screwed. And not in the fun way that involves less clothing and more bed.

I made it halfway down the hall before my brain decided to function again. The cleaning supplies. I’d left them all in the shower. The very shower Jace would want to use after his long drive.

“Damn it,” I muttered, hesitating. I could just leave them.

It wasn’t like Jace Carmichael had never seen a bottle of cleaning solution before.

But my professional pride, and my mother’s voice in my head, wouldn’t let me abandon my job half-finished.

Mom had instilled in me a work ethic that would make drill sergeants weep with pride.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and turned back. I’d just knock politely, explain the situation, grab my supplies, and leave. Simple. Professional. No problem. Just a normal human interaction that absolutely wouldn’t end with me making a complete fool of myself again.

I tapped lightly on the suite door. No answer. I knocked again, slightly louder. Still nothing. Either he was ignoring me (understandable), or he couldn’t hear me (more likely).

“Jace?” I called through the door. “It’s Eli again. Sorry to bother you, but I left my cleaning supplies in the shower.”

Silence. Great. He was probably already in the bathroom and couldn’t hear me. I’d have to come back later when he was fully clothed and I’d regained at least a shred of my dignity. So, sometime next century, then.

Just as I turned to leave, I heard the faint sound of running water. The shower. Of course he was already in the shower. I should definitely leave and come back later. That would be the rational, sensible thing to do.

Instead, my hand reached for the doorknob, apparently operating independently from my brain. The door wasn’t locked. Because why would a celebrity bother locking their door in their own home? It’s not like some weird staff member might walk in on them naked. Oh, wait.

“Jace?” I called, stepping hesitantly into the suite. “I’m just going to grab my cleaning stuff real quick. Sorry to interrupt.”

The bathroom door was partially open, steam billowing out like a special effect in a music video. I could hear the shower running at full blast. I should leave the supplies. I should definitely, absolutely leave the supplies and run away as fast as my legs could carry me.

“I’ll just grab my things and go,” I announced, louder this time, as I approached the bathroom. “Not looking, just grabbing.”

I pushed the door open wider, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor like it contained the secrets of the universe. The steam was thick, carrying the scent of expensive soap and shampoo. I risked a glance toward the shower, just to locate my supplies. That was all. Just a quick, professional glance.

The glass enclosure was fogged, but not enough to completely obscure the figure inside. Water cascaded over Jace’s body, running in rivulets down his back, over the curve of his—

I jerked my gaze away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, scanning the shower floor for my cleaning caddy. It wasn’t there. Neither was the mop or any of my supplies. They had vanished like my dignity and self-control.

“Looking for me?” Jace’s voice came from inside the shower, amused and echoing slightly.

I looked up reflexively, because apparently I’m a masochist who enjoys torturing myself.

He had pushed open the glass door and was standing there, water streaming down his body, one hand braced against the doorframe in a pose that belonged on the cover of Wet Hollywood Gods Monthly.

My cleaning supplies were nowhere in sight.

“I, uh—” My mouth went dry. Desert dry. Sahara during a drought dry. “The cleaning supplies?”

“I moved them,” he said, that half smile playing on his lips again. “Didn’t want them getting wet. Again.”

“Right. Smart. Good thinking.” I was babbling again, my eyes desperately trying to find somewhere safe to land. The ceiling? Too obvious. The floor? Too submissive. The wall? Boring. His face? Dangerous. Anywhere else? Fatal. “Where did you put them?”

“Under the sink,” he replied, making absolutely no move to close the shower door or cover himself. “Or… you could join me instead. The water pressure is excellent. Your cleaning job was very thorough.”

All I could think about was minutes ago, how it felt to be pressed against all that muscle and heat, how my body had basically thrown a parade when he touched me.

Even now, with several feet of bathroom tile between us, that same scent hit me like a truck—sandalwood and cedar and pure, concentrated bad decisions.

My pulse went haywire, and some traitorous part of me actually whined—literally whined—at the distance between us.

