I glance around his place, taking in the cool white walls, cognac leather furniture, and way more glossy, green-leafed house plants than I could ever keep alive. It’s calm and lovely as ever, but no lights are on, nothing indicating we’ll be spending time out here. My curiosity is piqued. “Okay?”

“After your shower,” he says, “use the bathroom to change. If there’s anything you need from my wardrobe, say, another alma mater hoodie like the one you stole—”

“Borrowed,” I correct.

“Hmm.” He arches a severe eyebrow, but his smile gives him away. “If you need anything, tell me, and I’ll get it for you. You’re not allowed in my room, all right?”

“Why?”

Jamie turns and starts rummaging in the refrigerator. “No more questions. It’s just a little something. You’ll see soon.”

Curious but swayed by how gross I feel, I head to the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. I use his body wash and luxuriate in big Jamie-scented bubbles as I shave my legs with the razor I packed, then scrub my scalp until it tingles. Out of the shower, I brush the hell out of my teeth and change into sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and Jamie’s hoodie that I stole—I mean, borrowed—just to stick it to him.

“I’m alive!” I call as I walk down the hallway toward the open-concept kitchen and living space.

Jamie laughs. “Just how I like you. In here, still.”

When I turn the corner, I’m nearly incapacitated by the glorious sight that is Jamie Westenberg’s ass in sweatpants, tight and round, stretching the material as he crouches down and rummages through a lower cabinet. Flabbergasted, I trip over my own feet, right into the counter.

“Whoa!” Jamie spins, lunges, and somehow catches me before I fall and bust my face open.

My palms slide up his chest. It feels like the broom-closet moment, the night we met, all over again—our bodies pressed together, heat pooling low in my belly—except this time there’s no pretending, no wondering what if, only when.

His hands settle on my back, rubbing it gently. “What happened?”

I blink up at him. “You. You happened. You’re in lounge clothes.”

Jamie peers down at himself. “It’s just joggers and a sweatshirt.”

Just joggers and a sweatshirt. The absurdity of that sentence. I’ve seen what those navy-blue joggers do to his bounce-a-quarter-off-it ass, and now I see how they hug his long legs and the muscles of his thighs. His sweatshirt is a heather-gray crewneck with i my cats in bold font across the chest, perfectly pushed up to reveal his forearms. What’s worse, he’s oblivious. He has no clue how obscene this all is.

“You look so goddamn hot right now.”

He turns beet red. “Beatrice. Honestly.”