Page 53 of Gunnar
By the time I get back to the shed with yesterday’s dirty clothes, I’m breathless. Gunnar’s leaning against the doorway waiting.
Still shirtless.
Which does not help.
At all.
“You hear that?” he asks.
I listen. “The generator—you got it working?”
“Yes.” He dusts his hands off, looking pleased. “You got your washing?”
“Yeah.”
He shows me into the shed where a huge toploader is waiting. He lifts the lid. It’s old, but seems clean.
I shove my dirty clothes in as fast as I can, keeping my eyes on the machine.
T-shirt. Socks. Work pants—
—and then a small scrap of burgundy lace slips loose and drops straight onto the concrete floor.
I freeze.
My panties.
Right between us.
Gunnar looks down.
For one terrible second neither of us moves.
Heat surges into my face.
“Oh god—”
I dive for them at the exact same moment Gunnar bends to pick them up.
Our hands collide.
He stills.
The lace is caught between his fingers.
Which is worse than him just seeing them.
He lifts them calmly and drops them into the machine with the rest of the laundry.
“Detergent’s up here,” he says, nodding toward a shelf.
Like he’s completely unaffected.
I stare at him.
He reaches past me to grab the bottle.
Which brings several square feet of extremely muscular chest within inches of my face.
