“Waverly.” Kyle looks stricken, lunging for the shower cubicle. When he yanks it open, warm droplets start flecking his new set of dry clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at me, scanning every inch of me with worried eyes, trying to figure out why I’m slumped against the shower wall and limp with despair. “What happened?”
“I’m not hurt,” I mumble, but Kyle’s not listening. He yanks his t-shirt over his head and steps into the cubicle, jeans and all.
Strong hands stroke down my shoulders, my arms, my waist, so much colder than the shower as they pat me down for some invisible injury. The shock of those icy fingers wake me up again, make me stand straight against the tiles, because shoot, Kyle hasn’t warmed up at all. Even with dry clothes on and the log burner out there, hi
