Chapter 5: The Shower Incident

Harper woke to the gray light of a rainy Tuesday filtering through her apartment's single window, her body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that came from too little sleep and too much Zane Carver. The memory of last night—his hands pinning her to that shelf, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that still burned on her lips—clung to her like humidity, impossible to shake. She'd fled his penthouse at 2 a.m., the taste of him lingering as the elevator whisked her away, but escape hadn't brought clarity. It had only left her restless, her dreams a chaotic tangle of gray eyes and rough hands that jolted her awake more than once.She dragged herself out of bed, the ache in her muscles a reminder of how close they'd come to crossing every line. Coffee didn't help—two cups later, her hands still trembled as she packed her bag for the day. She'd promised him specs for those bar cabinets, and avoiding him wasn't an option. This job was her ticket, her career's tipping point, and she'd be damned if she let a midnight makeout session—however earth-shattering—derail her. She pulled on a slate-gray dress, knee-length and professional but snug enough to feel like armor, and headed for Manhattan, her resolve steeled against the storm brewing in her chest.The penthouse elevator felt like a cage as it climbed, each floor ticking up her pulse. When the doors opened, the space was quiet—no barefoot Zane lounging with whiskey this time. She set her bag on the kitchen island, the shattered bourbon bottle from last night already cleaned up, and called out, "Zane? I've got the specs."Silence. Then a faint hum of water from down the hall—his master suite, she guessed. She hesitated, glancing at her watch: 9:15 a.m. Early for a billionaire who didn't sleep, but maybe he'd crashed after their late-night chaos. She grabbed her tablet and headed toward the sound, her heels clicking on the marble, determined to drop the files and get out before he could unravel her again.The hallway stretched long and dim, lined with abstract art she hadn't noticed before—sharp slashes of color that matched the man who owned them. The water grew louder as she neared an open door, steam curling out like a beckoning finger. She knocked lightly, the sound swallowed by the hiss of the shower. "Zane? I'm just leaving the specs—"The water cut off abruptly, and before she could retreat, the door swung wider, revealing him. Zane Carver stepped into view, dripping wet and barely covered, a white towel slung low around his hips. Her breath caught, her brain short-circuiting at the sight of him—broad shoulders glistening, water tracing rivulets down a chest carved from muscle, dark hair plastered to his forehead. The towel clung precariously, knotted loose enough that one wrong move would send it to the floor, and her eyes—damn them—followed the trail of hair disappearing beneath it before she snapped them back to his face."Harper," he said, his voice a rough morning growl, laced with amusement. "Didn't expect you this early."She clutched her tablet like a shield, her mouth dry as sandpaper. "I—uh—specs. For the cabinets. I was just…" She gestured vaguely toward the hall, willing her legs to move, but they stayed rooted, traitorously mesmerized.He smirked, leaning against the doorframe, water dripping onto the hardwood. "You're staring.""I'm not—" She stopped, heat flooding her face, because she absolutely was. "You're wet.""Shower'll do that." His eyes glinted, dark and predatory, as he shifted, the towel slipping a fraction lower. "You're welcome to join me next time. Save us both the surprise."Her jaw tightened, irritation warring with the pulse hammering in her throat. "I'll pass. I just need to drop these and go.""Running again?" He pushed off the frame, stalking toward her with that slow, deliberate stride that made her stomach flip. "You didn't run last night."Last night. The kiss. The shelf. Her nails digging into his back as bourbon crashed around them. She swallowed, stepping back, but the wall met her spine, trapping her as he closed the distance. "That was a mistake," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "We're working together. This—" She waved a hand at the space between them, at his half-naked glory—"can't happen.""Already did." He stopped inches away, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his damp skin, smell the clean sharpness of soap mixed with that maddening cedar undertone. "And you liked it."She glared up at him, defiance sparking through the haze of want. "Doesn't mean I'll let it happen again."His laugh