Page 24 of Hold the Pickle
I’ll need to figure out where the laundry room is. This longer break is my time to wash everything.
I discard my clothes on a white rug that wasn’t there yesterday. Living with a woman is nice. The shower is as hot and hearty as I remember, and I let out a long groan as the heat penetrates my shoulders and back.
I haven’t had a moment to take in where I’m at. It’s been a whirlwind, getting Mom situated back in North Carolina, driving to LA, dealing with my first weeks at South General and crashing at Jerry’s. Then the apartment hunt, and here we are.
Nadia Armstrong. She is something, with her flashing eyes and quick temper. I remember how she acted that first day.
But then there are the romance novels and her rescue cat. She was embarrassed to be caught reading or even tell a joke about dicks.
Speaking of which, mine is twitching just thinking about her.
Nope. Nope. Self-correct. The last thing Nadia needs is her roommate getting off in the shower to the image of her … sliding off that sexy dress, revealing a black bra and panties. Her skin glowing, breasts testing the limits of the lacy cups.
She wears the heels, and long legs with dimples at the knees lead to that triangle of satin I want to remove with my teeth.
Fuck. Too late. I’ve gone rigid and there’s no point denying the direction my mind is going. I try to switch to some other woman. I settle on a blond nurse who often comes down when we transfer a patient to that wing.
But it won’t stick, and by the time I’m pulsing into my hand, Nadia is back, a vision of her in the shower with me. Her long dark hair is wet in the flow of water, streams of it flowing down her body.
Fuuuuuuck. I scrub myself down again.
This is not a direction I need to be going. But if I can’t control my thoughts, I sure as hell better take charge of how I act around her. Because she can’t know the stranger she’s been around for less than a week is already picturing her naked.
I turn off the water and snatch up my towel. It’s hanging next to Nadia’s, mine a gray battered rag compared to her pretty pink one.
Opposites. I have to remember that. Regardless of whatever led her to need to share a cheap furnished apartment with a man she barely knows, she comes from means. Recent ones. Her clothes are nice. Her accessories, too. Louis Vuitton luggage and Coach bags.
As I rub my head with the towel, I’m wildly curious about her circumstances. She knows everything about mine.
I hang the towel back on the bar, careful that my damp one doesn’t touch hers. I reach for my clean clothes when I remember I didn’t bring any inside. I was trying to be kind to the cat.
I’ll have to disturb her. I shove the dirty clothes into the laundry bag I hung on the back of the door and head out into the living room to retrieve my duffle.
The air conditioner is on full blast and it feels amazing against my damp skin.
Then I hear a sharp gasp.
It’s Nadia, back from her walk of shame, still in the shiny dress, holding her heels in one hand.
And I’m buck naked.
9
NADIA
Oh. My. God.
Seeing Dalton tricked out in scrubs is one thing, and asleep in a T-shirt and shorts is another.
But currently, my roommate is standing outside of the bathroom without a stitch on.
The light from behind him halos his damp hair and leaves shadows that define every muscle. His shoulders are broad and carved like marble. His chest is honed and hairless, like an underwear model.
But there’s no underwear to model here. The long plane of his belly slides directly into a V that points right at a part of his anatomy that must know I’m looking. It starts to take shape, lifting and growing like it has a life of its own.
I can’t stop staring.
“Shit,” Dalton says, and the object of my intense stare is turned from my view, leaving me with a wide back and butt cheeks that ought to be put on posters.
