He focuses back on the novel, eyes staring at the typeface so intently they burn, absorbing none of the words. He never thought he’d long for the soggy conditions of England, but at least being back there made sure he didn’t have to keep being subjected to Brady running around in his sweaty undershirt. Which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t that scandalous. Most guys are running around half-naked, Harry in his boxer shorts included. But, whispers that tortuous little part of his brain, what if he got tired of wearing his shirt–it’s so hot after all–and he took it off and–
“Croz?”
Harry’s head whips up embarrassingly fast. Brady’s standing over him, hands on hips. His shirt is basically see through after running around all afternoon. Harry feels faint.