He’s kept his word about no faces since Paris. I’ve seen his shin so he could prove he ran into a bike rack because I distracted him. He caught his fingers a few times other than at the café, dragging them through wet paint at an interactive exhibit, thumbing through a guestbook spanning fifty years. The faceless reflection of him that shows up any time he calls.

My lashes flutter closed. I breathe. Without giving myself time to overthink, I sit up. The view I give him cascades down from the branches above to the rest of the commons until it lands on the green plaid of my skirt.

“Now…” He raises his phone, revealing more of his leg, more bench, more boot.

“You saw the skirt,” I tell him.

“Not enough. I want to see you.”

I am so screwed when it comes to him. I can’t even fight it right now.

I lift my phone higher, exposing from the top of my skirt where my white shirt tucks in all the way to the few inches of skin below the hem before the rest of my legs disappear over the table’s edge.

Foster’s silent long enough, I almost move the camera from feeling self-conscious over two inches of me. But then he audibly sighs. “Fuck, this was a bad idea,” he whispers.

“Agreed. It’s never happening again.” I leave the phone in place, though.

“I never want it to, Remi.” Foster not only meets my lie; he adds another one. “I have no desire to see every goddamn inch of you.”

* * *

Only my maroon-painted toes breach the surface of the pink rose-scented water. I wait until the rest stills around me in the tub, the surface glassy smooth and iridescent. After a final check that nothing else shows, I send the picture and then instantly close my eyes to hide from the guy more than an ocean away. Even after my phone vibrates, it takes me a moment to look at Foster’s message.

I might have a newly discovered fetish for toes. Unrelated to your text obviously.

I smile and sink deeper into the water, about to put my phone on the ledge when he sends another.

Touching, licking, sucking. In case you wondered about my urges.

…biting.

I regret everything. Stop talking.

Not talking. I’m seducing. And why would I stop when you’re naked for me?

Putting my phone face down on the ledge, I slide all the way into the water. I have to before I text my way into Foster’s metaphorical bed. He’s infected me. Ever since last week and the leaves and the two inches of skin, he’s spread through my system like a fever, consuming my thoughts and smoldering in my veins. Every word from him, every pause and sigh intensify the heat.