He gave me a look in the mirror, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, Beverly. That was my master plan. Destroy your wardrobe one load at a time. I’ve been plotting it for weeks.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I muttered under my breath.

He spit out the toothpaste, wiped his mouth, and turned toward me again. “You seem awfully focused on my laundry skills, B. You sure that’s why you’re still standing here?”

“Yes. That’s exactly why I’m still standing here.”

He stepped closer. I took one very necessary step back.

But he didn’t stop. He kept coming. Not in a threatening way—in an infuriating way. In a Blake way.

My back met the wall with a soft thud.

I sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly painfully aware of how close he was. There was nowhere safe to look. Not at his chest, not at the lines of his stomach, or the ridiculous way his towel dipped lower every time he shifted his weight.

I forced my gaze up, up, up—but even his eyes were a trap.

His gaze dropped, just enough to make me very aware that I was not wearing a bra under this tank top.

I willed myself not to look flustered.

Blake looked back up and tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering over my face. “If I wanted to make you lose your mind, B, laundry would be the last thing on my list.”

I refused to react. Refused to let my pulse give me away. Refused to let the heat creeping up my neck reach my face.

I straightened my shoulders, forced my breathing to even out, and gave him the flattest look I could muster.

“You already do that just by existing.”

“I’m flattered,” he murmured.

“Yeah? Well, I hate you.” I hated him, I hated pink, and I hated that I had no idea where to put my eyes anymore.

He made a soft tsk sound, as if I was some slow-learning child he was growing fond of. “You keep saying that, Beverly, but you don’t look like you hate me.”

I opened my mouth, then immediately closed it.

“Say it again.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Say you hate me.”

“I hate you,” I repeated, slower this time.

Blake smiled then—a small, crooked thing, like he’d just won a game I hadn’t known we were playing. “And pink,” he said softly. “Don’t forget pink.”

“I hate pink,” I gritted out.

His smirk deepened. “Your ears are pink right now.”

“You—” Words failed me, and I pressed harder against the wall, as if that would somehow create more space between us.

Blake opened his mouth—probably to say something cocky, something infuriating—but before he could, I shoved my ruined shirt against his bare chest, pushing him back just enough to sidestep him. “I’ll be in the car,” I muttered. “You’re paying.”

“Hey, B?”