The shower turns off.

I cinch my towel a little tighter. It's strange how shy I feel. Twenty minutes ago, I was spread out on the bed, savoring the need in Walker's eyes.

Now, I'm scared we'll have nothing to say to each other.

Not that I want to talk.

We could not talk again.

Well… I'm not sure I can handle not talking again.

My thighs are spent. From the hike and from being wrapped around him.

Hell, my entire body is spent.

It feels good. Painful, but good. There's something about losing myself in movement, something I need more of.

Not just sex. Hiking, yoga, swimming, even these surf lessons Walker keeps promising.

That's something I love. Something I know I want.

I'm Iris Avery and I'm more than a recovering addict. I'm a PhD candidate in psychology and I love purple, coffee, and exercise.

I move into the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and drink it the way I used to drink cheap vodka—like I need all of it, right now.

Booze was never my thing, but it did the trick when I was lacking alternatives.

Walker steps into the main room in black boxers—only black boxers.

He's yummy as all hell.

But this is still weird.

I don't know what to say to him. Or why things only make sense when we're naked. Or why I'm so desperate to learn the real reason why he's cagey about his sister.

The same one who was staying over the other night?

There's a story there.

I shouldn't want it.

But I do.

I want to know the guy behind the carefree smile. I want to know why his dark eyes turn down. Why he frowns when he thinks I'm not looking.

I'm not willing to share my secrets. I can't ask for his.

I shouldn't even want his.

"Here." He moves into his bedroom. A few moments later, he returns with a pair of boxers and a Metallica t-shirt.

I shake my head.

"You don't like metal?"

"No. But I don't see the relevance."

He smiles. "Fuck off."

My chest gets warm. His smile does things to me. It does too much.

Chill out, Iris. It's the oxytocin flooding your brain. That's what happens after sex. Especially after mind-blowing, orgasmic sex.

It's a chemical reaction.

That's all.

Like heroin induced bliss.

But then love is a chemical reaction.

Really, everything you feel is a chemical reaction.

"You want something more hardcore?" he asks.

"Of course. Only the purest, least sell out bands."

"And who's that?"

"Uh…" I don't think I know a single metal band from the last ten years. Not my thing. Too loud. And my thoughts already scream at me.

"What do you listen to?"

"Electronic stuff." As long as it's mellow.

"Like…"

"Electro-pop. Depeche Mode. Soft Cell. That kind of thing."

"Anything from the last thirty years?"

I name a dozen relevant bands.

He motions to the laptop sitting on the dining table. "You can put something on."

"While we…"

"I'm not gonna work up your appetite then send you home hungry."

My smile spreads over my cheeks. "Your game is improving."

"Must be your help." He motions to the computer. "Put on your favorite album."

"You won't like it."

"Because I own a Metallica shirt?"

"Well… yeah."

"You continue to stereotype me."

"Maybe." I let my eyes roam his body. Narrow waist, defined torso, broad shoulders, strong arms and ink everywhere. "You're yet to find me a shirt."

"Wonder why."

"My clothes are a sweaty mess."

"You don't need to wear clothes."

"It's too cold for that."

"Music. Then I'll grab you a shirt."

Okay, fine. It's a compromise of sorts. After all, those are his clothes. I don't have any right to them. Even if it's normal post-fuck behavior.

He has his own boundaries.

Or he's teasing me.

It's probably the latter.

I move to the dining table anyway. All this talk of electro-pop is giving me a serious Tegan and Sara craving.

I take a seat and open the laptop.

A lock screen pops up.

"This is password protected." Which is smart. But certainly another point in the he's teasing me column.

"Is it?" he calls from the bedroom.

"I'll wait for you."

"It's I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie."

"It is not." I check anyway.

He laughs as he moves into the main room. "I bet you tried it."

"I plead the fifth."

He tosses me a grey and pink The Last Ones to Know t-shirt and a pair of blue boxers.

I shoot him a curious look.

He arches a brow.

"You like metal and emo music?"

He laughs. "I have eclectic tastes."

"Uh-huh."

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you never pined after some broken lyricist."

"I plead the fifth." I pull the top over my head. The boxers under my towel. Then I lose said towel.

"You can strip in front of me." He slides into the chair next to mine.

