I ease out of her, remove the condom, then scoop her into my arms. She’s still all gorgeously drugged out. “Take a shower with me,” I say.

She gives a soft yes, and the look in her eyes also says that’s exactly where she wants to be.

8LOGAN

In the bathroom, I toss the condom, turn on the shower in the claw-foot tub, and adjust the temperature.

She steps under first, and I survey the tiny room out of curiosity. I want to know her, and bathrooms can offer a sneak peek at who someone really is.

The space is bursting with personality, the vanity lined with cruelty-free lotions in tropical scents, the pristine walls covered with framed illustrations of fifties housewives saying things like Some people are like clouds. When they disappear, it’s a brighter day, or a cheery blonde receptionist clutching an old-fashioned phone with a cartoon bubble over her head reading My business is my business. So, unless you’re a thong, don’t be up my ass.

I point my thumb at that one. “Very clever.”

“It was either that or a cheesy corporate image of a mountain with a saying like Determination,” she remarks as she tests the spray of water.

“I’m glad you don’t have that in the bathroom.”

“Or anywhere, for that matter.”

“Indeed,” I say as I join her under the water, yanking the curtain closed. We’re in a cocoon of steam and heat.

There, I savor this moment. The blissful after-sex moment that comes from knowing you both wanted it the same way, you both liked it the same way.

Something I haven’t experienced in a damn long time.

Over the years, my ex-wife and I became less compatible in the bedroom, just as we did in life. We became less connected. Maybe because in one decade we’d never communicated as explicitly as Bryn and I have in just one night.

Or maybe because we never truly wanted the same things, the same way.

That’s a new kind of pleasure.

The before, the during, and the after.

It ignites something deeper than desire. Something like a wish.

A wish for more.

A wish, too, to understand Bryn.

To talk to her. To peel back some of the layers I saw tonight. I grab the body wash, squirt some into my hands, and let them roam over her skin. She hums on a long exhale. “That feels good.”

“You feel good,” I say as I wash her arms, her belly, her breasts. “And so do your breasts. Why did you think I wouldn’t like them?”

She shrugs. “Because most guys think they like fake breasts, then they touch them and realize it’s just the idea of them they like.”

I slide my hands over them as the water pounds down on us, screwing up my face like I’m considering, evaluating. “Let’s see . . .” I glance down at my dick, half soft but perking up as I touch her. “Seems I like both the idea and the reality.”

She laughs, but then her humor fades. “Are you going to ask why I have them?”

“Do you want me to?”

She nods.

“Why do you have them?” I ask as she takes the gel and washes the rest of her body.

“Because I was tiny as a teenager. My breasts were tiny. Like, nearly flat in high school. And I was fine with that. I had brains, confidence, and a mouth.”

I run a finger across her bottom lip. “You’re very mouthy.”

She nibbles on my finger, playfully biting it. “I am. But by the time I was twenty-five, I decided I wouldn’t mind if they were a cup size bigger. So, as a birthday present, I bought myself some Bs. I figured there was no reason not to give myself a little boost when I could.”

“So, you did it for you.”

“I did it for me.”

“Seems like a damn good reason,” I say.

The nervousness flickers again in her irises. “You really don’t mind how they feel?”

I scoff. “I’m all good with everything,” I say, looping a hand around her waist as the hot water beats down. I don’t want to let her go. And I don’t want this to be a one-night-only thing. “So good that I’d like to see you again.”

She shimmies her shoulders. “Because of my girls?” she asks coyly.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope. Because I like talking to you and I like fucking you. Want to do this a second time?”

She nods, ropes her arms around my neck, and kisses me in the shower. “I would love to see you again.”

A little later, after we order and devour cold sesame noodles and chicken lo mein while sitting cross-legged on the couch, a large black tabby strides out of the bedroom.

I do a double-take. “You have a cat?”

“I do?”

“I don’t know, Bryn. Do you?”

“I had no idea. Is there a cat here?”

The black cat lifts his chin, sniffs the air, and saunters over to us. He stands on his back legs, setting his paws on Bryn’s knees. “Meow?”

I hold up an I’ve got this hand. “My cat translator is telling me he’s asking for a bite.”

“Did you wake up to ask for food, Bruce, you handsome devil?” She reaches out and strokes his head. He presses against her, and as he does, the light plays across his fur, revealing that he’s almost . . . striped.

“Your cat has cool markings. It’s almost like he’s got stripes, but only in certain light.”

“I considered calling him Jailbird, since he looks like he’s wearing a prison jumpsuit,” she says. “Plus, he’s kind of on house arrest here if you think about it.”