Page 77 of Big Santa

“Noelle.”

My name. Not called out. Not a question. Groaned. Rough and broken and so full of want that it goes through me like a lightning strike, from the top of my head straight down to the soles of my feet.

I stop breathing. Well. That certainly clears up a few things. For example, apparently my husband doesn’t find me repulsive.

Good to know.

I take a step back. But my heel catches the edge of something. Shoes, maybe, or a duffel bag, and I stumble, and my hip clips the dresser, and a framed photo topples over with a loud, guilty clack.

The water shuts off. The silence is enormous.

I stand there, clutching the edge of the dresser, my whole body on fire, and think very seriously about whether it’s possible to die of embarrassment. I think it might be. I think I might be the first documented case.

“Shiloh, is that you?” His voice is sharp. Alert.

I could run. I should run.

My feet do not move.

“It’s me,” I say. “It’s Noelle. I’m sorry. I knocked. Well, I didn’t knock exactly. I was going to knock. The door was open and I thought you’d fallen, and I⁠—”

He appears in the bathroom doorway. And every thought I’ve ever had leaves my head at once.

He has a towel wrapped around his hips. That’s it. That’s all. Low. Dark gray. Held together with one big fist.

The rest of him is wet. Water drips from his hair. It runs down his throat, over the hard slope of his chest, through the dark hair there, down the ridges of his stomach and into the edge of the towel. The steam rolls out behind him in soft white clouds, and he is so big that he fills the whole doorway, broad shoulders and long arms and a jaw so tight I can see the muscle jump.

His chest is rising and falling hard. He stares at me.

I stare back.

“How long,” he says, very quietly, “have you been standing there?”

“Not too long.”

His eyes close.

“Long enough,” I add, because apparently I’ve lost the ability to lie.

He makes a sound. Not quite a laugh. More like a man being slowly crushed under something very heavy.

“Christ.” He drags his free hand down his face. Water flies from his fingers. “Noelle. I’m sorry.”

That’s not what I expected him to say.

“You’re sorry?”

“You shouldn’t have—” He stops. Starts again. His voice is low and rough and very careful. “That wasn’t for you to hear. That’s not your problem. It’s mine. I’ll handle it.”

Handle it.

“You’ll handle it,” I repeat.

“Yes.” He nods.

“By yourself?”

His jaw flexes. “That was the idea.”