Page 15 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Luke

“ W hoa,” I grunt, my arms folding around Libby reflexively.

She’s naked. In my arms. And… okay, not completely naked. She’s wearing a towel. Like me.

We tilt this way and that, stumbling, wobbling, and shuffling to regain our balance. It’s an awkward dance.

“Sorry. I—” The rest of my words are swallowed by my sudden hyper-awareness of her.

“You’re in a towel,” she says, her voice high-pitched. “Why are you in a towel?”

“I was looking for clothes."

We freeze as if we don’t know what to do, as if we’ve never seen bare shoulders or feet. She’s carrying a wad of wet clothes. Her clothes.

“Let me,” I say, reaching for them.

“That’s okay.” She pulls them closer.

“I’ll toss them in the wash.”

We talk over each other in a rush of words.

We’re inches apart. I’m very aware of her, my gaze locked on those brown eyes.

Then she pushes the clothes into my arms, and I scoop them toward my chest.

But something goes horribly wrong.

The damp T-shirt on top of the heap slips. We both grab for it. Our hands touch. Our arms entangle. Which ignites a spark of something I do not want to recognize or acknowledge. Our gazes meet again. Her eyes widen with shock or awareness.

She lunges backwards.

And a cold breeze hits my backside.

It’s then that I realize she’s standing a few feet away, holding my towel.

Shock flickers and flashes between us.

I lower her cold, wet clothes to cover pertinent areas.

Slowly, I back away, down the hall, around the corner, and make a break for the laundry room. Unfortunately, I have to go through the kitchen.

“Luke Ryan Maine!” Mom screeches. “What do you think you’re doing?”