Nigel St. James is naked in your house. I jump when I hear the door close upstairs, wound tight with nervous energy. When Nigel walks into the kitchen his hair is slightly mussed from pulling the collar of his shirt over his head, and there is a bare strip of ankle showing above his sock where he didn’t pull the leg of his joggers all the way down. He clears his throat and I tear my eyes away, ashamed that he caught me staring. At his ankle, no less, like some Victorian era creep.
