She climbed the stairs, the pictures along the wall mere blurs. She barely glanced down the hallway as she reached the second floor—beige walls with a lilac-print wallpaper border at the top—before opening the first door at the top of the stairs.

Humid warmth gushed around her as she hurried in and closed the door behind her, locked it, and leaned over the sink, hanging her head. “What am I doing here?”

“I really have no idea.”

At the sound of the voice behind her, baritone and rich, she shrieked. And then squealed again at the reflection in the mirror over the sink—a head. A head belonging to a man. Poking out from the shower curtain. Oh my goodness. Oh no, oh no . . .

The steam in the room. The droplets on the mirror. The pile of clothes on the floor.

Oh NO.

She whirled around. “I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t realize anyone. . . the door wasn’t locked.”

The grimace didn’t leave his bearded face, but his eyebrows lowered a good half-centimeter. Dark, wet hair dripped around his face. “Lock doesn’t always work. The knob’s old and fussy.”

“I didn’t hear any water . . .” He must’ve turned off the shower just before she’d barreled in. And she hadn’t noticed the light on. Hadn’t noticed the smell curling around her now—some masculine sort of soap or something. Hadn’t noticed . . .

Anything. She’d been too distraught. “I’ll just, um, leave.”

“Probably a good idea.” The man’s jaw twitched and for all of one second, it seemed like he might be on the brink of smiling. But just as quickly, the lightness seeped from his expression and he nudged his head toward the door.

Right. She spun, but her foot caught on a discarded plaid shirt. And great, there was his face in the mirror again. Another twitch and maybe even a twinkle in eyes that were, whoa, so blue-gray they might even rival that ocean view and—

Syd, get out.

She shuffled to the door and yanked on the knob. But it didn’t turn. She twisted it again. Oh, of course, she’d locked it. But didn’t the man in the shower say the lock didn’t work? She turned the lock, tried the knob—

“Told you it’s fussy.”

His voice again, not only deep but tinged with a slight accent. Scottish? And then, wait, was that the rustle of the shower curtain?

She turned in time to see one manly foot landing on the bathmat. She slapped her palm over her eyes. “You’re not getting out, are you? You can’t . . . not with me still . . . and you . . . I don’t want to see—”

Was that a grumble or a laugh? “Relax, you’re not going to see anything.”

Yes, definitely Scottish. Her closed eyes didn’t stop her from hearing his feet slap over the tile floor. Even if she hadn’t heard him approach, she’d feel his warmth as he neared. She opened one eye and peeked through her hand. Good grief. She was locked in a bathroom with a man wearing only a towel.