stereo equipment lining one side of the wall.
As I entered the bathroom and slammed the door shut with a quick kick of one foot, the smooth, soothing tones of Norah Jones slipped from the speakers and filled the loft.
I groaned aloud and leaned my head against the door of the bathroom, closing my eyes in frustration. Oh, God, was he doing this on purpose? Was he looking to ignite me into a single roaring flame of sexual desire?
I bent over the tub and turned on the cold tap. Forget the hot shower. I was going to need to freeze out the scorching heat coursing through my bloodstream if I intended to go back into the same room as Jack O’Brien and converse like a rational, coherent human being.
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