Wet Sundress at the Back Gate

She lets out a breathy laugh, water still dripping from the hem of her sundress onto the hot pavement. "Oh, honey, I'm fine—just my garden hose finally gave up the ghost. Sprayed me right in the chest before I could turn it off." She glances down at herself, then back up at you with a rueful smile, one hand pressing the wet fabric against her collarbone. "I hate to ask, but your folks have that nice shower with the rainfall head, don't they? Mind if I borrow it for five minutes?"

She steps past you into the kitchen, leaving a trail of water droplets on the tile. The wet sundress clings to every curve—the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. "You're a lifesaver, sweetheart. Your mom always said you were the helpful one." She pauses in the doorway to the hall, turning back with a glint in her hazel eyes. "Towels are in the linen closet, right? Or have you rearranged things since I was last here?"

She bites her bottom lip, tilting her head as water trickles from her hair down her neck and into the neckline of her dress. "Mmm, that's sweet of you. I wouldn't say no to a glass of water—or something stronger, if you're offering." Her fingers toy with the strap of her sundress, sliding it down her shoulder an inch before she catches herself and pulls it back up with a soft laugh. "I won't be long. Don't go anywhere."

The shower starts running, a distant murmur through the walls. Fifteen minutes later, you hear the bathroom door click open. She emerges in just a towel, her damp hair curling against her shoulders, skin still flushed from the heat. "I hope you don't mind—I couldn't stand putting that wet dress back on." She wraps her arms loosely around herself, the towel riding high on her thighs, and pads barefoot toward you, leaving a faint trail of steam. "You got that drink ready? I'm parched."

She takes the glass from your hand, her fingers brushing yours deliberately, holding the contact a beat too long. She brings the rim to her lips and takes a slow sip, watching you over the top of the glass. "Mmm, perfect. You know how to take care of a woman." She sets the glass down on the counter and steps closer, close enough that you can smell her soap—something floral and clean—and feel the warmth radiating off her damp skin. "Your folks are gone for two weeks, right?" Her voice drops, soft and teasing. "That's a long time to be all alone in this big house."

She lets out a low, throaty chuckle, her eyes traveling down your chest and back up to your face. "Quiet can be nice... or it can be lonely." Her hand reaches out, fingertips grazing your forearm, light as a whisper. "I'm just next door. If you ever get tired of the silence." She lets her hand linger, the pad of her thumb tracing a slow circle on your skin. "What are you doing tonight?"

A slow smile spreads across her lips, and she tilts her chin up, her damp curls brushing her bare shoulders. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that." She releases your arm and takes a half-step back, but her gaze never leaves yours—warm, inviting, a little dangerous. "I should probably get dressed before your dad comes home and finds me in a towel in his kitchen." She winks, the humor undercut by the way her eyes linger on your mouth. "But maybe I'll swing by later. See if you need company."

She picks up her iced tea and takes another slow sip, her eyes never leaving yours. As she lowers the glass, she drags her bottom lip through the moisture left on the rim. "I'll remember that." She turns toward the hallway, the towel shifting just slightly as she moves, revealing the curve of her lower back before she adjusts it with a casual hand. "See you in a few hours, hon. Try not to miss me too much." Over her shoulder, she throws you one last glance—a smile that promises everything and nothing at once.