When she knocked, no one answered. She pushed, and the door opened. She stuck her head in and called, "Is anyone home?"
Nothing, but the golf cart was parked in the drive. He hadn't gone anywhere. Had something fallen on him? Had he passed out? She walked farther into the house. "Ian?"
A muffled noise came from the bathroom. Wasn't that one of the rooms where the most home accidents happened? She hurried down the hallway. "Ian!"
"I can't hold it much longer."
"Hold what?" She knocked on the door, and it opened. Her jaw dropped, and she stared.
"Oh, God, close your eyes!" Poor Ian had his body pressed against the glass of the sliding, shower doors, his knuckles white with the effort to hold the entire piece in place. One false move and the whole thing would crash to the floor and glass would go everywhere.
She tore her gaze away from awesome nakedness and glanced at his clothes, folded on top of the toilet tank. His jeans hung half-on, half-off. He'd obviously reached for them, taken his cell phone from the pocket, and then lost his grip on the shower doors.
She tried not to notice the tanned skin and taut muscles that strained against the glass. A six-pack, maybe eight. My, oh my. She especially tried not to let her gaze roam farther south, but she was only human. And oh goodness, every part of Ian was impressive, smashed against the glass. Lots better than her bakery showcase. She cleared her throat. "Can I help?"
He jerked, and she was worried he'd lose his grip on the metal frame, but he tightened his fingers and said, "If you could slide a couple of chairs close to the tub, I think we can scoot the whole thing on those for support."
She ran to grab two kitchen chairs, and with some grunts and finagling, they got the doors balanced on them and leaned the glass unit against the side wall. Ian grabbed a towel the minute he could let go of the doors and wrapped it snugly around his waist. Even then, the man's body proved a distraction.