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There are approximately four dozen things I’d like to sayright now, but I worry if I do that, I won’t be able to stop. Excitement, nerves, happiness—all of it is expressed the same way with me. But I wait for Nils, desperately trying not to wiggle when his very slow, very careful exploration tickles a little bit, trying to stay silent when he tilts his head and goes exploring on the other side of my neck. I try very hard to stay still when his thumb sneaks far enough below the waistband of my pants to make me shiver.

“No-o-o-t flowers,” Nils comments softly, voice shaky, lips close to my ear. I stand there, hands still cupped around his neck and jaw where they’d started, and try to figure out what the heck he’s talking about. Usually, I’d know exactly what he was saying. Usually, we weren’t making out before I was expected to converse.

“Oh, right, the…perfume?” I ask, chest burning hot as I figure it out. I would never wear it to work. Usually, I wouldn’t even wear it when I know I’ll be around other people. Perfume and pretty things are for the privacy of my own home. They’re for me to enjoy because very few other people seem to.

“Mm-hm,” Nils agrees, leaning back so his head is against the wall and I can see that beautiful face.

“I don’t wear it at work.” Nils’ thumb creeps inward. I inhale, belly sucking in as that touch slips across my navel. He watches me, gaze so hard on my face I can feel more pressure from his eyes than his hands. “But I could put it on more, if you’d like. For you.”

A very small smile curves the corners of Nils’ mouth at that.For mereflected back at me in the heat of his eyes and thetensing of his hands on my waist. Every part of my body is hot right now, and I’m wishing I’d had the foresight to strip my jacket off the moment we walked in the door. Nils, every bit as competent at reading body language as I am, slips his hands out from underneath my clothes and reaches for the zipper on my jacket. He takes it off, waiting for me to move away far enough for him to hang it in the hall closet. His own follows, joining mine in a visual display of domesticity that burns like fire in my chest.

Moment broken, I take a deep inhale and get a good whiff of myself. Cringing, I take another step back. Even though it’s plenty cold outside, I was sweating all day, and that sweat was simmering under three layers of winter clothing. I stink. I’m actually thinking I might smell worse than Nils, even though we were working less than a handful of feet from one another. He smells like engine and ocean and man. I smell like an armpit.

“Okay, so, I think I’m going to go shower. Because I stink. And then maybe we can keep doing this. Further into the house, perhaps, and on a softer surface. After the shower.” I wave a hand toward the stairs. Nils tilts his head to the side and smiles at me. It’s that smile—playful and sweet and only a third as serious as his usually are—that I blame for what comes out of my mouth next. “Do you want to watch?”

If I thought the smile was sweet before, it’s not any longer. Now those brown eyes glint with something a little sharper, the air a touch thicker around us.

Do you want to watch?I repeat to myself in mute disbelief. Regardless of what porn might portray, showering isn’t sexy.At least not when you’re showering for the actual purpose of getting clean. Which, I am. And now, what? Nils is going to sit on the vanity and get a front-row seat to how I clean my junk?

“Uhm,” I start, trying to think of a way to convince him to give me five minutes of alone time in the shower before he comes into the bathroom. I could make that work. Clean the important bits and then put on a little show for the rest. But Nils stops me, hand on my face and thumb pressing underneath my chin, tilting it so he can kiss me.

Chapter Thirteen

NILS

When Oliver gets nervous, his hands flutter. Some people talk more when they’re anxious, but since Oliver talks all the time, it’s not an indicator of discomfort. His fingers, though, will tap out a pattern of nerves against the nearest surface. As I follow him upstairs, it’s the banister.

I watch that hand as we go, listening to him chat aimlessly about the different paint samples he’s been testing on the walls. Indeed, there are several patches of blue, green, and gray decorating the different surfaces. Painting seems to be the thing Oliver is most excited to get to, and probably the thing that he’ll be best at doing himself. Not that I can blame him for the enthusiasm. The color the previous owner chose is a yellow that they probably hoped would be cheery and bright, but instead looks like a color I’ve only seen inside of a toilet bowl.

“Sorry, ignore those. The tiles, remember?” he asks, gesturing toward the boxes of samples in his bedroom. I nod,smiling at him. I don’t forget things he’s told me. “Now that the heat is fixed and the weather looks clear enough for the roof people to come by next week, I’m going to hit the bathroom next. I think I’ll get the master bedroom done and leave the spares for last since it’s not as though I need an office or will have company coming to stay. And then the floors, obviously. But I still don’t know what to do about those.”

