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“I like it too.” She couldn’t help letting her eyes wander then, down the long legs and back up again, past the stomach (a classic one-pack that looked delectably squishable) to the hunched shoulders and shaggy dark hair.

He looked like someone from a time before gyms were invented.

Not big or chiseled but with nice lines.

Turn him to stone and he could easily stand in an Italian grotto with a flute in his hand, dingdong on display.

Except for the glasses and farmer tan. “I’d ask if you have any other tats, but you know.

” Jean raised her chin in the direction of his nakedness.

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry.” His black brows drew together behind the Clark Kent frames, shoulders jerking as if he wanted to rub a hand over his face before he remembered why that wasn’t a good idea.

It was a remarkably handsome face. Had he not been standing there buck naked, Jean would have spent more time studying the contours of his cheekbones, the well-shaped lips and large, dark-lashed eyes.

Without the beginnings of a beard to roughen his appearance, he would almost have been too perfect.

“Let me just—” He broke off, gaze bouncing around the room before he reached for something on the desk to his right, leaving one hand in place like a five-fingered fig leaf.

Halfway there he decided to switch hands, briefly flashing Jean as a result, like an amateur magician who can’t figure out how to disappear his rabbit.

Panic turned his movements even jerkier. His outflung arm made contact with a glass of water, knocking it onto its side.

“Shoot,” he said, biting his lip in dismay as the contents dripped onto the floor.

A polite person would have excused herself to let him get dressed, but Jean had no such scruples.

The more he blushed and twitched, the more comfortable she felt.

She’d always had a thing for awkward people.

Plus, she was curious about this gawky stranger with the butt tattoo and the beautiful face who seemed so ill at ease in his expensive cottage. What turnip truck had he fallen off?

Instead of leaving, she threw a towel at him, hurling it like a Frisbee. “Think fast,” she said, as it hit him in the chest.

Rather than using it to cover himself, he crouched and started sopping up the spill.

Jean took the opportunity to get another look at the snake coiled across his hindquarters.

It was good work: sharp lines, vivid color.

She would have asked about the artist but didn’t want to fluster him even more, so she chucked another towel at his head.

“Put that on.”

More bumbling ensued. Even with her eyes averted, Jean had the impression a scarecrow in roller skates was trying to dress himself with one hand.

“Thank you,” he said when he managed to work himself upright, the towel tied around his waist.

She nodded, like it was all part of the job. You, sir, are but one of the many charmingly flustered nudists I have assisted in the wee hours of the night.

“So,” she said, now that they’d achieved a socially acceptable level of exposed flesh. “What happened?” Jean felt like a coast guard captain who’d just pulled someone from the wreckage of their kayak.

“I was out on the patio.” He rubbed his chin and jaw with one hand. (She suspected this was the gesture he’d started to make earlier; it had the look of a habitual motion.) The other hand remained at his hip, anchoring the towel. “It’s been a while since I slept indoors.”

Jean nodded at him to continue, filing that information away for later.

“And then I got up.” He hesitated, another wave of color spreading across his face. “To do something inside.”

Her theories, in no particular order: 1. Drugs; 2. Jerking off; 3. The shits. Jean was proud of herself for not asking a hotel guest if he had intestinal issues. And her friends thought she had no filter.

“I got distracted,” he continued, and this time she couldn’t help herself.

“By what?” She knew in her bones it was going to be something weirder than scrolling Instagram.

“ Journal of Herpetology ?” His voice lifted at the end, turning it into a question.

Bingo , Jean thought. This guy was a gold mine.

“You probably haven’t heard of it.” The wistful glance he shot her suggested he hoped otherwise.

She tried to let him down gently. “No, but I think I can guess. It’s a journal, and it’s about herpetology. Am I close?”

“The study of snakes. And other reptiles. If it was just snakes it would be the Journal of Ophiology .”

Jean nodded as if she’d known that all along. In her defense, the study of STDs was not a completely unreasonable guess. “ Journal of Snakeology doesn’t have the same ring. Or just SNAKES! All caps, exclamation point.”

“It’s a very reputable publication. One of the top scientific publications in the field.” Not the kind of place to give itself a funny name, in other words. She liked that he sounded apologetic rather than offended.

