Chapter 5: Bedroom Confessions and Cold Showers

Back at our three-bedroom colonial with the white picket fence, Ryan went straight to the shower. I sat on the bed, hands sweating around the small boxes.

The water ran, pipes creaking in that old-house way. My heart pounded like crazy. The water cut off—sudden, deafening silence.

He emerged with damp, tousled hair and water beads sliding down his jaw. Shoulders broad, arms muscular, farmer’s tan peeking out, and that V-line showing above the towel. He looked like a Calvin Klein ad. I swallowed hard.

He stood by the bed, casting a shadow over me, voice cold as Minnesota in January:

“Was the model’s waist nice to touch? Did you enjoy it?”

My heart sank. He was still hung up on that. Men and their egos.

“No, no…” I shook my head so hard I got dizzy. “Not at all, yours is the best. Those guys had nothing on you.”

“It was really an accident. The mojitos made me do it.”

He leaned down, interrogating me with a stern face:

“Why did you go to a nightclub to look at male models?”

I held up three fingers, looking pitiful:

“I swear, Ashley dragged me. She said it was just dinner! I didn’t want to go, but she guilt-tripped me about missing her last three birthdays.”

“How could they compare to you? You’re prime rib, they’re McNuggets.”

He laughed coldly:

“Ashley’s statement says everything was ordered for you. She didn’t touch anyone. We have receipts.”

Wow. That’s what best friends are for—selling you out at the first sign of police.

He still looked icy:

“You know one of those guys was a wanted fraud suspect? Interstate wire fraud. We’ve been tracking him for months.”

My stomach dropped. My face flushed hot with guilt and surprise. I guiltily grabbed his hand, scooting closer on the king-size bed:

“Honey, I really know I was wrong. How about a kiss to make you feel better? Or several?”

His breathing hitched. He leaned down, all cold fire and hot tension.

I seized the moment, kissing him hard—mint toothpaste and something uniquely him.

“I’m sorry, honey…” I whispered. “I was wrong, but not forgiving me would be your mistake.”

Who told me to be unfaithful? My hormones. Who told me to be crazy about him? My heart, always with the worst timing.

I tried to sweet-talk him, running my fingers through his hair. He finally cracked a crooked smile.

He looked down at me with a dangerous glint:

“If you’re wrong, shouldn’t you be punished?”

He opened the small box with practiced efficiency. Wait, how practiced?

I became his willing prisoner—this time with way less clothing.

He interrogated me, voice low:

“Will you touch other men again?”

“No, never…”

“Will you lie to me again?”

“Never…”

I confessed, loudly, until the neighbors probably knew my sins.

Three minutes later:

“Emma…”

“Yeah?”

“I… I can’t hold back…” His voice was hoarse, desperate.

Me: ??? Already?

Awkward silence. I could hear the clock ticking.

“Emma, I…”

He blushed—actually blushed—trying to say something.

His phone blared with that awful police siren ringtone:

“Sergeant Jackson, the suspect’s been spotted! Corner of Fifth and Main!”

His face shifted from embarrassed to all business.

Without a word, he bolted upright, sheets tangled, dressing at lightning speed.

“I have to go. This is the fraud suspect—we can’t let him get away.”

Me: Are you kidding me?

After three minutes of hot-and-cold chaos, he was running off to chase another criminal.

I sat naked on the bed, watching him sprint out as if the house were on fire.

I roared:

“Ryan Jackson, are you even human?! We were in the middle of something!”

He didn’t look back. Just grabbed his keys and gun. Didn’t even glance at me. The audacity!