The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(59)

But I’m fairly certain I would marry Teague Miller just for his bathroom.

Never mind all the awkward lack of eye contact when we finally made it off the floor a little bit ago, when he pointed me to a door I hadn’t noticed, hiding a bathroom so small that you can practically shower, sit on the toilet, and wash your hands in the sink all at the same time, and grunted something about fresh towels, like he, too, was overwhelmed by what we’d just done and in no shape to deal with it.

I would 100 percent marry Teague Miller right now.

Just for his shower.

Yep.

Not at all for the way he just gets me. How he knows when to spar. When to provoke. When to be kind. When to bang me so good that one hard, hot lay changes my life.

Which is ridiculous.

It wasn’t that good.

Not like this shower.

Really.

It’s only the hot water that’s confusing me, because the awkward aftermath was 100 percent real—and 110 percent a bad sign for anything resembling a real relationship forming from this.

“Oh my God, this is so good,” I groan while I stand in the dinky little shower, steam rising all around me, my body flushed with both sexual satisfaction and the pounding of hot water against my skin.

I will never take hot showers for granted again.

Never.

Ever.

Ever.

Again.

I try to hug the water droplets. There’s nothing complicated about how they make me feel. “I love you, hot water. I love you so much.”

There’s a knock at the door. “Do you have clean clothes?” Teague calls.

“I don’t need them. I’m never leaving your shower.”

The door cracks open.

I peer through the foggy glass surrounding me, but I don’t see him stick his head in.

Which means he’s trying to chill me out.

Amateur.

Okay, fine. Maybe he’s considering joining me.

And maybe I want him to, even if I don’t know where he’ll fit, except possibly inside me again.

But I can’t say that.

Can I?

“You can let the steam out all you want,” I call. “I’ll make more.”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

The scents of chocolate and vanilla mixing with my steam answer for him.

Oh my God.

He’s making chocolate chip cookies.

Is that why I’ve been smelling chocolate here and there all over Tickled Pink amid the lake-fish smell? Because he makes chocolate chip cookies all the time?

My mouth floods, and I suck in a bit of drool before it can slip down my chin. No one’s here to witness it, but I’d know if I drooled in the shower.

“You’re playing dirty,” I call. Is it possible to love a man who keeps making me fall into lakes, who doesn’t take any of my shit, who wants me to leave his town, and who lives in a tree house?

“Only way to play,” he calls back.

Dear sweet Oprah, I am falling so hard for this man.

And the weird thing is, when the water shuts off on its own—like he’s turned off the water valve to the bathroom—I like him a little bit more.

Not that I’ll admit that to him. I can’t admit that to him. “Did you just steal my water?”

“Save some for the fishes.” He sticks a hand into the bathroom and drops a pile of clothes into the sink. “Don’t think Bridge will mind if you borrow these for a night. But bring them back clean.”

His towels are thick and warm, and I take my time drying off. I didn’t bring my hair dryer, and I can’t find one in the tiny bathroom, either, so eventually, I leave the room with damp hair, wearing baggy green pants that remind me of nineties rap artists and a button-down polyester shirt with what I initially think is a black-and-white houndstooth pattern but turns out to be itty-bitty alternating black and white kitten faces.

My intention is to head back to the school. It’s getting close to family dinnertime, which we always eat late, and if I’m not there, Gigi will probably declare that I need to be the one to clean the bathrooms in that community center she’s fixing up now too.

But the sight of Teague sitting on a simple navy-blue love seat, sweatpants-clad legs propped up on a coffee table that was not there when we were rolling around on the floor, a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies in his lap, and a dark Sparrow County High T-shirt hugging his chest and tree-trunk arms, gives me pause.

What would it be like to sit here and just talk with him, like we did in the car when he drove me to school?

Could we have a fling? Do this friends-with-benefits thing until it’s time for me to leave town? “Thank you for the shower. And the Halloween costume.”

“Not a Halloween costume.” He bites into a cookie.

My stomach drops. In the good way, I mean. The does the man know how sexy it is to watch him lick chocolate off his lips? kind of way.

If I’m not careful, I’ll jump him again. And I wonder if that’s his endgame.

I should leave. I should really, really leave.

You definitely need to leave, my heart agrees. “Does Bridget actually wear this outfit in public?”

“Every Tuesday. Make sure it’s back by then.”

I start to offer to have Tavi talk to Bridget about fashion, but then I catch it.