The Bride Test by Helen Hoang Page B

teeth on his own lip. His stomach muscles tightened, and his senses sharpened. She was pretty even without makeup, wholesome, more
real
. The water drops on her smooth skin stood out in perfect clarity, calling to him. Something told him they would taste better than regular water. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but he hardened even further.
    Fuck.
    Doing his best to shield his boner from hell, he got up from bed and limp-scuffled into the bathroom— the only renovated room in his house. Then he stood in front of the shower and watched in awe as the lights flashed rainbow colors and water spurted from the nozzles concealed in the ceiling and along the sides. How had she done that? He hadn’t known there was a car-wash mode.
    “Is the shower broken? I’ll pay to fix it,” Esme said.
    “No, I think you just hit the wrong buttons.” A lot of them. Maybe all of them at once. Or perhaps it was like in a video game where you had to hit the buttons in a certain order. She’d accidentally found the secret combination they didn’t disclose in the manual.
    There was nothing else for it. He had to go in.
    He took a breath and marched in there in his boxers. Warm water soaked him from all directions, drenching his hair and massaging his muscles. It would have been nice if it weren’t for the flashing lights, his now-wet underwear, and his audience. When he reached the control panel, he hit the power button. The lights stopped cycling color, and the deluge cut off. Residual water trickled from the nozzles and hit the floor with intimate drips.
    He slicked his hair back and said, “Come here, and I’ll show you how to turn it on.”
    Ducking her head and hugging her towel to her chest, she came to stand next to him.
    “You hit the power button first, here. This turns it off, too. And I usually use rain mode, which is here. Just two buttons. Like this, see?” He pressed the buttons, and water washed down on them in a gentle downpour. “Got it?”
    She nodded. “You fixed it?”
    “It wasn’t broken.”
    Her shoulders sagged as she released a relieved breath and smiled at him. When the water ran into her eyes, she swiped a hand over her face, but it was no use. They were standing in the shower with the water on. Each second, her towel got more soaked. She should remove it.
    But then she’d be naked. With him. Surrounded by water and steam and misted stone walls.
    That odd state of heightened awareness returned, stronger this time. The roar of the pouring water grew louder, and he felt each water drop dissolving against his skin like a tiny kiss. Images of him peeling the wet towel off her flashed in his mind, but her body remained fuzzy from her chest down to her thighs. He didn’t know how to envision her there. But he wanted to. No, he didn’t. Yes, he did. No, he really didn’t. He didn’t need that imagery rambling around his perverted head.
    “We’re smart, huh?” she said with a grin. “We’re cleaning clothes, towels, and bodies at the same time. It saves water.”
    “I’m not sure we’re getting any cleaner.”
    She ducked her head and wiped the water from her eyes. “I’m just joking around.”
    “Are you ever serious?” he asked.
    She lifted an elegant shoulder and aimed a helpless sort of smile at him. “I only want you to be yourself with me.”
    “I am.” Wasn’t he? He certainly wasn’t pretending to be someone else, but if he looked at things objectively, that was what the people around him usually wanted— for him to act differently, more appropriate, more intuitive, more considerate, less eccentric, less ... himself. Did she really not mind him as he was?
    Her smile widened, and all he could do was stare. Strange, incomprehensible, beautiful woman. She said the funniest things and smiled
all the time
. His fingers itched to touch that smile, and he stepped away out of self-preservation.
    “I’ll leave you to shower. Feel free to use the other towel over there.”
    He fled. The