I turn to leave and nearly crash right into Karlsson. He’s wearing nothing but a little white towel around his waist, his hair still dripping wet from the shower. His chest and arms glisten with droplets, showing off his cut muscles. As he steps around me, I get hit with a scent cloud of his body wash. Oh, fuck me, he smells so good. Like the beach on a winter morning, all windswept and fresh, with just a hint of sea salt. “Excuse me,” he says. “Yep. All good. Not a problem,” I ramble, backing away from him with my hands raised like he’s walking poison ivy.
