He stood under the showerhead, steam swirling around his tall frame.
That face–so breathtaking it almost felt sacrilegious to look at–was now marked by closed eyes, lost in the moment.
His dark hair, slick and wet, dripped water down his neck.
Rivulets traced the sculpted lines of his back, each droplet gliding along skin stretched taut over lean muscle.
Any further down and-
She snapped her gaze away in panic.
“Have you seen enough?” a deep, husky voice burned through the mist.
Celestine’s face flamed red as she slammed the bathroom door shut with a bang.
Standing just outside, she stammered, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Prescott, I thought the pipes were leaking!”
Why on earth hadn’t he locked the door?
Well–it was his home, after all. Maybe he just wasn’t used to locking up.
What if he thought she was some kind of creep?
Celestine wanted to melt into the floor with embarrassment.
She hovered, mortified, barely daring to breathe. No sound came from inside.
She was just about to tiptoe back to her room when the bathroom door swung
open.
He stepped out, wreathed in steam, a white towel slung low around his hips. The towel clung just right, accentuating the chiseled lines of his abs and the deep grooves of his hips.
Celestine threw a quick glance his way–then instantly looked away, voice barely above a whisper. “I really didn’t mean to. I swear.”
Gideon’s eyes were half–lidded, his expression unreadable as he took in the furious blush on her cheeks.
“I suppose Miss Selwyn didn’t do it on purpose,” he drawled. “But imagine my surprise: you show up out of nowhere in my house, and then suddenly barge into
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my bathroom while I’m in the shower.”
“I swear it wasn’t on purpose! Cynthia was scared to sleep alone, so I came to keep her company. I didn’t know you were home—I thought the bathroom was flooding and the door was unlocked, so…” Celestine’s voice trailed off, growing smaller with every word.
Under his steady, inscrutable stare, she wilted.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Anyway, if I’d known it was you in the shower, Mr. Prescott, I’d never have opened the door!”
“Oh?” Gideon’s eyes glinted, his tone cool and teasing. “So I’m so hideous now, Miss Selwyn can’t even bear to look at me?”
Celestine wanted to pry open his skull and check what went on inside.
Was that really the point? Why was he focusing on this?
Shouldn’t they be worried about clearing up the awkwardness between them?
“That’s not it. Goodnight,” she muttered, giving up on any further explanation and making a break for her room.
Gideon watched her flee, noting the way her ears glowed crimson, as if they’d burst into flames.
He couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips.
Hurry up and get divorced, Miss Selwyn.
The next morning, Celestine dressed a groggy Cynthia and then bolted from the Prescott estate like a fugitive.
Last night, she’d forgotten that while Clifton was away, Cynthia’s uncle was still in town and could come home at any time.
She’d never felt so foolish.
Even after a sleepless night, her mind kept replaying the image of Gideon in the shower, the mortifying moment she’d barged in.
The memory alone was enough to make her want to move out immediately.
But as it turned out, things could get even worse.
She opened Gideon’s chat window, intending to send a half–baked explanation–only
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to see, to her horror, that the message she’d meant for Mirabelle last night was sitting right there in Gideon’s conversation.
Celestine stabbed at the screen–off button in panic.
This was a nightmare.
She raked her fingers through her hair in despair.
Celestine had always dismissed the cliché that pregnancy made you scatterbrained, but for the first time, she wondered if it might be true.
How could she make such a rookie mistake?
She buried her face in her knees, mortified.
Worried she might run into Gideon if she left the house, she filed for remote work and stayed home.
The week passed in a tense, uneasy quiet.
Cynthia knocked on her door twice, asking her to come over and keep her company at night. Even when Cynthia swore her uncle was out of the country, Celestine couldn’t bring herself to risk it.
Instead, she had Cynthia bring her blanket and sleep at her place.
That Saturday, Celestine received a call from her grandfather, inviting her back to the family home for dinner.
He asked her to bring along the congratulatory gift for Alistair as well.
Her grandfather lived in Edencrest, a town perched just outside Oceanview City–a three–hour drive, give or take. Not close, but not impossibly far.
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