Gabrielle
My heart pounded against my ribs as I silently slipped off the bed, my bare feet pressing into the cold hardwood. My fingers scrambled across the nightstand and closed around the first object they found—a heavy ceramic sculpture, an abstract piece Caleb had bought years ago. I gripped it like a weapon, knuckles white, and crept toward the bathroom door. It stood slightly ajar, and a thin wisp of steam curled through the gap like a serpent.
The shower had definitely been running. I could hear the faint drip of water now, as if someone had just turned it off. My pulse thrummed in my ears. Who could possibly be in there? Caleb was downstairs. The chef wasn't due for hours. My mind raced through worst‑case scenarios—an intruder, a stalker, a former employee with a grudge against my brother.
I raised the sculpture, ready to swing, when the bathroom door suddenly swung open all the way.
A man stepped out, a white towel wrapped low around his hips, another towel scrubbing vigorously at his wet, golden hair. He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad, sculpted shoulders and a lean, athletic build that spoke of regular gym sessions or maybe just good genetics. Water droplets still glistened on his tanned skin, trailing in rivulets down his chest and over the defined ridges of his abdomen.
Six‑pack. He had a very obvious, very distracting six‑pack.
I froze, my brain short‑circuiting completely. The ceramic sculpture dangled uselessly in my grip, trembling with my fingers. Every coherent thought evaporated into the steam‑filled air. I had been prepared for a burglar, not for… this.
The man lowered the towel from his face, shaking his damp hair out of his eyes, and I found myself staring into a pair of familiar blue irises. Familiar, yet I couldn't place why. There was something about the curve of his jaw, the tilt of his brow, that tugged at a buried corner of my memory.
Current situation: On my first day back home, I had found a half‑naked, impossibly handsome stranger in my own bathroom. By any standard, this was a situation that warranted screaming. Loudly.
So I did exactly that. I dare say my voice was loud enough to startle every bird roosting in the ancient oaks surrounding Oak Manor into panicked, flapping flight. The sound ricocheted off the walls and probably reached the neighboring estate.
He startled, his eyes narrowing, but he didn't flinch. His hands remained steady on the towel. "Put that down. I'm not a burglar."
Then he stared at me, his gaze cold and assessing. "Who are you? Caleb's girlfriend?" His voice was deep, flat, with no trace of warmth.
"You know my brother?" My guard lowered slightly, though my grip on the ceramic piece remained tight. So this guy was probably an acquaintance or business partner of Caleb's. That made sense—Caleb often let friends stay over.
"Wait… Gabrielle, you're Gabrielle, right?" He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"What… who are you?" My voice came out sharper than intended. This man with the perfect abs had actually called me by name. He knew me? I hadn't lived at Oak Manor for two years, and I certainly didn't remember meeting anyone who looked like a fitness model.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting the towel around his waist with practiced ease, his deep blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on me. His expression remained unreadable, almost stern. "It's me. Nathaniel. Your old neighbor."
Childhood memories came flooding back like a dam bursting. That lanky, earnest boy from next door—the one with scabby knees and a stutter when he got excited—gradually overlapped with the sharp‑featured, confidently posed man before me now. He had changed so much: his frame had filled out, his jaw had squared, his voice had deepened into something smooth and resonant. But the one thing that remained unchanged was those deep blue eyes, still holding that same gentle warmth I remembered—though now it was buried beneath a layer of cool composure.
When I realized I was still staring at his face—well, staring at him in general—I felt heat rush to my cheeks. I moved my gaze away, fixing it on the far wall, but it was too late. The image of those perfectly sculpted abs was already burned into my memory, right next to the childhood snapshot of a boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces in front of me.
"I—" Before I could get another word out, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Caleb's voice rang out, sharp with concern: "Gabby? You okay? I heard a scream—"
He appeared in my doorway, took one look at the scene before him—me brandishing a ceramic sculpture like a caveman, Nathaniel half‑naked and dripping wet in my bathroom doorway—and burst out laughing. His laughter echoed down the hallway, deep and unapologetic.
"Oh my God," Caleb wheezed, leaning against the doorframe for support. "This is better than I imagined."
"Caleb!" I hissed, my face burning even hotter. "What is going on? Why is he—why is Nathaniel—in my bathroom?"
Caleb wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. "Right, I forgot to mention. Nathaniel's moved back. He bought his family's old house—the one next door. We've been catching up."
"His bathroom doesn't work?" I demanded, gesturing wildly with the sculpture.
Nathaniel answered before Caleb could, his voice clipped and matter‑of‑fact: "Water heater broke. Repair's scheduled for tomorrow. Caleb offered his spare bathroom." He glanced at me, his expression unchanged. "I didn't know you were coming back today."
"Don't you think it's inappropriate to borrow the bathroom in a lady's bedroom?" I blushed furiously but refused to back down verbally. I lowered the sculpture slightly, though I kept it within reach.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Noted. Won't happen again." No apology, no banter—just a cold promise.
"Could you at least put some clothes on?" I shot back, my voice steadier now, though my heart still raced.
Nathaniel's eyes flickered—a flash of something unreadable—but he simply inclined his head, grabbed his shirt from the counter, and walked past me without another word. As he passed, I caught a faint scent of cedar and soap.
Nathaniel. The boy who used to build forts with us in the backyard. The one who always saved me the biggest piece of cake at family picnics and who once cried when I fell out of a tree and scraped my arm. When he was a teenager, he'd been all elbows and knees, earnest in everything he did—a boy who blushed and got embarrassed very easily, especially when I caught him staring.
This—this cold, unapproachable man who had just dismissed me with a curt nod—was not the Nathaniel I remembered.
