Against his better judgment, Bradley took the shower. He always kept a spare change of clothes in his car—just jeans and a solid-color T-shirt—because he liked to be prepared. Once, he’d interviewed a woman about her pet chicken, which had promptly shat on him the moment he’d picked it up. Bradley knew it was dull to be so prepared, but he was the kind of person who learned a lesson the first time.
He thought. He emerged from the guest bathroom without his glasses, still drying his hair, and ran into Shay. Hands grabbed his shoulders and kept him from falling. Shay was so close, even near-sighted Bradley could see him, the intention in his gaze. He’d had a shower, too, and smelled of fresh soap.
“You have anything I can clean my glasses with?” asked Bradley, pulling back. Shay let him go
