So maybe I’m going to go ballistic. Or feral. Or both. I remember picturing May in my house, in my room, fitting right in like our lives were made for one another. I think the sight of her, cheeks flushed, water dripping down her temple and jaw, her curly hair soaked, and nothing at all on her person except for her matching lavender bath towel, might do me in.

I blink a couple times. Remind myself this situation is not about May’s long, tanned legs, still glistening with water. Or the gentle curves that the towel does a poor job of concealing. It’s not an easy reminder to give myself. My rational mind is checked out. I’m definitely not thinking with my brain when I rewind back to last night, to the way May’s skin felt flush against mine, her nails digging into my back …

‘My hair towel,’ May says, a slightly concerned look on her stunning face.

‘Huh?’

‘Did you find it?’

‘Um – let me see.’ Towel. You’re on a mission, damn it, Colt. I turn myself cleverly towards the linen closet so she can’t see the evidence of her immediate effect on me. At this point, I’m practically begging my dick to leave this conversation as soon as possible so I can save some semblance of face. I shove yet another stack of washcloths to the side, and fortunately, there it is. The towel turban.

She sticks out a hand, and I cough, looking away as I push the thing in her general direction.

‘Thank you,’ she grumbles. She promptly disappears into the bathroom and slams the door closed.

Way to make things harder, May.

I hit the bathroom the moment it’s free, brush my teeth, and take what might be the most thorough shower I have in a while. Suddenly I’m self-conscious. Do I smell like lax bro? Does May think I smell like lax bro? I’m not sure, but all the Dove soap I’m using had better do the trick.

Tugging on my jeans and T-shirt for the day, I thunder back downstairs. May’s backpack is slumped against the leg of the dining-table chair she sits at, half-eaten pancakes in front of her as she chews, humming a happy little moan, closing her eyes for just a moment to savour it. ‘Colt, what did your mom put in these?’ She waves her fork my way.

I’m a bit busy trying to distract myself from May’s happy little moan as it strikes me that it’s pretty similar to some of the blissful sounds I had the pleasure of hearing back in the bed of my truck, but the mention of my mom snaps me out of it a little too well. ‘Oh. Uh, it’s her signature biscuit mix pancakes. She uses Bisquick. Nothin’ to it.’

‘No way.’

‘Yes, way.’