I have limited options, so I follow the driveway to the back of the house, past the detached garage, and down a short path that leads to a quaint bungalow. Beyond that is an Olympic-size pool.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, scaring the crap out of me, and I nearly stumble into a rosebush. I check to see if maybe it’s Queenie messaging, finally, but it’s Hanna. While I’m generally pretty open with her about things, I never mentioned my one-night stand, and I’ve been avoiding the family chat today because I’m freaked out. I’m sure she’s noticed.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and knock on the door of the bungalow. After thirty seconds, no one answers, so I knock a second time but still get nothing. Maybe she’s by the pool. I round the back of the bungalow. A small table and a pair of lounge chairs are arranged close to the back door.

I scan the pool area, but it’s empty of Queenie. She has to be inside.

I approach the back door and have to step over a potted plant and some empty containers. I open the screen door, which groans on its hinges, and knock for the third time. Curtains cover the windows, but there’s a small gap in the gauzy fabric, allowing me an inadvertent glimpse inside.

The floor plan is open concept, so I can see from one end of the small bungalow to the other. The place is messy, dishes littering the counter, clothes layered over chairs. In one corner of the kitchen is an easel draped with a paint-streaked white sheet.

I’m poised to knock again, when Queenie appears in the narrow gap. Between one blink and the next the pretty navy dress she was wearing today slips over her shoulders, exposing her bra straps. She’s undressing in the middle of her living room.

I take a quick step back, aware this is a horrible invasion of privacy. I trip over a ceramic flowerpot and stumble into one of the lounge chairs. It tips over, landing on the stone patio with a loud crash.

I freeze as the curtain is yanked open. One of her arms is barred across her chest, covering most of her bra and her cleavage. Most, but not all. The top half of her dress hangs loose around her waist. It takes an incredible amount of willpower to keep my eyes from dipping down, away from her face.

Queenie’s gorgeous wide eyes meet mine through the glass. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows pull down and then shoot up. “What the fuck?” Her voice is slightly muffled through the glass, but I can still hear her as clearly as I can see her.

The curtain drops, and her form moves away from the window. I hope she doesn’t call the police on me.

“Queenie?” I knock on the window and whisper-yell. “I’m sorry. It’s not what it looks like!”

A few seconds later the lock clicks. The storm door flies open as Queenie appears, again. “So you weren’t watching me get undressed?”

“I knocked a bunch of times, but you didn’t answer. I didn’t know you were getting changed. I’m sorry.” I’ve raised a hand to cover my eyes when she lowers the arm barred across her chest. I’m not quite fast enough, so I catch a glimpse of pink lace cups before my hand is in place and my lids are closed.

Several very long seconds later, she tugs on the back of my hand. I allow it to drop but keep my eyes closed. “Are you decent?”

“You didn’t seem to be too worried about my decency when you were peeking in my window.”

“It was an accident. And you were changing in your living room.”

“Usually there aren’t random hockey players spying on me. And you can open your eyes.”

I crack a lid, relieved to find she’s wearing a wrinkled tank top. “I’m so—”

“Sorry, yeah. You keep saying that. What’re you doing here?”

“I followed you home.” That sounds far worse coming out of my mouth than the actual act of tailing her felt while I was doing it. “I mean, I waited for you in the parking lot, but you got into the Uber before I could catch you. We need to talk. I promise I’m not a stalker.”

She rubs the space between her eyes, but after a few seconds she steps back. “Well, come in then.”

I cross the threshold and find myself submerged in her scent. It’s a combination of a subtle floral perfume, lotion, and her vanilla shampoo. My sheets held that combination after she spent the night. In my bed. Naked. With me. Which I need to stop thinking about.

Her dress is still hanging off her hips. She crosses over to a small dining table and grabs a pair of shorts draped over the back of one of the chairs. I avert my eyes again as she pulls the shorts up her legs. She tugs the dress past her hips, and it drops to the floor. Queenie steps out of the puddle of fabric, nabs it from the floor, and tosses it over the back of the chair. Maybe she doesn’t own a laundry hamper.