Unconditional

Right?

The bathroom door is ajar and I push it open without thinking, stepping inside the small space to—

Holy hell!

My heart stops. Garrett is right in front of me. Getting out of the shower.

Naked.

All the way naked.

I freeze, my mouth dropping open in a silent shriek of shock. He’s dripping wet, his hair damp against his scalp, water running in sexy rivulets down the ridges and curves of his na**d body, gleaming in the morning light.

“What the—?” Garrett startles and grabs for a towel, his eyes flaring. “Jesus, woman, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“The door was open!” I yelp, reeling back into the hall. He wraps the towel around his waist, but the image of his nakedness is emblazoned on my memory now, the droplets trickling down over his muscular chest, along the furrowed line between his bulging abs, along to the jut of his hipbone and then…

My cheeks flush.

Oh my.

I spin around, hiding my blush as I hear Garrett chuckling behind me. My heart races, skin burning with embarrassment.

“You’re a lucky lady.” Garrett winks at me as he passes. “Usually, I charge for the floor seats.”

I blush even harder. “I didn’t see anything!” I protest, wishing the ground would split open and swallow me up.

“Sure you didn’t.” Garrett heads to his room, and in the bright sunlight, I see a web of tattoos spanning across the back of his shoulder. An intricate design with initials I can’t make out. “Good thing I used all the hot water,” he calls back to me, laughing. “You could use some cooling off!”

He’s right.

I would never give him the satisfaction, but I need ten minutes under the icy water before I feel back in control of my treacherous body. I tell myself it’s just an automatic response. Pheromones, chemical compounds playing havoc with my senses. If you put a sticky glazed donut in front of me, I’d feel hungry, and this is no difference. Hell, any woman would be getting hot and bothered after a glimpse of that dripping, wet physique.

But still…

I hate how he makes my pulse race, a skittering rhythm in my chest. I hate that he reminds me how long it’s been since I felt this way—even a fraction of this lust, this attraction; how most of the time, these days, I don’t feel much of anything at all.

But more than all of that, I hate the creeping suspicion that my attraction is more than just physical, that something about him is magnetic, a wordless connection I can’t even understand.

You’re just looking for a distraction. You’ve got bigger things to worry about, remember?

The memory of what I’m doing here is more sobering than any icy jets. I quickly rinse off and wrap myself up in a bathrobe, cautiously heading downstairs again. Garrett is out on the back porch, and part of me wants to just bolt for the car: throw myself in the driver’s seat and never look back. But I’m here, and we’re both adults, so I grab some clothes from my suitcase and change in the closet, pulling on a pair of jeans and a crisp Oxford shirt. I go get myself a cup of coffee from the fresh pot in the kitchen, then take a deep breath and step outside.

Garrett is alone, leaning out over the porch railings and holding a mug of coffee. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing a faded old pair of Levis—and nothing else.

I catch my breath. The line of his back is perfect, like it’s been sculpted from a block of solid marble. I take in the curve of muscles under his tanned skin and I feel my cheeks heat again. Damn it, what is it with this guy and public nudity?

He nods in my direction, but doesn’t say a word.

“Your sweetheart didn’t stay for breakfast?” I ask, trying to stay cool. “What a surprise.”

“Nope.” Garrett turns, smirking. “I have a chute that runs right from my bedroom window. I just chuck ’em in there when I’m done and whoosh, off my hands.”

I roll my eyes. He’s being an ass about it. Good. That’ll make it easier for me to stay focused. I wander over to the railings, keeping a safe distance between us. “Do you have some kind of grudge against shirts?” I ask pertly, “Or do you just wander around na**d all the time?”

Garrett lets out a chuckle. “You got a problem with man’s natural state?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “’Cause I don’t usually get any complaints.”

“That’s because you’re hanging out with girls like Laura,” I tell him dismissively, remembering the party girl from last night. Smudged makeup, breathy voice? Real discerning. “But trust me, where I come from, it’s considered polite to put some clothes on when you’re entertaining company.”

“Be sure to let me know when Martha Stewart drops by,” he replies, looking amused. “And maybe I’ll find a shirt. Hold up.” Garrett pauses, pretending to think. “Does a vest qualify? Because otherwise I might need to take a trip to the store.”

He’s winding me up, I know he is, but I still can’t help the surge of frustration that races through me, my blood boiling under his gaze. Garrett’s eyes drift lower, over my body, and I realize with a rush that he’s checking me out.

“Do you mind?” I yelp, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Not at all.” Garrett shrugs, totally unconcerned. “Just returning the favor. I seem to remember you couldn’t keep your eyes off me before…”

“That’s not true!” I protest, flushing bright red.