He smiles at me then—a full, real smile. His first in my presence, I think, and it makes breathing that much harder, the temperature of the room that much hotter. How—why is he so handsome? I stare at him, speechless, unable to do anything but notice the clear brown of his eyes, the lopsided way his lips stretch, the fact that he seems to be studying me with a warm, kind expression, and—

Our eyes dart to his phone. Which is ringing again.

“Work?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.

“No. It’s . . .” He stands from the table and clears his throat. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

As he walks out, I hear him chuckle. On the other side of the phone, a female voice is saying his name.

Six

Four months ago

I take a careful step out of the shower, letting my toes dig deep into the thick, soft mat. It turns out to be a lethally poor choice, because I do it in the same exact moment Liam opens the bathroom door to take a step inside.

It leads to me jumping. And flailing. And yelling:

“Aaaaaaaaah!”

“Mara? What—”

“Aaah!”

“Sorry—I didn’t—”

My entire body is slippery and frantic—not a good combination. I almost lose my balance trying to wrap the shower curtain around me. Then I do lose my balance, and I’m positive Liam can see everything.

The outie belly button Hannah always teases me about.

The sickle-shaped lacrosse scar above my right boob.

Said right boob, and the left one.

For a fraction of a second we both stand motionless. Staring at each other. Unable to react. Then I say, “Can you—could you, um, hand me that towel over there?”

“Ah—sure. Here you go. I . . .”

He extends his arm and turns the other way while I wrap the towel (his towel; Liam’s towel) around myself. It’s fluffy and clean and it smells good and—who uses black towels, anyway? Who produces them? Where does he even buy them, Bloodbath and Beyond?

“Mara?” He is standing under the doorframe, pointedly looking away from me.

“Yes?”

“Why are you in my bathroom?”

Crap. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. My shower isn’t working, and . . . I think there’s something wrong with a pipe, and . . . I don’t know, but I called Bob.”

“Bob?”

“The plumber. Well, a plumber. He’s coming out tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.”

“But I went for a run earlier, and I was all sweaty and smelly, so . . .”

“I see.”

“Sorry. I should have asked before. You can turn now, by the way. I’m decent.”

Liam does turn. But only after about ten seconds of what looks like a pretty intense internal debate. His expressions are never the easiest to read, but he seems a little flustered.

A lot, actually. As in, even more than I am.

Which is odd. I’m the one who got boobsposed, and Liam is probably very used to being with naked women. That is, actually naked women. Way more naked than I currently am. Let’s be real—his ex is likely a Victoria’s Secret Angel who recently quit modeling to finish a doctorate in art history and become a junior curator at the Smithsonian. She has an impeccable belly button and knows what PlayStation button to press to throw a grenade. Did I say his ex? They’re still dating, for all I know. Having a very athletic sex life. I’m talking role play and toys. Butt action. Lots of oral, which they both excel at. Okay, this train of thought needs to crash right now.