“I can handle it.”

“No really, it’s fine.” His eyes are wide. They dart down and back up a couple of times, so I follow them, not understanding why he won’t let me take the bin. And then he lowers it enough so that I can see exactly what the issue is. And what an issue it is. Ethan has a hard-on tenting his wet, nearly transparent boxers, and all that damp fabric is clinging to the contours, giving me a very clear view of said issue.

I pry my eyes away—it’s a lot more challenging than I want it to be—and motion to what he’s hiding behind the bin. “What the hell is that about?” I hiss lowly.

His cheeks flush a little, but he’s still smirking, probably because my face is on fire. “You were just touching me, and your boobs were against my back,” he whispers.

He’s not looking me in the eye—instead his gaze is trained on the part of my body he’s just referenced. The cotton is wet from his back, drawing more attention there. I’m halfway to cupping them for protective measure, considering how my nipples are responding to his stare, when he raises his voice and asks, “Would you be able to grab me a towel, please?”

“Right, yes! Of course!” I’d do just about anything to get some space. I take the stairs two at a time and disappear down the hallway. The image of Ethan’s erection pushing against the wet fabric seems to have seared itself into the backs of my lids. I don’t remember him being that ample, but then it’s been almost a decade since I’ve seen Ethan’s hard-on, bare or covered with fabric. I shake my head as if it will erase the image like an Etch A Sketch. It doesn’t help at all. All of my sensitive places are begging for some kind of friction.

I take a few more deep breaths, grab a towel from the linen closet in the bathroom—it’s pink with a rose print—and head back downstairs, taking my time on the descent.

Ethan’s standing where I left him, still holding the grocery bin. I drop the towel on top and grab the handles along the side with what I hope is a placid, collected smile.

Ethan tips his chin, that infuriating smile I know so well making the dimple under his right eye pop as he relinquishes his shield and takes the towel. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I step back as he shakes it out at crotch level, then laugh when I realize it’s a hand towel.

He lifts a brow. “Not sure this is going to do the job.”

“You can make it work.” I turn away and cross through to the kitchen, where Jeannie is slicing a loaf of fresh bread, very glad my own physical response to Ethan can remain hidden. Her eyes are rimmed with dark shadows, betraying too little sleep and too much stress, but her smile is real.

“Thank you for picking those things up. You always know just what I need. I’m so scattered these days.” I accept her embrace, absorbing the affection she gives so willingly. “Do not even think about traipsing through the house in that dripping suit!” Jeannie calls over my shoulder.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mom,” Ethan replies.

Jeannie releases me on a gasp. “Ethan Martin Kase!”

“I’ll hang it up once I’m changed!”

He appears in my peripheral vision; that tiny floral printed hand towel covers just the part that matters. He’s left the wet boxers on the mat by the door, so I catch a glimpse of his bare ass as he disappears down the stairs to the basement.

“That boy,” Jeannie says, but there’s a smile fighting for play on her lips.

“He probably would’ve done well in a nudist colony if the whole career in hockey hadn’t worked out.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Although it wasn’t quite so defined back then.

Jeannie barks a laugh, and I cringe at how inappropriate that was.

“Anyway—” I turn my attention to the bin of groceries and start unpacking. “I picked up those chocolate and strawberry meal replacements so Martin can get the calories in like we talked about.”

“I appreciate that and I’m sure he will, too,” she murmurs.

“Everything okay?” I ask as she passes me the chopping board and berries so I can hull them and make a smoothie for Martin. He’s picky about smoothies and I seem to be the only one who can do them “the right way.”

“I don’t think he slept that well. He’s having an off morning.”

That means he’s in a mood. I’ve experienced Martin’s crankiness plenty of times over the years. This isn’t the same, though. Before the stroke he could find ways to manage the anger or frustration. He could take off in his boat and go fishing for hours, or tinker on his old Chevy in the garage, or work on one of his little projects. But now all he can do is stew inside his own mind, unable to verbalize his frustrations without succumbing to further irritation. It’s an unending cycle that will take work to break free of.

As we finish loading the blender, Ethan appears at the top of the staircase, hair still wild, shirt still missing, but wearing a pair of dry shorts, carrying a T-shirt and what I assume is his toiletry bag.

I glance at his fly. I wonder if he took care of his situation while he was in the basement.

“Ethan, put a shirt on!” Jeannie scolds.

“I have to shower.” He drops his T-shirt on the back of the couch, which has been moved to make it easier for Martin to get around. I think he’s parading around shirtless on purpose, because he keeps running his hand over his pecs like he’s feeling himself up, or trying to draw attention to his bare chest. Which he doesn’t need to do, because it draws enough attention without his assistance.