"I know."

He slides the computer over, taps his password, pulls up a music streaming app. "Anything you want."

I go to my favorite Tegan and Sara album and hit play.

Acoustic guitar flows from the speakers.

He cocks a brow. "This is electric?"

"I changed my mind."

"You like this coffee house rock stuff?"

"Yeah. It's relaxing. Introspective. It makes me feel calm. And a lot of bands write great lyrics."

"Lyrics?" He tilts his head to one side, playing dumb. "Kidding. I have to know them for karaoke."

"You do karaoke?"

"Sometimes. It's a shop tradition."

"Oh."

"You're welcome to come next time."

"I'll think about it." I hang the towel on the back of my chair. "Do you need to talk to your friend?"

"No. He needs to get over himself."

"It's kinda sweet… if he is worried he's going to lose you."

"Yeah. It is. In a Dean kinda way."

"You guys are close?"

"We hang all the time. Have for ten years now."

"That's nice." Really, it is. Even if I don't appreciate Dean's whole hot and cold what do you think you're doing intruding on guy time thing. I don't have any old friends. Three years of drug use was more than enough time to burn those bridges. And all the people I hung with while I was torching my past life are still using.

For the most part, I'm okay with it.

But I really, really miss my sister Lily.

"He can be an asshole, but he always has my back." Walker runs his hand through his wet hair. "Usually. Not today."

"Everyone fights."

"We did."

"I guess you can call it that." I press my lips together. "You promised not talking."

"You want to go again?" He motions to the bedroom. "I can be ready in ten minutes."

"Really?"

"I didn't convince you last time?"

He did. Mmm. It's tempting. But—"I'm starving."

His smile spreads over his cheeks. It really is a nice smile. Beautiful. Radiant. Everything.

Uh-huh. No feelings. It's just oxytocin. It doesn't mean anything.

Think about hot musicians.

Or maybe about how Walker is more appealing than a hundred millionaire rock stars.

He stands, moves into the kitchen, pulls the fridge open. "Shit." He presses the door closed then opens the freezer. "Not much."

"You like to cook?"

"Yeah."

"But you don't have any food?"

He shrugs. "I order in."

"Mmm."

He laughs. "I know that mmm."

Shit. He's right. It's total therapist mmm. "Why don't you cook more?"

"It's a lot of work when it's just me."

"But you… you don't have any fat."

He pats his stomach. "And?"

"Tell me you eat nothing but chicken and broccoli."

"I eat a lot of chicken and broccoli. Have plenty in the freezer. But I'm not gonna feed you that."

"No?"

"Unless you find it appetizing."

I stand. Move into the kitchen. "If you don't like it, why do you eat it?"

"It's easy."

"Do you also eat a lot of egg whites and protein shakes?"

He laughs. "Eggs."

"With yolks and everything?"

"And cheese."

"You have any?"

He pulls the fridge open. "Yeah." He looks to me with a curious expression. "You want eggs for dinner?"

"Whatever is fine."

"We can order something." He closes the fridge door. Points to the menus hanging from magnets. "Plenty of options."

A picture of chicken tandoori grabs my attention. I tap the flyer. "This place."

He picks up a San Diego magnet, grabs the menu, hands it to me.

"You like San Diego?"

"Who doesn't?"

"We used to go there every summer. When I was a kid. We'd stay on the bay. I'd swim all afternoon. My parents would sit in the sun and read. And then we'd watch movies all night. My dad is a big film buff. You guys probably like a lot of the same stuff."

"Shit. You're comparing me to your dad? Is that a kinky daddy thing?"

I laugh. "No. It's just the movies. He's incredibly clean-cut."

"It was just you?"

"And my sister."

"Are you close?"

"No. Not anymore." She shut me out. I understand why she did it. Hell, I agree with her decision. But I miss her. I hate that I have to stalk her on Instagram to get updates on her life.

"Older or younger?"

"Older."

"Mine is older too."

"You just have one?"

"Yeah."

"Sabrina?"

His eyes turn down.

I back up. "Lily."

"Lily?"

"Yeah. My parents had a theme. She tells everyone they got the name from Harry Potter even though the books came out when she was nine."

"No one calls her on it?"

