Three days.
Three days of “accidental” bathroom encounters.
The first morning, I walked in on Frank – my mom’s boyfriend of six months – standing at the sink in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Water droplets glistened on his chest. Silver hair at his temples. The body of a man who takes care of himself, even at forty-eight.
He didn’t cover up or look away. He just stared at me with dark eyes that traveled slowly down my body – taking in my thin sleep shirt, the way my n*****s were visible through the fabric, the bare length of my legs.
I mumbled an apology and backed out.
But I felt his gaze on me for hours afterward.
That night, I walked in on Jake – Frank’s son, home from grad school for the weekend.
Twenty-six years old, built like he lives at the gym, standing
