The hallway walls had old photographs of the Wild West on them: cowboys, wagons, old mining towns. At the end of the hallway, she stopped in front of a set of double wooden doors.
The honeymoon suite?
Hoping so, she stepped inside. That’s where she found the log bed, so high she’d need a stool to climb up on it. The bedding was white down, with bear-and-moose pillows, and looked so scrumptuously warm she nearly sank into it. There was a matching armoire and dresser as well, also done in pine logs. The ceiling was open-beamed, and a work of art all by itself. The stone fireplace—not lit, darn it—and floor-to-ceiling windows finished off the room, the windows revealing that the day had fled completely now.
There was a goodie basket on a chair for the honeymooners: body paints in every flavor, a package of edible underwear, and several books on the pleasures of massage and touch therapy, including How to Make a Woman Come Every Single Time.
Too bad Dean wasn’t here. He could use that one.
There were other fillers, too: body lotion, bath oils, a brand new vibrator in neon-pink and shaped just like a penis she’d once seen that had a terrible curve to the right. She picked it up and took a good look at it, trying to picture the designers of such an item sitting around a table and deciding on the angle of the curve. She considered herself adventurous and fun in bed, but she couldn’t imagine Dean figuring out a way to make good use of this. Gee, guess it was a good thing he wasn’t here . . .
It penetrated her addled brain that the shower was still running.
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Odd. Surely the housekeeper wouldn’t be in there . . . Curious, a little unnerved—and if she let herself think about all that had happened to her since she got out of bed that morning, she could add crazed to the list—she stepped over a pile of wet clothes on the floor.
Huh?
Turning back, she crouched down to look at them, trying to get a clue as to who was in her shower. Levi’s, original fit, size 34x36. Hmm. Tall and lean. There was also a white Hanes Beefy T-shirt, size large, and a soft blue chambray overshirt, both smelling good enough that if she hadn’t given up men, she might have pressed her face against the material and inhaled.
But she had given up men. She’d written it in her journal and therefore it had become law.
He didn’t wear underwear.
Why the hell that intrigued her, she had no idea. Rising, shivering because her clothes had become iced to her skin, she knocked on the bathroom door.
Whoever he was, he had the radio on; she could hear the broadcaster talking about the storm of the century—
Storm of the century. That couldn’t be good. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard other disturbing words, such as “No one is going anywhere, folks” and “I hope you’re all stocked up on whatever you need, because this one’s a doozy.” At that, she twisted the handle on the door and pushed it open.
The bathroom was as amazingly detailed as the rest of the house. Even through all the thick steam, she could see the stunning granite countertops, the raw wood-framed mirrors, the small overstuffed day couch, the old-fashioned brass fixtures—
And yet another gift basket, filled with more goodies. She looked at the vibrator she still had in her hand. What else could she possibly need? Well, besides a new groom, that is. A shame they didn’t come a dime a dozen in a gift basket such as this, selection ready.
The shower took up one full corner, all in clear glass, etched with the outline of the Sierras, which in fact did nothing at all to hide the tall, leanly muscled man standing in it.
Naked.
Gloriously so, she might add. The water sprayed out of four different rain heads, massaging over him. He had his back to her, and what a fine back it was: broad, ropey shoulders, sleek, strong spine, smooth and tanned until, low on his narrow hips, his tan line abruptly ended.
He had a fabulous, mouthwatering butt, and Breanne took a moment to wonder at the man who wore a bathing suit in the sun but not underwear beneath his jeans.
Water sluiced off him, and soap, too, and then, as if God had decided to bestow one tiny little favor on her shitty, rotten day, the guy dropped the soap.
Breanne held her breath. Would he—
Yes. Yes, he would.
Bending for it, blissfully unaware that there were a pair of very curious female eyes on him, he clearly didn’t even consider his modesty. Every muscle in his body flexed as he doubled over, legs slightly spread, offering her an eye-popping view of his—
Oh, my.
Lifting her hand, she furiously fanned air to her face, because the front of him lived up to the back, and how. She wondered how old he was, thinking that body couldn’t be more than thirty, which was only two years older than herself. In any case, she stood there, rooted to the ground, her own wet misery forgotten, mouth hanging open, drool pooling, eyes locked on the backs of his well-defined thighs.