“I’ll grab you a towel,” I said, already halfway down the hall.
“And I’ll try not to drip all over your place,” he called after me.
I did not answer him. I just kept walking, fast, like that could somehow outrun the heat creeping up my neck. I grabbed the fluffiest towel I owned. If he was going to be shirtless in my apartment, he might as well be wrapped in Egyptian cotton. When I returned, I stopped cold.
Jackson had, in fact, removed his shirt.
Jesus.
Mary.
And all the saints.
I shoved the towel into his hands.
“Thank you,” he replied. His back was to me, muscles flexing as he ran the towel through his hair like he did this kind of thing all the time—just casually being a walking anatomy lesson. Water dripped down the ridges of his spine. His pants hung low on his hips. He turne
