Inside the elegant yet unpretentious bedroom, Maxwell Peary stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, clad in a bathrobe, a glass of red wine gently swirling in his hand.
In the soft light, his long lashes cast shadows beneath them, lending his chiseled profile greater depth.
His lips curved slightly. After taking a sip of wine, he glanced at his watch, then nonchalantly toward the bathroom.
"Nia Mitchell, you've been showering for an hour now."
The sound of running water had halted moments before. Nia Mitchell tightened her bathrobe, leaning anxiously against the bathroom wall.
"I'm not done yet!"
Nia cried out in embarrassment. As if afraid he wouldn't believe her, she quickly turned on the showerhead, and water gushed out.
"AH!"
Nia had forgotten she was already clean and wearing her bathrobe; as the water poured down, she was instantly drenched.
"What's wrong?"
