Page 14 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

The shower itself is bliss. Hot water sluicing over my shoulders, washing away hours of tension I didn’t even realize I was carrying. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the spray soak my hair, my skin, my thoughts.

This—this is what normal feels like. I go through the motions of washing my hair. Using whatever product the hotel offers. It smells nice enough, as does the conditioner.

When I finally turn the water off, I’m smiling.

And then I realize my mistake.

The towel rack is empty.

I stare at it, blinking.

Surely I just… forgot to look properly.

I reach higher. Nothing.

Lower. Still nothing.

The clothes I’d been wearing are dropped on the floor across the room. Out of reach. Mocking me. But I also don’t want to put on dirty clothes on my wet, dripping body.

I wrap my arms around myself, mortification creeping in.

I wanted to do this on my own. I wanted to be capable. Independent. A woman who can manage a shower without incident.

Instead, I’m naked, dripping, and trapped by my own optimism.

I take a steadying breath and clear my throat. “Mitchell?”

Silence.

I try again, louder. “Mitchell?”

Footsteps approach the door.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice cautious. Concerned.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Well—mostly. I just⁠—”

I hesitate, heat rushing to my cheeks even though he can’t see me.

“I may have forgotten to bring in… towels.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for embarrassment to bloom.

“Oh,” he says. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just… acknowledging. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I wanted to do this properly, and I thought I had everything, and now I feel ridiculous.”

“You don’t need to,” he says immediately. Gently. “Not even a little.”

I swallow. “Could you maybe just toss one to me? You don’t have to come in.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”

The door opens a crack. I see his arm extend blindly, holding out a fluffy white towel like an offering. “I don’t know why some hotels separate the bathroom area like this and put the towels under the sink. Not very convenient,” he says.

I grab the towel, relief washing over me.

“Thank you,” I say softly.