The water stops.
“Fuck,” he mutters, spitting water and pushing his hair out of his face as he turns back to me. “Did you turn that knob to the right or the-”
He freezes, and his eyes suddenly flicker with something hungry.
“I-”
I glance down and my eyes go wide before I quickly wrap my arms over my now completely see-through, totally clinging to my body wet white t-shirt.
“Well don’t look,” I hiss as he just stands there grinning at me.
“Sorta hard not to, darlin’.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue as he heads over to the tank and turns the knob the correct way this time. “Preacher’s daughter walking around town without a bra, huh? Quite the scandal.”
“I was doing laundry,” I mutter, scowling at him as he strides back over. I swallow thickly. I’m not the only one that’s been drenched. His own white t-shirt is soaked through, clinging to every bulge, groove, and hard-chiseled line of his chest. I can see his tattoos bleeding through the soaked cotton, my eyes tracing over them as I stand there like an idiot staring at him.
“Glass houses, angel.”
“What?”
Rowan chuckles as he raises the wrench back to the pipe. “Well don’t look,” he says in this ridiculously mocking falsetto voice.
“I don’t sound like that.”
“Not at all.”
The wrench turns, and this time, we’re not showered with freezing cold water. He tightens something else, muttering as he does, before stepping away. He goes back to the knob on the tank and twists it.
“Alright, water should be working now.” He nods at the sink next to the washer and dryer. “Give it a whirl.”
I turn on the faucet, and water splashes out.
“You’re welcome.”
“Thank you.” I turn and smile genuinely at him. “Honestly.”
“No problem.”
My eyes linger for another second on that chest of his, the way the shirt clings to every single groove of his abs. I clear my throat, looking away and tightening my arms over my chest.
“I’ll walk you out.”
At the door, he turns. “Hey, one last question.”
“Yeah?” I smile at him.
“You were doing laundry.”
“Yes.”
“Hence the, uh, lack of undergarments up top?”
I flush crimson, hastily looking at the floor. “I think we’ve been over this.”
“Right, well, that just leaves one lingering question.”
“Which is?”
Rowan grins as he leans close. “Well now I’m just dying to know if you’re going commando under those khakis, too.”
“Commando?”
He wags his brows at me, and my face goes bright red all over again.
“Oh my God!” I blush furiously as he snorts a laugh.
“Good night, Rowan,” I hiss as I shove him — still laughing — out the front door and shut it behind him.
Chapter Six
Rowan
That wasn’t exactly smart, and I know it.
This isn’t some townie girl, or some drunk bachelor party chick. This is the preacher’s daughter, off limits, probably-saving-herself-for-marriage Eva Ellis.
Flirting with her — with any girl like her is wrong. And I know better.
Because as fast and loose as I am with women, I do — believe it or not — have guidelines. No married chicks, no one clingy, no one who doesn’t move as fast as I do.
I might go ahead and add “no one with a fire-and-brimstone southern preacher of a father” to the list if anything my dad has told me about Leonard Ellis is true — and I warrant it is.
And so it’s with that thought in mind that I do my damnedest to get the images of Eva Ellis’s perfect — and I do mean goddamn perfect — nipples poking through the wet, transparent cotton of her t-shirt out of my head as I walk back to the bar.
“Shouldn’t you be slinging drinks, bucko?”
Aww, fuck.
I’m halfway back to the bar when I hear the voice from behind me, and I whirl.
“Hey, Rich.”
Every town, however nice, and however postcard-picturesque for the tourists like Shelter Harbor, has a Richard Ling. A while back, our version of Richard was my friend Silas’s uncle Declan, before he got shoved into Walpole State Penitentiary for the next twenty-five to thirty.
Since then, we’ve had all sorts of scumbags vying to be the next top, well, scumbag, I guess. Richard Ling ended up at the top of the heap.
It’s worth mentioning that Rich is also a top-of-his-game loan shark.
It’s also worth mentioning that I owe Richard Ling a substantial amount of money.
“You gonna answer the question?” Rich smirks at me, standing there in the ridiculous chunky-cut suit he’s always wearing like he’s goddamn Al Capone.