He was already inside the house when I got out of the shower the next afternoon.
The spare key turned in the lock at 3:12. I heard the front door, the heavy drop of his tool bag, boots on the hardwood. No text. No knock. I was still dripping, towel clutched to my chest, when Cole appeared in the bathroom doorway. He looked at the unfinished vanity frame, the open plumbing, then at me—wet hair, bare legs, the faint bruise his fingers had left on my hip yesterday.
“Told you,” he said. “Every afternoon. Door unlocked.”
My phone buzzed on the counter. Mark again. Any progress today? Send me a shot of the vanity if he’s working on it.
Cole saw the screen. His mouth curved. He crossed the room, took the towel out of my hands, and dropped it on the floor. The air was cool on my skin. My n****