“Okay. So you grab your journal. Hot off the presses, a real page-turner, and…?”

“I have an article,” he admitted. “I like looking at it.”

It took Jean a few seconds to decipher the mumbled bit at the end. “In the Journal of Herpetology ?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m second author.”

“Congratulations.” She considered throwing him another towel to celebrate, like a dolphin trainer flinging fish.

The hand holding his makeshift white kilt twisted, drawing Jean’s attention to his narrow hips. “It probably seems like a small thing to you.”

Me as in the person whose job is delivering towels in the middle of the night? His sense of social hierarchy seemed to be broken. “No, I totally get it. My best friend is always trying to get articles published, so I know it’s a big deal to have a byline.”

“What’s her field?”

Rather than selling her roommate down the river by admitting that Libby’s writing career was still in its fledgling state (in the barely hatched sense), Jean kept it broad. “Human psychology.”

“Very competitive.”

“No kidding. I keep telling her to look for back doors. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes to make a space for yourself. If that’s what you really want.”

He nodded, but it looked a little sad.

“Can I see it?” she asked, to distract him from whatever thoughts were bringing him down. “The article.”

It seemed like an unnecessary clarification, considering she’d already gotten a good look at everything else, but a lot of things sounded dirty under the right circumstances.

Late at night, in a luxury vacation cottage, with a handsome man wearing only a towel, for example.

And a king-size bed clearly visible through the doorway behind him.

He glanced that way now, and Jean wondered if he was about to bust out some previously unseen moves. She tried to imagine him in seduction mode, blushing as he stammered out a hey, girl, or come here often?

“Do you really want to?” he asked, in a confidential murmur that sent a surprising shiver up her spine. Nerd flirting for the win. Maybe shyness was her kink.

Coming back into the moment, Jean realized he was looking not at the bed but the table beside it—and more specifically, the Journal of Slithery Things .

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” If they’d been acquainted for more than five minutes, he would know that about her, but Jean didn’t mind giving him the CliffsNotes version of her personality.

Another quick glance at the bedroom and then back at Jean. “It might be a little boring.”

“You haven’t bored me yet.”

“Really?” He looked like she’d given him a dozen roses. “That’s nice of you to say.”

“Nah, I’m not a sweet talker. I’ll pretty much always either straight up tell you the truth or go so far rogue that reality is a distant planet.

” She meant it to be reassuring, like pointing out a guardrail, but he looked a little spooked.

“Option A in this case,” Jean said, before quickly changing the subject.

“Speaking of your article, does it have illustrations? I did some technical drawing for a dissertation once, and I’m thinking snakes must be a lot easier to draw than horseshoe crabs.

” She paused, considering her audience. “No offense to snakes. I’m sure they’re very complex. ”

“Oh, they are.” It looked like he had plenty more to say, but he stopped himself cold.

Jean wondered who had taught him not to go off on his pet subject, as if there was something wrong with having unusual passions.

The odder the better, as far as she was concerned.

There were few things more disappointing than people who oozed through life with no intriguing quirks. No thank you, sheeple.

“I suppose I’d know more about them… if I’d read your article.” She let that sink in, softening him up. “Must be pretty cool to see your name in print. It’s probably in the table of contents and everything.”

It was an obvious cue to introduce himself, but it flew right over his head. He was in his feelings again, a sideways S taking shape between those inky brows as he studied the floor. He raised his eyes to her face, full of earnest interest. “What’s your name?”

“Jean. As in, a pair of, but singular.” She gestured at her lower body, though she was wearing the regulation white shorts, not jeans. “I could tell you it was short for Eugenia but then I’d have to kill you. Which seems like an unfortunate end to a promising friendship.”

“Oh.” He blushed at the last word, looking equal parts pleased and startled. “I’ll call you Jean then.”

“I have a name tag, but I never remember to put it on.” Leaning toward him, she lowered her voice. “Kind of like you with pants.”

More jaw rubbing, though it couldn’t hide the redness of his cheeks. Jean took a step toward the bedroom, sensing he needed a push. Otherwise, he might still be dithering when the sun came up.

“Where were we? You came inside, you started reading, and…?”

“It rained. A lot. We never get rain like that where I’m from.”

“Death Valley?”