"Not usually."

"What's she do?"

"She's a programmer." Her office is in Santa Monica. It's a fifteen-minute walk from here. Sure, it's Saturday, but there's a chance she's there. She works a lot.

Or she used to.

I don't really know what she's been doing the last two years beyond the snippets I get on social media.

I turn my attention to the menu. Everything sounds good.

My stomach rumbles. It's still weird, craving food. Wanting a flavor. Really feeling hunger.

I used to love Indian food.

But that was a long, long time ago.

"Vegetable curry. Medium." I hand the menu back to him.

"You eat meat?"

"Oh. Yeah. I just like vegetable curry." I brush my wet hair behind my ear. "Is that wrong?"

He arches a brow.

Okay. I'm lacking confidence when it comes to my preferences. But I'm getting there. "You got a problem with that?"

"No. As long as you aren't gonna steal my chicken curry."

"Maybe a little."

His smile is cocky. "I'll get an extra order. Eat it tomorrow if we have leftovers. You want rice or naan?"

"Rice please."

He nods. Grabs his cell phone from the counter, dials, and orders dinner.

I take in the apartment. It's nice for a small space. Not pretty the way mine is, but still intentionally decorated.

Framed sci-fi posters hang on the walls. DVD cases, paperbacks, and CDs spill from the bookshelf in the corner.

There's a lot of good stuff here. Films I've meant to see forever. And two entire rows of Star Wars extended universe novels.

"It'll be half an hour." Walker moves closer. He slides his arms around my waist. Rests his head on my shoulder.

It's intimate. Too intimate.

But there isn't a single part of me that wants to tell him to stop.

He plants a kiss on my neck. "How's the Star Wars book going?"

"It was good. I finished the next one."

"But?"

"But nothing."

"There's a tone to your voice."

"I liked it." But that was it. Like. I used to eat, sleep, drink those books. Yeah, I'm older. My tastes are more refined. But I loved those books during my snobby phase in college. They were my one guilty pleasure. Ah, simple times.

"Hard to care now that the extended universe is irrelevant."

"Yeah." It was a slight when Disney made the call to throw out a fascinating storyline that I'd been reading for ten years—especially for a less interesting story—but that never offended me. Nothing ever offended me. Or excited me. When I was using all the time, everything was easy. Even. Good.

He kicks a book on the bottom shelf. "You ever read this one?"

"No."

He releases me. Bends to pull the book from its shelf and hands it to me. "You can borrow it."

"I'm not sure I can. That's a lot of pressure. What if I wreck it?"

"Then I'll buy another copy."

Saga. It's a classic graphic novel. I always meant to read it. Now is as good a time as any. And I'm supposed to read.

But what if it feels average too?

I can't keep living without passion. It's dull. Awful.

"You don't like graphic novels?" he asks.

"No. I do." Well, I've only read a few, but I did like them. "Thanks. I'll check it out tomorrow." I turn my attention back to the shelf. "You have a serious collection."

"I do okay."

"What's your favorite?"

"You're holding it."

"Uh-uh. I can't borrow this. That's way too much pressure."

"You'd be doing me a favor if you ruined it. I'd have an excuse to upgrade to a signed copy."

"Why haven't you?"

"Just haven't."

I hold the book to my chest. This is a lot of pressure. What if I lose his favorite book? What if I hate it? What if I fail to find the appeal? But I want to try. I want to love things. And hate them. I want to feel everything again, even when it hurts. I swallow hard. "You have a lot of CDs too."

He laughs. "My high school music taste on display."

I recognize some of the more popular metal and grunge bands. "I've seen worse."

"And I need help with my game?"

I nod. Though he doesn't. At all.

He tugs at my t-shirt. "You want to watch something?"

"Yeah." I scan the rows of sci-fi. There are too many options. "You're really into this stuff."

"Told you."

"You didn't say hi, I'm a sci-fi geek."

"Close enough." His voice is bright. Playful. "You in the mood for anything in particular?"

Too much. I swallow hard. "Something new."

Like this.

Liking him.

Wanting to hang out with my clothes on.

Wanting to learn his secrets.

Wanting to peel back the easy, breezy surfer boy mask and figure out exactly what makes him tick.