A man. An attractive man—scratch that—a beautiful man is standing in the bathroom. Sheer shock paralyzes me. I take in his form. He’s standing at the sink in black boxer briefs and no shirt, casually flossing, and I have never had a more thorough appreciation for dental hygiene in my life.
I finally realize I’m staring. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say, turning my back to him. Though, if I just read his expression correctly, he doesn’t seem at all disturbed by my invasion of his privacy—or my staring at him for at least one full minute before making an apology.
He lets out a small laugh from behind me. “What for?” he asks, as if I haven’t just barged in on him in his skivvies.
“Well, I would think that’s fairly obvious, but for starters, barging in on you, not knocking,” I start, when his voice cuts me off.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says plainly, not adding anything else.
“Okay,” I say, drawing the word out, unsure of what to say next. “Wait, who are you?”
He turns on the faucet to the sink and fills a cup. “Who are you?” he counters.
I’m shocked for a second time in under two minutes. “Excuse me?”
“No offense, ma’am, but I’ve never met you, so you could definitely be a serial killer or something,” he says.
I think he’s teasing me, but I can’t be sure. I whirl back around, not caring about his state of undress this time. “First of all, don’t call me ma’am. Second, what am I going to kill you with? My toothbrush?” I exclaim, holding up my pink travel toothbrush case like a dagger to exaggerate my point.
He shrugs his shoulders at me then leans his hip against the sink, depositing his floss into the trash and folding his arms over his bare chest.
Oh my. His bare chest.
I take a moment to appreciate his form again, as best I can without drawing attention to it. He’s about six-foot-three, if I have to guess. He has the lean form of a swimmer, his skin tanned deep. The only way a man gets that kind of deep tan is by working outside. His brown hair is tousled and a little unkempt. It looks as though he’d just dried it with a towel, still a little damp even. He has a young beard. More than stubble but less than bushy. Just a smattering of hair covering his strong jawline and what I surmise would be dimples if he were to smile. His aforementioned bare chest also has some hair. Not too much. Just enough to make your lady parts aware that he’s definitely all man.
I stare into his green eyes for a moment and realize they’re sweeping up and down my body in the same way I’ve just appraised his. I watch his eyes travel the length of my legs, dissect my stomach, linger on my breasts and then neck, and finally, make eye contact.
“I’m sure you have other weapons on you,” he smirks.
“What?” I ask, confused by his comment. Confused because the sight of him has actually caused me to forget what the hell we were just talking about.
“Your toothbrush shank. I’m just saying, it’s probably not the only weapon you’re carrying.” He uncrosses his arms and turns to the mirror, opening the medicine cabinet and removing a small pill bottle.
I glance down at myself. There’s nowhere to hide a weapon. “Have you seen what I’m wearing? I don’t exactly have a lot of hiding spots.”
“Oh, I definitely see what you’re wearing.” Another smirk. He winks at me in the mirror and I scowl back.
I furrow my eyebrows and try to shove them together on my forehead. A futile effort. I don’t like this man. I like how he looks, but I don’t like him. I feel my neck and chest warm under his eyes. “Stop looking at me!” I snap.
“You looked at me first,” he counters.
I choke and stutter. “You surprised me. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here, that’s all.”
“Listen, calm down. You’re getting all breathless and shrill,” he says, putting his hands up, making a calming motion toward me.
I don’t like this either. “Who are you?” I ask again, putting my hands on my hips this time, trying to make it clear I mean business.
“If I tell you who I am, are you going to tell me who you are? Because I’m not a mind reader, but you seem offended that I don’t already know,” he says.
I watch his biceps and forearms flex and suddenly notice I have too much saliva in my mouth. I swallow.
Oh my god, am I drooling? Is my mouth actually watering?
This is so stupid. “Sure,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He presses his lips together, considering my single word answer, and narrows his eyes at me. He stands and straightens himself, then takes four measured steps in my direction. Before I know it, he’s maybe twelve inches from me.
Too close, too close, too close.
I stiffen.
“I’m Gentry. Gentry Bodine,” he says, extending his hand out and waiting—a silent cue that it’s now my turn.
I straighten my spine. “I’m Lyla. Lyla Elizabeth Whitney,” I say, taking his hand in mine and attempting to shake it, but he stops my attempt.
He turns my hand over in his, backside up, and to my sheer astonishment, bends down and slowly plants a damp kiss on my skin. He actually kisses the back of my hand like we’re straight out of a black and white movie. This man—this beautiful man standing here in nothing but his boxer briefs, no less—just displayed some ancient form of southern hospitality. It doesn’t match up. It doesn’t make sense.
He looks up at me, a sparkle in his eyes. And the bastard smirks yet again. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, although I doubt we can call it that,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
Shock. This is what shock feels like, right?
I’m in utter disbelief and I’m tired. Maybe I’m dreaming. That has to be it. “Um, you too,” I say, noting the awkwardness in my own voice.
He gently returns my hand to me and I feel the place on my hand where his lips touched, warm and tingling and wet. “Now, miss, as fun as this has been, I’ve got to be up early in the morning, so I’m going to get some sleep. I bid you goodnight,” he says. He dips his head to me and moves past me in the doorway of the bathroom, almost pressing his bare chest against my body to do so.
I feel the heat of his body through the thin material of my tank top and my breath hitches. Just as quickly as I feel the warmth, it’s gone again. I watch him walk down the hallway and into the bedroom across from mine, which was the guest bedroom last time I was here.
What the hell was that? What actually just happened?
I finish my routine in the bathroom as fast as I can and walk back to my bedroom, pausing and staring at his door for a moment, listening for any noise coming from behind it, but I hear nothing.
I shake my head and quickly slip inside my room. After replacing my toiletries, I pull the blankets back on the bed and crawl in. My body immediately unfolds, as if I’ve been folded up since the last time I was here. I relax my shoulders and nestle my head back into my pillow. If I know one thing, I will sleep hard. My eyelids are already heavy. I don’t know what time it is, but if I have to guess, it’s past midnight.
The only lingering thought I have is Gentry.
Who the hell is he?
And why is he here?
No one has mentioned a Gentry. Not my sister or Nan or Paw.