He had a point. Fancy engagement parties in their world could go all night as people stopped by before dinner plans, after dinner plans, and so on.

“Besides,” he called, disappearing back into the bathroom, “this party’s really more about my mother than it is us.”

“At least you’re admitting it,” she replied, pulling the foil off the top of the bottle.

“I never denied it.”

“Well, I thought it might be at least a little bit about Elizabeth,” she said, keeping her voice casual as she attempted to twist the cork off the champagne, but it remained stubbornly put. And Clarke remained stubbornly silent.

She gave the cork a few more twists before deciding it needed bigger hands and more muscle. Audrey took it into the bathroom, coming up short at the sight of a bare-chested Clarke. After taking a quick shower, he’d pulled on his suit pants but was apparently waiting until he finished shaving before putting on a shirt.

She swallowed, feeling strangely flustered.

Audrey had seen Clarke shirtless plenty of times over the years. Hot tubs, swimming pools, the beach, on a boat. But this felt decidedly different. His hair was wet, the bathroom was still steamy from his shower, and the gentle scraping sound of his razor against his jaw was surprisingly intimate.

He glanced over at her questioningly, then seeing the champagne bottle in her hand, jerked his chin in acknowledgment. With one last swipe of the razor, he set it aside and rinsed the shaving cream from his face.

Clarke grabbed a hand towel off the sink to dry his face and extended his other hand for the champagne bottle. “Hoping to get a look at the goods before you purchase?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s very wifely. You creeping on me in the bathroom.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m here for the champagne, not your six-pack.”

And it was definitely a six-pack.

She narrowed her eyes and gave his upper body a scrutinizing look. “Either you’re suspiciously hairless or you wax your chest.”

“The latter,” he said, wrapping one hand around the champagne bottle, the other around the cork. “Women seem to prefer it.” He twisted the top off with a confident pop.

“Plus, nothing to block your view of your chest muscles when you preen,” she pointed out.

He grinned and handed her the bottle. “True. Why, you prefer your guys hairy?”

“Well, not when you put it that way,” she said with a wince. “But I do usually prefer man over pretty boy.”

He gave a sad shake of his head. “Damn. Our marriage is off to a rough start.”

“Chest hair is our first irreconcilable difference,” she agreed, retreating to the bedroom to pour two glasses of champagne. Well, actually, a half glass for herself. She was already one glass in, and she wanted to keep her head clear.