Everything in the fucking place reminded me of her, including the bar of soap in the shower. I kept the water cool, because I was hot and pent up and kind of pissed off because I couldn’t stand the goddamned tension, and I thought I would burst. Couldn’t she feel it? Didn’t she understand it? Apparently not. Or if she did, she was way stronger than I was in resisting it. So I was either going to be the dickwad that came on too strong, or the douchebag that kept dwelling on earth-shaking sex. What I really needed to do was cool my goddamned jets.

Which was definitely not going to happen with this soap I was holding—it smelled just like her, vanilla oatmeal or something. It smelled like her skin, I knew that smell now, and as I lathered up with her soap, and her shampoo, I planted my hand on the shower wall. I let the water run down my body. I stroked myself a few times, aching with the thought that I was washing her off of me.

A cheap-ass motel would be better than this. A weird Airbnb would be better than this. A Days Inn with a shitty mattress—anything would be better than this. There was no fucking way I could handle being twenty feet from her, no fucking way I could be so surrounded by her and not have my way with that perfect body.

Outside, it started to rain hard, and the water pelted the trees, roaring off the roof and against the window. To vent the little bit of steam that had gathered, almost unbearable because it was so humid, I opened the window and then rinsed myself off. As I turned off the shower, I could’ve sworn I heard a creak in the hallway outside. I grabbed a towel from the rack and listened close as I wrapped it around my waist.

“That you?” I said softly.

No answer.

I glanced at the back of the bathroom door and saw one of her bras hanging on the hook, half hidden behind her robe. I stepped out of the tub, grabbed my pants off the floor, and woke up my phone. I couldn’t take this shit anymore. If I couldn’t have her, I couldn’t stay here. So I opened up a chat window with Fletcher and typed out, Trouble on the boat. I need somewhere to crash. But before I could hit send, a message came through. From Rosie.

That was all it said. I fucking stared at it, astonished, and then became aware of the telltale little bubble pop noises to say that she was somewhere very nearby and typing. In her room, I guessed. Right next door. Plaster dust still on the headboard. Sheets still smelling like the two of us together. Fuck.

My heart walloped my rib cage, and I kept my thumbs over the keyboard, just waiting to see if she’d say some more. A droplet of water fell from my face, and I wiped the phone off on the towel, sliding it over my thigh. I sat down on the toilet and waited. And waited. What she’d given me, though, it wasn’t fucking enough. I’d lose my mind not knowing. So I gave her a tiny shove. A nudge in the right direction. Same as I did when we were playing pool—an accidental roll of the cue ball to give her the advantage.

Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.

A rapid-fire succession of bubble pops followed, and the tap-tap-tap-tap of her erasing everything she’d just written. There was another creak in the hallway, right outside the bathroom door.

“I’m not sure what I want,” she whispered. “But please don’t go.”

I set my phone down on the sink and thought seriously about opening the door, but I didn’t want to push too hard now. She was coming back to me, and I needed to be smart about this. If I opened the door now, we’d be one terry cloth towel and one pair of stretchy pants away from getting involved in it all over again. Made my balls ache to think of it. I’d never be able to resist her. Never.

“How did you know I was thinking of leaving?”

Her laugh was an exhalation, but it was so familiar to me that I could imagine her doing it. She did it when she was embarrassed or feeling awkward. She’d have closed her eyes, almost shy, shifting her weight to one leg, moving her hair off of her shoulder. “Because I know you pretty well.”

It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep my hand off the doorknob, to keep myself from flinging it open, pulling her into my arms, and saying, Let me show you how I want you to know me. “Better than anybody.”

I did resist her, though. Because this wasn’t about me. It was about her. So I rested my elbows on my thighs and brushed some water out of my hair with my fingers. The next move would be up to her. I wanted to push her, yeah. But she’d have to come to me first.

The door thumped lightly, like she was putting her hand to the wood. Or maybe even her forehead. I imagined what I could see through the door. Her sexy lines. Her curves. Her.

“Please don’t leave.” And then the floorboards creaked again, and the door of her bedroom squeaked as she pulled it closed.

* * *

She’d left me some cold roast chicken and a salad in the fridge. I ate it standing up at her kitchen island, while the rain battered the windows. I opened and added it to the running tab in my head of stuff I’d used and that she wouldn’t let me pay for, but that I’d pay her back for somehow. In lumber or hardware or labor, or just by putting cash into her wallet when she wasn’t looking. I’d done it before, and I’d do it again. It was easier than bickering with her about it. I always took care of her, whether she knew it or not.

I polished off the salad—spinach, blue cheese, cranberries—fucking delicious like everything she made. I rinsed out the bowl and put it upside down on the drying rack. Cupcake sat in the corner of the kitchen, just a little smudge, trembling with the storm. I pulled off a piece of chicken from near the bone to give to her. She stopped trembling and sniffed the air.

Sniff. Sniff-sniff. Tail wiggle.

I held the little piece of chicken down at her level—roughly even with the baseboards, she was so tiny. She leapt up onto her hind legs like a ballerina and took it gently from my fingers.

When I’d finished the chicken, and given Cupcake a few more choice pieces, I put the bones in the garbage—locked up tight behind a child lock that I’d installed for Rosie’s grandma to keep Julia Caesar out—and picked up Cupcake. We watched the rain tumble down, battering the forest and splashing off the hood of my truck and the closed convertible roof of Rosie’s Bug. Seeing a summer storm in Maine never, ever got old to me. I scratched Cupcake’s chest and took a swig of my beer. She licked the condensation off the bottle, and I turned to take her to the couch with me. But just as suddenly as the storm had started, it stopped. Like someone turning off a garden hose that had been spraying on the window.

“See?” I whispered to her. “All better.”

In response, Cupcake squirmed up and gave me a big lick on the cheek. Magic!

I put on my flip-flops and carried her to the door, placing my beer on the bench in the entryway. I got her suited up in her pink harness and clipped the retractable leash on, and then we headed outside, me with my beer and her with her tiny tennis ball. Outside, it was cool and fresh, and the puddles on the sidewalk posed a huge challenge to Cupcake, who stared at them like they might be twenty feet deep for all she knew. I picked her up and carried her out into the grassy area under the magnolia. I set her down, and she plucked her way through the grass, which was almost too high for her to see past. But step by step, she got braver and more certain, even bounding through it for a second. So goddamned cute. Automatically, I turned back to the house to see if Rosie had seen it.

There she was. In her bedroom window. The night had closed in around the house, and she was framed by the light of her bedside lamp. In that moment, I was every heartbroken guy who’d ever yearned. I was every man who’d ever ached. I was every Romeo since the beginning of time. She was so fucking beautiful, I forgot to think. I forgot to breathe. I just took her in and thought, Goddamn it.

I held her stare for a second and smiled up at her. She smiled, too, and turned away.

Cupcake munched on some grass, and I whistled softly to get her attention. She bounded over, and when I picked her up, I felt that her feet and chest were wet with rain. She didn’t seem chilly, not yet, but I didn’t want to chance it. I thought about the woodshed and the fire pit, which Rosie hadn’t used yet this summer. I thought about how to tempt my very own Juliet out of her room.

And then I gave Cupcake a little nuzzle that made her groan and asked her, “You know what Rosie loves even more than cupcakes?”