She walked in front of him and headed up the stairs. Her legs looked smooth and damp, well-muscled and slender. When she got to the landing, she dug in the pocket of her jean shorts, the action tugging wet fabric against the juncture of her thighs. He stared at the numeral 3 on the front of her door and made himself consider the Dodgers-Mets series opening in New York today.

The door swung open and he followed her inside. Cool air hit his wet body.

“Oh . . . I’m sorry,” she said, kicking off her sandals and rushing through the foyer. “I left the air-conditioning on high. It was...