Nathaniel had no idea what he expected when he opened Clara's door that morning.
Certainly not that.
One moment he'd been worried — genuinely worried — because she hadn't answered, because he'd heard something fall, because his mind always jumped to the worst possible outcome when it came to her safety.
The next moment…
His breath hitched at the memory, and he dragged a hand down his face in disbelief. He shouldn't even be thinking about it — but his brain refused to let it go.
Clara.
Naked.
Right there.
The image burned behind his eyelids like a brand. Her startled gasp. The way she'd grabbed the towel. Her wide eyes, flushed cheeks, the way her damp hair clung to the curve of her neck —
"Stop," Nathaniel muttered under his breath as he sat in his office, elbows on his desk, palms pressed to his temples. "You absolute idiot. Stop thinking about it."
He scolded himself for the hundredth time since that morning. He was being immature and totally disrespectful towards Clara.
