Puffing out a sharp breath, I press my thumb against the doorbell. Inside the house, a dog barks. I wait, my hands clutching to the handles of my bags. Water drips down my neck, between my breasts, off the tip of my nose. The door swings open to reveal Jake standing there in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts, a bag of Garden Salsa Sun Chips in his hand. “Tess,” he cries. “Hey, Jake,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
