He doesn’t wait for an answer, my stomach—and bladder—flipping as the stranger folds gracefully to the floor.
“I see what the issue is.” Blue eyes stare up at me from a fan of thick, sandy lashes. The visual, a handsome man on his knee in front of me, is a little too much. It’s a shame about the circumstances. And my exploding bladder. “Your zipper is stuck.”
“Is it?” I cry, crossing my ankles and squeezing my legs together again. Annoyance flashes through me as more sarcasm falls out of my mouth. “Goodness, how did I not notice?” His chest moves with a deep chuckle, but now is not the time for laughter. Unless you’re the playground sadist, I suppose.
“I mean it’s broken,” he qualifies. “Mangled. Completely fucked.” It seems I’m not too desperate to notice that hard fricative or how nice his hands feel curled around my hips. But pressing circumstances, my mind trills. “Why are your jeans wet?”
“Because of the weather.” My gaze slides to the darkened window, rain hitting it like drumming fingertips. “They’re going to be a lot wetter if you don’t help me out of them.” I begin to jiggle and bounce when his hands tighten against my hips. I still.
“Just so I don’t misunderstand, you’re asking me to help you undress?”
“You know, I might just pee on you for prolonging this agony!”
“Don’t make promises you might talk me into,” he drawls.
My huff precedes an answer that dies on my tongue as his big hands yank the sides of my jeans apart with a ripping sound. I stumble with the force of the jolt, though he catches me before I fall.
“Oh, thank God!”
“Not sure God had a hand in it,” he says, but I only half hear him as I dash in the direction of the bathroom. The door bangs closed and rattles in the frame, but I don’t even bother to lock it. I don’t even care if I sound like a horse.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. The sheer relief. Why, it’s almost an ecstasy. But even the longest pee in Christendom must come to an end. And when it does, what then?
I flush, wash my hands, and stare down at my ruined jeans. I’ve buttoned the waist, but the zipper and subsequent seam are ruined. It appears my jeans now come with air-conditioning.
“Dammit.” I glance around for a towel or something to wrap around me, but there isn’t even a hand towel. The vanity drawers come up empty but for a couple of old hair ties and a brush. Pulling on my waist-length top, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like a total mess, so I wipe away my smudged mascara and run my fingers through my rain-tangled hair.
But I can’t hide from his hotness forever, so I clasp my hand over my pink underwear and steel myself for the second most awkward conversation ever.
3
Isla
My heart plummets because, for a second, I think he’s left. But then I spot him, a silhouette framed by the window, my old desk lamp now lit. This is maybe why I don’t lead with my thanks, instead asking, “What are you doing lurking up here?”
There’s an amused twist to his mouth as he turns, but I’m grateful he doesn’t comment. And while he was attractive from close range, he’s a whole other level from this perspective. He’s at least as tall as Sandy, his broad shoulders tapering to a slender waist, his legs long and muscular, according to the brilliance of his tailor. His shirt is open at the collar, his bow tie lying open on either side, making me think of half-unwrapped gifts.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever lurked in my life.” His voice is rich with suppressed laughter.
“Loitered, then.”
“That’s supposed to be better?” The amused twist deepens as he slides his hands into the pockets of his pants, revealing a not insubstantial bulk of bicep.
“Skulked?” By contrast, I can’t rein in my own smile, especially at the taunting lift of his brow. “Prowled, then.” Which is exactly what he’s now doing, I realize with a pinprick of delight.
“What are you doing up here?” he says, coming to a stop a few steps away from me.
“Would you believe that all the bathrooms were occupied in a house this size?”
“Given the number of assholes Alexander invited this evening, yes.” There’s a hint of chagrin in his expression. I’m not sure if it’s just for show, but it’s odd that he’s used my brother’s given name. Sandy is his family name, Sandy being a Scottish diminutive for Alexander. His friends and acquaintances call him Dalforth, as in the duke of, and everyone else refers to him as his grace. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually call him Alexander. But it’s good because it means the pair aren’t well acquainted. I’m not about to admit the family connection.