Like I was a puppy being denied treats. Except the treat was six-foot-something of naked movie star, and what the hell, brain? We are NOT doing this right now.

I tried not to stare at the water running down his body, following trails I’d felt against my skin just moments before when he caught me. I failed miserably. My throat went desert dry, and I had to physically stop myself from doing that weird neck-baring thing again.

My brain short-circuited like someone had poured coffee on a laptop. Smoke practically billowed from my ears as I tried to process what I’d just heard. “Join—? I— What—?”

He laughed, the sound bouncing off the marble walls. “Your face right now is priceless.”

His eyes flashed again—that impossible gold color briefly overtaking the blue—and my body was responding to him in ways I didn’t understand, like it recognized something about him that my conscious mind couldn’t perceive. It was unsettling yet somehow… right?

“I’m just— I wanted to finish… the shower—” I stammered, then realized how that sounded. “Cleaning! Finish cleaning the shower!”

“It’s perfectly clean,” he assured me, running a hand through his wet hair in a gesture that should be illegal. “But if you’re concerned about your professional reputation, feel free to inspect it. From inside, perhaps?”

Was Jace Carmichael, Hollywood star and literal Greek god made flesh, actually flirting with me?

No. Impossible. This was just how obscenely attractive people interacted with the world—with easy confidence and casual invitations they never expected anyone to take seriously.

Like when gorgeous people say “we should totally get coffee sometime” and never mean it.

Except he was naked and wet and looking at me like I was dessert.

“I think I’ll pass,” I managed, finally locating my voice somewhere in the vicinity of my kneecaps. “But thanks for the offer. Very… hospitable of you.”

“Hospitality is a Carmichael family value,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent as water cascaded down the ridges of his abs. “The offer stands. For the shower or…” His gaze flickered to my lips. “…anything else you might need. Anytime.”

I backed toward the door, my face burning hotter than the steam around us. If my cheeks got any warmer, the fire sprinklers would activate. “I’ll just… get those supplies later. Enjoy your shower. Not that you need my permission. It’s your shower. I’ll stop talking now.”

His laugh followed me out the door again, rich and genuine.

I didn’t stop moving until I was all the way down the hall, around the corner, and safely hidden in a linen closet, where I pressed my forehead against a stack of freshly laundered towels and tried to remember how to breathe.

In, out. In, out. See? Easy. Just like riding a bike, except the bike was your lungs and you’ve forgotten how to use them.

I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.

One minute I’m cleaning a shower, the next I’m having some weird primal reaction to Jace freaking Carmichael like I’m in some bizarre nature documentary.

“And here we see the awkward graphic design student, exposing his throat to the alpha in a display of submission.” Absolutely not.

That’s not me. I don’t do submission. I do sarcasm and avoiding eye contact and occasionally stress eating an entire pint of ice cream.

Even with a wall between us, I could still smell him, that stupidly perfect scent that was probably going to ruin all other smells for me forever.

Great. Add “can’t enjoy normal scents anymore” to my growing list of problems. And why did I suddenly feel like I’d lost something important?

Like I’d walked away from something essential?

Probably just my dignity. Or my sanity. Both seemed equally likely at this point.

And what the hell had just happened? Had Jace Carmichael actually invited me to shower with him?

As a joke, obviously. It had to be a joke.

Men like him didn’t seriously proposition people like me.

That would be like a lion asking a mouse on a date.

Or a star inviting a telescope to dinner. Or a—okay, I’m out of metaphors, but…

Did they?

I looked down at myself, still wearing his oversized t-shirt, my jeans still damp and uncomfortable. The shirt smelled like him—expensive cologne with undertones of something uniquely Jace. Something I’d probably be able to identify in my sleep for the rest of my life.

One thing was certain: my carefully cultivated celebrity crush had just gotten a lot more complicated. Like, advanced calculus complicated. Quantum physics complicated. “Explaining to my therapist why I’m having panic attacks” complicated.

And I still didn’t have my damn cleaning supplies.