I shoot back in my bath so water spills over the sides. I frantically scrape bubbles up over my chest, and the noise I make only telegraphs my location.
The bathroom door opens without being knocked on first, and still in his suit pants and white shirt with a couple buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up, Spencer-Freakin-Serrano steps into my bathroom and smiles.
“Well shit, babe.”
“What the heck are you doing here?” My heart races. My hands shake. And all I can do is cower into the end of my tub and pray for the bubbles to last. “What the hell, Spencer?”
This man, this massive mountain of a man whose legs are like tree trunks and his arms like logs, watches me and lets his lips quirk up into a cute smile. The side of his face is scarred, and the steam of the bathroom seems to turn the pink scar tissue a darker shade as he lifts a brow and hungrily studies my legs, since I’ve pulled my feet up close to my butt in a poor attempt to hide.
“You said hell.” He closes the bathroom door, and when I think it can’t get any worse, he flips the lock and turns back to me. “I think ‘hell’ might be the naughtiest thing you’ve ever said in your life, huh?”
“How did you get in here?” I swear my heart will bust out of my chest any second, it beats that hard. “How did you get into my apartment?”
“Through the door?” He stops by the side of the tub so I have to look straight up.
His powerful body stands over mine, his wide hands sit on his hips, and something behind the fly of his pants stands forward and nearly sends me into a tailspin.
It’s his penis, Abigail. Just say it. You’re not a child anymore, and Spencer Serrano refuses to indulge your need for innocence.
When my eyes linger on his pants a moment too long, he gives a throaty chuckle that draws my eyes up, and when our gazes meet, he lowers into a squat and rests his elbows on the side of my tub.
“My work includes a certain skillset. I feel like you know that about me already. I know how to open doors that are otherwise… well, locked.”
“You broke into my home. I can’t believe you broke into my home.” I hurriedly swipe more bubbles to cover myself, and almost burst into crazy tears when his eyes follow my movements. “Get me a towel. Please get me a towel.”
“You don’t have to cover up in front of me, babe.” He reaches a hand forward to dip his fingertips in the hot water. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t–”
“Just get me a towel!” His eyes widen as my voice cracks. “Get me a towel, get me a towel. Get me an effing towel!”
Lifting his hands in surrender, he reaches to the vanity and tugs down my charcoal gray towel. He extends it toward me, and lifts that stubborn brow again when I snatch it with shaking hands.
Tears flow over my cheek, making me feel like a loser as I snap the towel open and bring it down to cover my chest and torso. Water is sucked into the fabric immediately, but I don’t care. The bubbles won’t last forever, and there’s no way I’m going to let him see me this way.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Abigail.” He rests on his elbows and studies my eyes. “I promise I’ll never hurt you.”
“Why are you here? You weren’t invited into my home!”
“I wanted to see you.”
His dark eyes flicker between mine, and in my heart, I feel like his admission was almost painful for him. But worse yet, he reaches out and slides his thumb beneath my eye to collect my stupid tears.
They’re tears of humiliation, because right in this moment, I feel like the worst thing that could happen to me is that the handsome man I let touch me might look down at my body.
“I’m sorry for making you cry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for making you run away from the wedding.” He nibbles on his lower lip and watches me. Strangely, I find it kind of endearing that he watches my eyes and doesn’t let his gaze stray along my body. “You worked for that wedding, you did those amazing centerpieces and vases and stuff. You worked hard, and you didn’t get to enjoy any of it.”
My bottom lip quivers. “I’m just the help.”
“No.” He shakes his head and slides his thumb over my jaw. “I’m sorry for saying that. You’ll learn soon enough that when I’m feeling threatened, and can’t take care of my problem physically, I’ll use my words. I’ll lash out with immaturity, because I don’t like being vulnerable. You constantly make me feel vulnerable. Fucked if I understand why, but there it is. You scare me, and since I can’t fuck you or fight you, I say mean things.”
“Why– umm, why can’t…” I clamp my lips shut for a moment and pray I don’t say anything that’ll be the cause of my tears later on. “So you’re saying you use your words to hurt me?”
He nods.
“So you’re saying words are important? They mean something?”
His lips quirk up into a grin. “Wars have been fought because of words, Abigail. Didn’t you know that?”
I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps around with men. Or at all. I’m not even the girl who goes from man to man and kisses them. I’ve lived a life inside a bubble, shielded from so much, and if you’d told me I would be naked in front of Spencer Serrano tonight, I would have called you a liar. But here I am, and though my heart wants to give out on me, I still sit with a soaked towel pressed to my torso while I stare into his dark eyes.