Page 8 of Personal Foul

“Good.” She dips her head back and then turns around under the water. “Switch.”

I move as she asks, and she grabs her soap and puff and starts soaping herself up. Acting almost as if I’m not even here. As if she doesn’t care. And I don’t like that one fucking bit.

“Whydoyou have photos like that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Doesn’t really seem like you. And to my knowledge, you don’t have a boyfriend you’re taking them for.”

“You don’t know me, Easton.”

“I know enough.”

She gives me a dismissive glance and then runs her hands down her thigh, bending to get to her knee and calf. The humidity in the shower is fogging the glass and surrounding me with the scent of her peach bodywash.

“You have a double life? Secretly a cam girl on the side?” I prod her as she goes for the other leg.

“Yes, that’s it, Easton. You’ve caught me out. I’m secretly a cam girl. Making loads of money. I just sling beer at a bar on the side for funsies.”

“I mean you’re doing a pretty good impression of one right now.”

“I’m taking a shower.” She gives me an annoyed look.

“While I watch you.”

“Then don’t watch.”

I let out a choked laugh. “Princess, I’m already making a mental fucking recording of all of this.”

She flashes me a look and then returns to soaping herself up.

“Are you always this crude?”

“No, but you said no charm.”

“Those are my options? There’s no middle ground?”

“No, Goldilocks, there’s no middle ground.”

She flips me the bird as she reaches around to soap up her back.

“You want help?”

Her eyes flutter up to mine, and I can tell she’s thinking about it. Can tell that she wants me to and that she might even let me. But a second later she looks away.

“I’ve got it.”

And I resist the impulse to fight her on it. Too worried I’ll say the wrong fucking thing because as much as I’m not kidding about the charm being off tonight—I’m too drunk, too angry, too tired to fucking try—I don’t want to completely fuck this up.

Instead, I just keep watching her as she lathers her hair up with her shampoo, running her fingers over her scalp as she works the bubbles. And I wonder if she knows about my voyeuristic tendencies and is playing this all out on purpose, or if this is just a happy coincidence. My guess is the latter because I doubt she cares enough to pander to me.

“What?” she gripes as she looks up at me again.

“Just enjoying the view.”

“Don’t make me regret pitying you.” She gives me a little dark glare.

“Is that what this is? A pity show?”