A Betting Man

Chapter Eleven

Adelaide's Point of View

Seeing Justin dripping wet was like entering the Garden of Eden. It was... fascinating - as close to perfection as I'll ever come. He was like a shaggy, wet god, his beauty so insurmountable that touching him would bring shame. I sigh and replay the image of his white shirt clinging to his defined chest again. Talk about a wet T-shirt contest – hell, I'd pay good money for that, and my lucky ass got to ogle for free. What a wonderful night it's been.

I giggle as I quickly admire his bathroom. It must be the guest bathroom, as it's immaculately clean, not a damp towel anywhere in sight. Though I wouldn't expect much less of the master bathroom... not with Justin's suddenly apparent OCD. Lord, it's like he just hovers around here, his feet never touching the ground. There's nothing, anywhere, that's out of place.

I change quickly into Justin's clothes. They smell like him – like his laundry detergent – and I stick my nose right in the fabric and take a huge whiff. It smells so good. I wonder if he'd miss these clothes, and just as I'm scheming ways to steal them I catch my reflection in the mirror and grimace. I look washed out in the bright lights, and my hair is a tangled mess. I thank the heavens that I don't wear makeup, because I could only imagine the humiliation of having raccoon eyes in front of Justin. I search the drawers for a hairbrush or comb and, to my intense surprise, find a used pink brush full of long, knotted brown hair.

I pick it up, glaring at it incredulously as if it were alive and could feel my palpable hostility.

So the man-whore allows his conquests to leave their nasty little grooming tools here? That's interesting – I wonder if this girl comes here often. She obviously got ready in his bathroom... and then I relax. Guest bathroom. Not his bathroom. But does that really make it any better? I throw it back in the drawer, and it clangs against the other items noisily. No.

A knock at the door causes me to jump. "Addie, are you all right? Did you find the towels?"

I slam the drawer shut; I feel like a kid caught smuggling from a cookie jar. "Yes, I'm fine," I say, quickly raking my fingers through my tangled locks. "I'll be out in just a second."

"I'll be downstairs, okay?" he calls through the door.

"All right."

I spend a few more seconds making myself presentable. My fingers don't work well, but I'd rather drop dead than use that hairbrush. When I'm satisfied it's not going to look any better, I turn and gather up my clothes from where they lay on the floor, a dripping, runny mess. I move to tuck my bra into the middle so Justin won't see, but then think better of it and leave it on full display atop the pile. It won't hurt to make him suffer a little more.

When I make it back downstairs, Justin is already in the kitchen cleaning again. He turns as I enter and blatantly checks me out, from head to foot, in his clothes. He grins, and I roll my eyes.

"You'll never learn, will you?" I ask. He shrugs, nonplussed. I hold out my dripping clothes, my black bra the focus point of the pile, and say, "What do you want me to do with these?"

He makes a face and quickly nods towards the exit. "Throw them outside."

"Justin! I will not!" I admonish.

"I'm just kidding, Addie. Here." He takes them from me, and I watch, with amusement, as his gaze zones in on my bra. Then to my chest. Finally, my face; he swallows hard. "Um, I'm just gonna put them in the dryer."

"Okay," I say sweetly.

"Be careful walking in here," he warns. "It's slippery."

"Uh huh."