I thought of the fabric shears in my bedroom. They were probably too dull to do a good job on my hair. But they’d be better than nothing.
Tucking my towel a little more tightly around my body, I opened the bathroom door and prepared to make a beeline straight for my bedroom—
—and barreled directly into Frederick, my face smashing right into his chest.
His bare chest.
I must have been overheated from the shower, or from embarrassment—or both—because his flesh felt almost unnaturally cool. He stood there as unmoving as a statue, a pair of small white linen shorts slung distractingly low on his hips, as I yelped and sprang away from him. His right hand was raised in a fist, as though he’d just been about to knock on the bathroom door when we collided.
His eyes were wide as saucers, his face as pale as moonlight.
We babbled out our apologies at the same time.
“Miss Greenberg! Oh, I beg your pardon, I—”
“Shit! I’m so sorry! I didn’t—!”
In hindsight, it should have occurred to me that living with another person meant walking around in nothing but a towel wasn’t something I could do anymore. But he’d made such a big deal about usually being out all night. How was I supposed to know that at the exact moment I’d decided to leave the bathroom he’d be standing right outside the bathroom door, shirtless?
As I stood only a few inches away from him in nothing but a towel, my wet hair dripped steadily onto my bare shoulders. His chest was at a level with my eyes, and . . .
I tried not to gape. I really did. Gaping at my new, barely dressed roommate when I was mostly naked myself was not only gross but also wildly inappropriate. But I couldn’t help myself. This man had been hiding an actual, honest-to-god six-pack beneath his perfect-fitting clothes. His broad chest tapered down to a narrow waist, the way he wore his shorts making him look like he was a goddamn underwear model instead of a doctor or CEO or whatever the hell he was.
Frederick wasn’t just attractive, I realized.
He was a Greek god.
The seconds ticked by as we stood there—me ogling him, him staring wide-eyed at a spot of nothing just beyond my left shoulder. I tried to think about anything but how close we were standing, how little we were wearing, and the way my heartbeat was suddenly racing. And then, because I’d never had much of a self-preservation instinct, I had a sudden, nearly irresistible urge to trace the solid lines of his chest with my fingertips. To see if those abs of his were as rock hard as they looked.
What would he do if I did?
Would he kick me out and find a roommate who actually knew how to behave appropriately in awkward situations? One who could also maybe pay him rent closer to market rate? Or would he pull my towel away and toss it to the side before he took my body in those giant hands of his, and—
I clenched my hands into tight fists and forced them down by my sides before I had a chance to do anything stupid. The prickling heat of a furious blush rose up through my body, warming my cheeks and making my hands sweat.
Frederick wasn’t blushing, though he still looked at least as embarrassed as I felt. To his credit, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall behind me. He honestly looked like he might die if he let his gaze shift towards me by so much as an inch.
Clearly, he wasn’t even half the perv I was.
He was a gentleman.
A totally misplaced rush of disappointment went through me at the realization.
I cleared my throat to try and keep my thoughts on the matter at hand. “I didn’t think you’d be . . . I mean, you said you’re usually out at night, and . . .”
“I apologize, Miss Greenberg.” His voice sounded strained. He still wouldn’t look at me. “The shower was running for so long I assumed you had left the apartment without turning it off. So I came.” He paused, eyes going even wider when he realized what he’d just said. “To the bathroom, that is. To turn it off. The water, I mean.”
He dipped his head towards me in an awkward bow. At this point my face must have been so red it could be seen from space. “Please forgive me, Miss Greenberg. It will never happen again.”
And then he stepped around me, making sure not to brush up against any part of my body as he passed.
I heard the click of the bathroom door behind me, and then what sounded a lot like the contents of the medicine cabinet crashing to the tiled bathroom floor.
“Are you okay?” I called out, alarmed. Had he been so mortified by what just happened he fell down?
“Yes! Perfectly fine!” Frederick said, sounding strangled, before letting out what sounded like a string of low, muttered curses.
I was so embarrassed I hardly remembered walking into my bedroom. But the second I was inside my bedroom I slammed the door shut and then flung myself face-down onto my bed, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. My heart was hammering so hard it felt like my ribs might break. I tried to tell myself that it was simply because what just happened was one of the most awkward moments of my life. But deep down I knew that was only part of it.
I didn’t want to think about how incredible Frederick looked without a shirt. Nothing good could come from that line of thinking. With everything else going on in my life, having lurid fantasies about a handsome man who was miles out of my league and my roommate to boot was the last thing I needed to be doing with my time.
With difficulty, I forced myself to think about my plans to get my canvases out of Sam’s storage unit the next day.
My hair was still a disaster. That needed my attention, too.
I grabbed the fabric shears from the top of my desk. They were even duller than I remembered. But if I messed up my hair even more, at least it would stop me from thinking about what just happened with my roommate.
I started cutting, and . . . well, the end result was marginally better. If you squinted. At least the ends were even.
I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, cringing at how reliably good I was at messing up my life, even when nothing else went according to plan.
FIVE
Diary entry of Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated October 20
Dear Diary,
Oh, gods.
Is it possible for a person like me to die from shame?
I sit at my desk at 2 in the morning, desperately trying to remind myself that Miss Greenberg is a lady. A lady whose beauty far surpasses what I noticed when we first met. A lady with lovely curves, delightful freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, and a mouth that will now haunt my dreams—but a lady nonetheless.
It would appear I must also remind a certain traitorous part of my anatomy—one that has not responded thusly to a woman in over one hundred years—of this fact as well.