Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
It’s uncontrolled chaos for several moments as she gets louder and louder, and my body fights to make sense of what’s happening. My defenses are alert, and my grasp on reality is shaken.
Is that… Could that be Katy Dayton…naked?
No fucking way.
Her hair is wet and soapy, and her body is covered in a sheen of water as the showerhead continues to spray toward her.
I mean, it really looks like her…but how?
She turns and whips her arms across her chest, and her forehead creases in the center with uncontrolled disgruntlement. It’s a look I know well from experience and one I can’t mistake when it comes to her. She’s the only woman I know who can make a stink eye look downright beautiful.
Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, it’s her. And she is, in fact, naked.
Holy shit. My eyes are bugging harder than a ’90s cartoon character.
“Why are you in here?!” she screams again, and the shrill volume is enough to yank me out of my dazed state of mind.
I turn around as quickly as I can, but I have to admit that the vision of her bare—perky and perfect—right breast will likely be burned into my brain forever. If it weren’t for the tile half-wall on the bottom of the ornate shower blocking my view of the lower half of her body, I might be dead right now, in all honesty.
Sure, she’s freaking out now, but I have a feeling she’d be freaking out even more if she suddenly had a corpse to deal with.
“Katy, it’s okay. It’s okay. Calm down, it’s me. Mack. Mack Houston,” I ramble, my back still to her, and I hold my hands up above my shoulders in some sort of weird message of innocence.
“Mack?!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, louder than she did when she reacted like I was an ax-murdering intruder.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“What in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks are you doing here?”
I almost laugh over the fact that she can’t even curse under these circumstances. Always proper and professional, that’s Katy Dayton for you.
“I’m—”
“You know what?” She cuts me off before I can explain. “Never mind. Just get out. Get out. Get out!”
I throw a thumbs-up over my shoulder. “Getting out right now. I swear. You come find me when you’re done, and we’ll sort this out.”
“Get out!” she shrieks again, making my feet fall into a jog all on their own. I grab the edge of the bathroom door and swing it closed behind me as swiftly as I can but stop there before going any farther.
My coworker. Katy Dayton. Naked. In the bathroom of my vacation rental.
Man oh man, I’m betting she hates me even more now.
I swig the wine and head to the kitchen to finish off the rest of the bottle. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need the lubrication for the ass-fucking she’s going to give me over this one.
Katy
Mack Houston is here?! In my freaking rental?!
What kind of fresh hell of a nightmare am I living in right now?
And come find him when I’m done? Why is that even a thing when I’m over one thousand miles away from home on a vacation that was only supposed to include me and Anna before she had to bail for fluish reasons?
Not to mention, he saw me naked. Not completely naked, I hope, but considering we’re coworkers and he’s also the bane of my existence, he definitely saw far too much of me.
Lord help me.
This whole situation is a mental mindfuck, and I can’t keep myself in the shower long enough to wash the soap out of my hair. I need to figure out why in the hell he’s here, and I need to do it right now.
Frantic, I jump out of the shower, and shampoo drips from my hair and onto my forehead. My feet miss the mat in front of the glass door completely, and I play slip-and-slide on the tile.
“Owww, shit,” I yelp, my knee hitting the hard surface and slowing my descent into the buck-ass splits. If the Dallas Cowboys went pornographic, this move would be right on brand.
“Frackkk,” I groan, twisting my hip and squirming on the floor to get my feet back under me. My skin is wet and aggressive against the tile, and my hair smacks me in the eye and deposits shampoo. “Gah!”
All thanks to adrenaline, I’m a one-woman vaudevillian act of disaster.
I use one palm to put pressure on my lava-filled eye and the other hand to pull myself up off the floor. Once I yank a towel off the bar, I wrap it around myself haphazardly and use a corner of it to wipe off my face.
My dripping hair is officially cutting a river through this condo like the Colorado through the Grand Canyon, but I don’t care. As long as my tits and bits are covered, figuring out how in the hell Mack Houston ended up in my vacation rental with me seems like the priority.