Which is what I’m doing, head tipped back, arms draped over the outer edges, when I hear the back door click shut. My lids pop open, and I see Willa’s silhouette through the rising steam around me.

“Shit, sorry. I’ll leave,” she whispers, turning to go, towel wrapped around her tall frame.

A smart man would say, Yes, please leave. That’s an excellent idea.

I am not a smart man.

Instead, I blurt out, “It’s fine.” After all, I told her to make herself at home and use whatever she wanted. Truthfully, I can’t blame a person for wanting to soak out here after chasing a five-year-old all day.

“You sure? I thought you were in bed.” It’s hard to hear her because, for once, she sounds a little uncertain. It’s hard to see her too through the heated haze rising off the bubbling water. The shape of her is only highlighted by the glow from within the house, seeping through the sliding glass doors.

I should stop using the rising steam as an excuse to stare at her this hard. It’s rude. She’s in her twenties and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.

I tip my head back again and let my eyes flutter shut. “Wouldn’t say it was fine if it wasn’t, Red.”

I hear shuffling and a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, you’d tell me to beat it.”

Fuck.

She’s not trying to be forward. But the words beat it out of her mouth in that slightly hoarse voice has the air around me feeling altogether too thin.

Fabric rasps and gentle steps move toward the tub. I squeeze my eyes tighter, refusing to give in to the voice inside my head telling me to peek. To watch her climb over the edge. To see what type of bathing suit she’s wearing and if her skin is as creamy as it looked from that glimpse I could see beyond her shirt yesterday.

I ignore the flipping sensation in my stomach.

The gentle sound of water sloshing tells me she’s crawling in. Hot water laps at my chest as she settles, and suddenly sharing a hot tub with this woman who I barely know and can’t stop eye-fucking feels entirely inappropriate.

Altogether too personal.

“Ah,” she hums in pleasure.

I give in and glance across at her. Willa’s positioning mirrors mine almost perfectly. Her slender arms drape across the frame, and her face is tipped up to the navy-blue sky. My gaze snags on the exposed column of her throat. The elegant length of it. The way it’s positioned, open for the taking. The way it moves when she swallows.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs without moving her head to address me.