was low, a rumble that vibrated through her. "Liar." He reached out, brushing a damp finger along her jaw, leaving a trail of water that made her shiver. "You're here at nine because you couldn't stay away.""I'm here for the job," she snapped, swatting his hand away, though the contact sent a jolt straight to her core. "Not for you.""Keep telling yourself that." His smirk widened, and then—God help her—he tugged at the towel's knot, letting it drop to the floor in a deliberate, shameless move.She froze, her breath hitching as her eyes betrayed her again, darting down before she could stop them. He was all lean muscle and raw power, unapologetically bare, and the sight hit her like a punch—every inch of him sculpted, every line a challenge. Her face burned, her heart slamming against her ribs, and she jerked her gaze back to his, finding him watching her with a mix of triumph and heat."Zane!" she sputtered, half outrage, half something she wouldn't name, clutching her tablet tighter. "What the hell?""You looked curious." He stepped closer, unbothered by his nakedness, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Figured I'd give you the full view.""You're insane," she managed, sidestepping him toward the door, her legs shaky but determined. "Put some clothes on.""Why?" He followed, casual as if he weren't stark naked in his own hallway. "You're the one who walked in. Seems fair.""Fair?" She spun to face him, keeping her eyes firmly above his shoulders, though the effort was Herculean. "This isn't a game, Zane. I'm not here for your amusement.""No?" He tilted his head, water dripping from his hair onto his chest, drawing her gaze despite herself. "Then why'd you kiss me back last night? Why're you still standing here?"Her mouth opened, then shut, words failing her as he closed the gap again, stopping just shy of touching her. His heat enveloped her, his presence a wall she couldn't push through, and when he spoke, his voice was a velvet blade. "Admit it, Harper. You want this as much as I do.""I don't—" She stopped, the lie sticking in her throat. Because she did. She wanted him—his hands, his mouth, the reckless chaos he unleashed in her—and that truth terrified her. "I can't," she said instead, softer, almost a plea."Can't?" His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, not touching but close enough to make her skin prickle. "Or won't?""Both." She ducked under his arm, fleeing to the living room, her breath ragged as she grabbed her bag. "Specs are on the counter. Email me if you need changes.""Harper—" His voice followed her, rough with something she couldn't decipher, but she didn't look back. The elevator doors were her salvation, sliding shut on the sight of him—naked, dripping, and far too tempting—leaving her alone with her pounding heart and a body that screamed for what she'd just run from.The ride down was torture, her mind replaying every second: the towel hitting the floor, the dare in his eyes, the way her resolve had crumbled under the weight of him. She'd meant to keep this professional, to draw a line after last night, but he'd obliterated it with one bold move. And worse? She wasn't sure she regretted it.Back in her apartment, she collapsed onto the couch, her dress wrinkled and her composure shot. Her phone buzzed—another text from him: You forgot your tape measure. Come back for it? A winking emoji followed, and she groaned, tossing the phone aside. He was relentless, and she was sinking, caught in a current she didn't know how to fight.By afternoon, she'd buried herself in work, emailing him the cabinet specs with a curt Approved? and no mention of the morning. His reply came fast: Yes. And nice dress today. Shame I didn't get to peel it off. She stared at the screen, heat pooling low in her belly, and typed back Focus, Carver before deleting it unsent. Engaging was a trap, and she was already too deep.The rest of the day dragged, her mind split between design drafts and the memory of his body—wet, bare, and unapologetic. By nightfall, she was restless again, pacing her tiny living room, the rain tapping a steady rhythm against the window. She should've stayed away, should've sent the specs by courier, but something in her—something reckless and alive—had pulled her back to him. And now? Now she was drowning in it.Her phone buzzed again, and she hesitated before looking: Penthouse tomorrow. 8 p.m. Bring your fire. No emoji this time, just a command that felt like a gauntlet thrown. She didn't reply, but she knew she'd go. Not for the job, not for the specs, but for him—and the dangerous, inevitable pull she couldn't resist.