The Last Eligible Billionaire(9)

I shoot a glance at the mirrors. I can’t reach the closet to look for more towels without crossing in front of the door, and without my entire naked body reflecting into the bedroom, where my unexpected host is apparently waiting for me, and the idea of knowingly being naked in front of him makes me squirm. “He can open doors,” I call. “Do you mind waiting downstairs? And possibly tossing in a couple towels on your way out?”

No answer.

“Hayes?” I call.

Still no answer.

“Um, Mr. Rutherford?”

When he doesn’t answer once more, I decide he’s already gone.

If he’s not, it’s his own fault if he gets a show.

“I’m naked and walking to the closet for a towel,” I call just in case. He’s already gotten an eyeful of me. Not like this could get much worse.

Still, when I step out of the shower, the cool air around me making my skin pucker, I dart as quickly as I can toward the closet and the rack of extra towels.

“Good god,” that male voice yelps in the other room, startling me just enough that I turn, and that’s when I realize my mistake.

Porcelain tile floors and wet feet do not mix.

My right foot goes sliding one way. My left foot the opposite. I windmill my arms, bang one on a doorframe while the other catches the vanity countertop, and I manage to stop myself, legs spreadeagle, beaver still only half-waxed, hair dripping behind me, before I slowly slide the rest of the way to the ground.

Huh.

Look at that.

I can still get forty percent of the way into doing a split. And they said my body would betray me with age.

What did they know?

Definitely not that there’s an uncomfortable pull in my left hip joint and that my right knee doesn’t like this.

“Could you please, for the love of all that has ever been holy, put on some goddamn clothes?”

I twist so I’m covering as many bits as I can, and I catch a glimpse of him trying to turn in the bedroom so that he can’t see me.

It’s harder than you’d think, what with the mirror over the dresser facing the mirror for the bathroom, and the way he’s standing and I’m squatting, and while this maybe isn’t the most embarrassing situation I’ve ever found myself in, it’s high up there.

I wasn’t planning on being naked and vulnerable in front of a man this morning, yet here we are, and my body is betraying me over it.

It takes me a second to make my voice normal. “Relax, Mr. Rutherford. One, you’ve basically already seen it all. Two, I tried to warn you. And three, it’s not like your mother’s catching us in a compromising position. I’m positive this isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to you. It’s pretty high up there for me though, so if you don’t mind waiting downstairs for just a couple more minutes—”

“Will you be wearing your own damn clothes?” He’s shoving his fists into his eye sockets.

That can’t feel good.

And it’s bruising the part of my soul that knows that most people like me.

Most.

Awesome. He’s in the same category as my former mother-in-law.

Granted, these are unusual circumstances, but I’m trying to be nice here, and he’s all grump grump crank snarl grump.

“So long as Marshmallow didn’t distribute them all over the house, yes, I’ll be drying off and putting on my own clothes.”

“Your dog needs to go back outside.”

“He gets lonely if he’s outside alone for too long. Also, since he can open doors, if you didn’t lock them all, he’ll find a way back in.”

He mutters something while I regain my balance enough to carefully duckwalk the rest of the way to the closet, covering as much of myself as I can, but undoubtedly giving him a solid view of my ass the whole time, if he’s even looking, which I suspect he’s doing his best to not.

When I pop back out two minutes later completely wrapped in towels, he’s not in the bedroom anymore. And I understand why when I finally make it downstairs after getting dressed and tossing as much of my stuff as I can into my suitcase without taking too long.

He’s showered too, and he’s wearing a pair of the pajama pants that were in the dresser in the bedroom. The gray pair with the dancing hamster pattern all over them, to be specific.

That’s why he was in the bedroom.

He was getting clean clothes.

His dark hair is damp and unkempt, like he got bored in the middle of towel-drying it, and it’s dripping water onto his white T-shirt while he leans against the kitchen island and scowls at his phone.

If it weren’t for the scowl sharpening all the features in his angular face, I’d think he was a completely different man. He looks approachable in pajama pants and a white T-shirt.

Like a normal man, instead of a fancy rich man totally inconvenienced by my dog and me.

Like a man just out of the shower, getting ready for breakfast with the woman he ravaged the night before, unhappy that someone in his office is calling him in early when he’d rather eat his guest out on the kitchen counter.

Stop it, Begonia.

I force myself to focus on the pile of dishes on the island, which is a stark reminder that my dog and I are definitely an inconvenience.

Must you leave your dirty cereal bowl on the counter, Begonia? I have better things to do than pick up after you.