“I’ll help,” I offer, kneeling down to peek into one of the boxes, curious as to what type of tile Oliver would choose. They’re white, which surprises me. I’d been expecting something bold and fun. Fish scales, perhaps, or a floral pattern. At the very least, a color as bright and eye-catching as Oliver himself. I lift one of the white tiles out of the box, meeting his eye and raising an eyebrow in question. He shrugs.

“I thought something monochromatic might be the best choice, since it would go with everything. Black is too dark since I don’t have a ton of natural light. So…white it is.” He shrugs again, fingers tap-tap-tapping on his leg.

I put the tile back and stand, slipping my phone out of my pocket and pulling up a browser. After a few moments of searching, I hold it out for him to see. It’s a terrazzo tile, but it’s not so much the type that I want him to see but the style. The one I chose is a simple design—strips of speckled green rectangles, separated by lines of white—but more of what I imagine Oliver’s taste to be. He can still have fun without making it difficult to decorate.

“Oh,” he says, leaning closer and peering at the screen. “I like that. That color kind of matches one of the greens I have asample for. I painted it on the hallway wall.” I nod, having seen it on our way up. “Well, shoot, I really like that one. Now I’m wondering why I ever thought white was the way to go. Talk about boring.”

Something tells me his indecision when it comes to renovating this house has less to do with him being unable to choose and everything to do with being influenced by things people have told him in the past. I wonder, if I were to visit his parents’ house, if the tiles in their bathrooms would all be white.

“More you,” I agree, putting a bookmark on the webpage so I can come back to it later if he indeed wants to go with this option. Oliver smiles like I’ve said all the compliments I’ve ever thought about him out loud.

“Yeah, it is.” Humming, he leans down to pull off his socks, strolling over to the open bathroom door and walking in to drop them in the hamper. I follow, but slowly. When he glances back at me, I gesture toward his bed in a silent offering to sit out here and give him privacy. He flushes a little bit but shakes his head. “You can stay. I’ll just…grab a few things.”

He slips around me, fingers at the waist of his jeans, and walks over to his dresser. After a few seconds of digging, he closes the top drawer and moves to the second, back blocking the contents from view. Leaning back against the vanity counter, I stretch my legs out and cross my ankles, trying to look casual. The shower is directly in front of me, glass a little smudged but otherwise perfectly see-through. There won’t be an inch of Oliver I won’t be able to see. Inches I’ve been noticing more and more these past few weeks; inches I’ve seen clothed and partiallyunclothed. Some that I’ve even put my hands on.

It’s hit me randomly, these past few weeks, that I’m in a relationship. That if someone were to ask me if I had a partner, I’d say yes instead of no. Nobody will ask me that, but theycould. And my answer would be yes. Yes, I do. I have Oliver Martin cooking me dinner and sitting in the same spot on my couch most evenings. I’ve got good morning text messages and kisses that taste like cinnamon gum, the smell of flowers and the possibility of color underneath the bland. And now I’ve got the promise of him standing naked in front of me on the horizon, and it dawns on me once more that the answer isyes. Yes, I have a partner. No, I am not alone.

“Okay,” Oliver mutters, dropping a pile of clothes onto the vanity next to where I’m leaning. Right on top, folded into a tiny, neat little square, is yellow lace. The shade of yellow the previous owners of this monstrosity were likely hoping for when they painted the walls. The shade of yellow that glows like Oliver’s personality—sunshine and warmth and joy.

Instead of commenting, he turns away, lifts his shirt over his head, and drops it into the hamper. The jeans follow next, the movement so decisive it feels like a lie. Like he’s pretending very hard that he’s alone in this bathroom—putting on a front of confidence and trying to act like he normally would. Before he can continue, I grab his elbow. His eyes, which are the sort of stunning blue green that shift depending on what he’s wearing, are bright when they meet mine. I wonder if I could convince him to decorate his house in shades of seafoam and cyan—a space built only to enhance his beauty.

“I-I-I-I-I-I—” It takes me a moment to control myself enough to stop. My pulse is jumping with a strange mix of nerves and anticipation, arousal burning low in my abdomen. I want to tell him I can leave. That I can sit in the bedroom or downstairs or, hell, go back home.

Oliver waits, watching me and giving me the space to finish the question. If there weren’t so many other things to like, I think I could fall in love with him for that alone. I let go of his arm to gesture back toward his bedroom.

“I-I-I-I-I ca-ca-ca-can go-go-go-go-go.” I stop, chest tight the way it always is when I can feel the stutter sitting there in my lungs like a cancer. Oliver isn’t the only one who’s slightly nervous about this situation. My heart is pounding, and there’s enough pale skin on display to destroy any control I might otherwise have over my tongue.