The One Who Loves You by Grant Pippa

Author:Grant, Pippa [Grant, Pippa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Adult, Humour
ISBN: 9781542037662
Amazon: B09K7JW1G7
Goodreads: 59720164
Publisher: Montlake
Published: 2022-07-12T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Phoebe

Marriage is something I used to think I’d only consider for the right man, with the right name, the right genes, the right look, the right job, and the right inherent respect for the fact that I would be the one who wore the pantsuit in the family.

But I’m fairly certain I would marry Teague Miller just for his bathroom.

Never mind all the awkward lack of eye contact when we finally made it off the floor a little bit ago, when he pointed me to a door I hadn’t noticed, hiding a bathroom so small that you can practically shower, sit on the toilet, and wash your hands in the sink all at the same time, and grunted something about fresh towels, like he, too, was overwhelmed by what we’d just done and in no shape to deal with it.

I would 100 percent marry Teague Miller right now.

Just for his shower.

Yep.

Not at all for the way he just gets me. How he knows when to spar. When to provoke. When to be kind. When to bang me so good that one hard, hot lay changes my life.

Which is ridiculous.

It wasn’t that good.

Not like this shower.

Really.

It’s only the hot water that’s confusing me, because the awkward aftermath was 100 percent real—and 110 percent a bad sign for anything resembling a real relationship forming from this.

“Oh my God, this is so good,” I groan while I stand in the dinky little shower, steam rising all around me, my body flushed with both sexual satisfaction and the pounding of hot water against my skin.

I will never take hot showers for granted again.

Never.

Ever.

Ever.

Again.

I try to hug the water droplets. There’s nothing complicated about how they make me feel. “I love you, hot water. I love you so much.”

There’s a knock at the door. “Do you have clean clothes?” Teague calls.

“I don’t need them. I’m never leaving your shower.”

The door cracks open.

I peer through the foggy glass surrounding me, but I don’t see him stick his head in.

Which means he’s trying to chill me out.

Amateur.

Okay, fine. Maybe he’s considering joining me.

And maybe I want him to, even if I don’t know where he’ll fit, except possibly inside me again.

But I can’t say that.

Can I?

“You can let the steam out all you want,” I call. “I’ll make more.”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

The scents of chocolate and vanilla mixing with my steam answer for him.

Oh my God.

He’s making chocolate chip cookies.

Is that why I’ve been smelling chocolate here and there all over Tickled Pink amid the lake-fish smell? Because he makes chocolate chip cookies all the time?

My mouth floods, and I suck in a bit of drool before it can slip down my chin. No one’s here to witness it, but I’d know if I drooled in the shower.

“You’re playing dirty,” I call. Is it possible to love a man who keeps making me fall into lakes, who doesn’t take any of my shit, who wants me to leave his town, and who lives in a tree house?

“Only way to play,” he calls back.

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