Page 61 of Crash

“He’s normally …”

“An Iceman?” I supplied, remembering the hospital whispers.

“I was going to say serious and rigid.”

“So … an Iceman.”

“I would never describe my boss in unflattering terms,” she said diplomatically. “But this softer side? It’s refreshing.” She patted my arm. “I hope you stick around, Tessa.”

Later, heading back to my room to shower, I passed that mysterious closed door again. Logic said it was probably just an office, full of confidential medical files and boring paperwork.

But something in my gut said there was more to it. And why did that only make it more intriguing?

33

TESSA

Let me clarify, I didn’t intend to wind up nearly naked, drenched, and in Blake’s arms. All I meant to do was take a shower. A simple, normal-person shower. The universe, apparently, had other plans.

What else was new?

First order of business was letting the water warm up, a task I thankfully hadn’t gotten completely nude to do. Though “thankfully” felt debatable as I stood here in my pink matching set. If only I’d left more than a bra and panties on. Like a hazmat suit.

I stepped into what had to be the most ridiculous shower I’d ever seen—less bathroom fixture, more spacecraft command center. Silver showerheads gleamed from every possible angle, floor to ceiling, like some sort of chrome polka-dot collection. Was this a shower or Blake’s attempt to re-create NASA’s mission control? And more importantly, where was the damn handle?

Squinting at the main showerhead—at least the one positioned where normal showerheads lived—I found exactly nothing helpful. No lever. No dial. Not even one of those fancy digital panels rich people love so much. I stepped out, circled theglass enclosure like a frustrated shark, then went back in. The steam from my rising blood pressure was going to fog up these pristine walls before any actual shower steam got the chance.

I couldn’t see anything visually, but figuring maybe the showerheads had some kind of an invisible switch, I began inspecting it around the perimeter. My fingertip had barely brushed the metal when an explosion hit me.

I screamed as approximately seventy thousand jets of water attacked from all directions. Up, down, in my eyes, in my crotch—places water had no business being this aggressively shot. The force knocked me back against the tile, hands flying up to protect my face as I sputtered.

“Tessa?” Blake’s voice boomed over the water’s roar.

Because this wasn’t mortifying enough.

Seriously, if there was a way to look regal while being violently assaulted by jet streams, I was for sure not pulling it off. I swatted the water like a swarm of bats. Through my waterlogged lashes, I caught a glimpse of broad shoulders, defined abs, and—thank God—dark shorts before Blake reached for something I couldn’t see. The assault suddenly ceased.

I stood there, panting, dripping, my matching set now thoroughly transparent. A fact Blake seemed very aware of, if his darkening eyes were any indication.

His chuckle started low—a rough sound I hadn’t heard since high school.

“Here.” He grabbed a fluffy towel and wrapped it around my shoulders, his fingers lingering a moment too long. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Your shower tried to murder me,” I accused, fighting a shiver as his hands rubbed warmth back into my arms through the fabric.

“It’s touch-activated.” His voice had dropped an octave, something that definitely wasn’t helping my composure.

“And apparently set to DEFCON 1.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement, and he reached past me to demonstrate the proper technique. I tried—really tried—not to notice how the water had made his shorts cling to every muscle or how droplets were trailing down his bare chest like they were living my dreams.

“You should really put a warning label on this thing,” I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “Caution: Shower may attempt assassination.”

Blake smiled an honest-to-God genuine smile, rubbing my shoulders, trying to warm me up, and as his hands moved in slow, steady strokes, I found myself leaning into his touch, craving more of that warmth. More of him.

The laughter faded from his eyes, replaced by something darker, more intense, as his movements slowed, his gaze raking over the planes of my face, sending sparks through my nerve endings. The bathroom seemed to shrink, the steam wrapping around us like a cocoon, making everything feel more intimate, more electric.

I watched, transfixed, as a droplet of water traced its way down his neck, disappearing into the hollow of his throat. My fingers itched to follow its path, to explore every inch of skin on display, and when I dragged my attention back to his face, I found him studying me with an expression that made my breath catch. Part wonder, part hunger, all heat.