The water heater gave up the ghost on Thanksgiving morning with a sad metallic cough.
Mom and Rick were already backing out of the driveway, waving through the window, off to their seven-day cruise.
“Plumber’s booked solid until Monday,” Jake called from the kitchen, phone still in hand. “Only the master bath has hot water. Guess we’re sharing.”
Four adults. One shower. An entire week.
I lasted until 11 p.m. before I caved. Everyone else had crashed early, stuffed with turkey and beer, so the hallway was dark and quiet when I slipped into the master bath. The room still carried Jake’s scent cedar, ocean, something dangerously male and the mirror was fogged from his shower twenty minutes earlier. I tried not to picture him in here, water running down the cut lines of his abs, hand bra
