There were none.

There was, however, some mouthwash so I used that.

I wanted to leave the bathroom, but after seeing it in all its glory, curiosity overwhelmed me, taking me to the door at the back between the tub and shower. A door that was closed.

But I couldn’t do it.

Johnny Gamble had bought me four margaritas. He’d brought me to his home. He’d then given me four orgasms and held me in his arms while I fell asleep (this didn’t take long, then again, I’d had four margaritas and four orgasms).

I owed him privacy.

If he offered me a tour of his home, I’d take it.

But those bath salts notwithstanding, there was no indication from him or anything else that I needed to pry just in case he was hiding something.

He might have a woman who was off on a girl’s weekend or away for work and he felt safe to go on the prowl and in doing so, being as he was, looking like he did, knowing he’d get lucky, he’d hidden the evidence and forgot the bath salts.

But if he had a woman who used bath salts, there’d be a lot of evidence to hide and there wasn’t even an extra toothbrush, much less a stray tube of mascara he missed. Not in my as-non-invasive-as-I-could-make-it perusal that I’d seen.

Maybe he was a man who liked baths or he took them after a massage, when everyone knew you threw in some Epsom salts to help leech out the toxins.

Perhaps he liked to smell good.

He embodied and defied the name “Johnny.” He was a man who knew precisely what he wanted in bed, so he took it, and if he had to drag it, position it, stretch it, flex it, brace it, he did.

He could take as many scented baths as he wanted.

I walked out and saw him still at the railing at his balcony. He was standing straight now, but braced into a hand on the railing, holding the coffee mug aloft, close to his mouth, but not sipping, eyes still contemplating the view.

Quickly, I took in his space.

Mid-century furniture everywhere. Not stuff he’d inherited when he moved in. It was new. Handsome. Clean lines. Boxy. No nonsense. In tweeds and leathers and light wood. Everything, including the bed, the copious bookshelves (filled with copious books) and the easy chair in the corner was sparse and sleek, like Johnny had hit an auction of the dressings of the Mad Men sets and furnished his home with his buys.

It was unbelievably cool.

The kitchen he’d worked with as it was. It had nothing trendy. No cement, granite or marble countertops. No fancy swoosh-closed cabinets. There were butcher-block countertops that were so old, they were smooth everywhere, warped in places, wavy in oft-used spots. Stark-fronted cabinets and open shelves.

Though he’d replaced the appliances with a stainless-steel dishwasher, fridge and stove that were high quality and expensive, if not top of the line.

I spied the coffee. I saw the white coffee mugs on an open shelf above the coffeemaker and a bottle of creamer out on the counter.

I went there and made myself a cup.

As I moved toward the balcony, I saw Johnny was no longer in peaceful contemplation of the verdant surroundings of his water wheel, brilliantly furnished with bathroom-to-die-for home.

He must have noted my movement, maybe even noticed I was out of bed and had gone to the bathroom. But regardless, his regard was now aimed through the wall of windows.

At me.

I opened the glass door and walked out, shutting it behind me and looking back to Johnny, only to stop because he was looking at his T-shirt on my body.

Perhaps the intimacy of that, and me helping myself to coffee (and bathroom, toothpaste and mouthwash) wasn’t welcome.

I’d never hooked up. Not in my life. I dated. I had a firm five-date rule before even groping (this mostly due to shyness, but also my prudishness, which I had reason to believe I held on to because it assisted in me being so shy), so I obviously hadn’t slept with a man hours after meeting him.

I didn’t know the protocol when you woke up in a mostly strange man’s bed, no matter how handsome, gentlemanly or what a good listener he was.

“Although I appreciate the unadulterated view of those legs, not to mention that hair, I’d prefer you get your ass over here, Izzy.”

This amused command jolted me out of my apprehension and I slowly moved on my bare feet through the cool early summer Sunday morning toward Johnny Gamble.

He hadn’t taken his hand from the railing but he did put his coffee cup to it so he could have a free hand to curve around my waist.

This he did, pulling me up tight to his side and dipping his chin into his neck to look down at me.

I liked that. Being tall, I didn’t get that often, a man looking down at me, having to go to such lengths to do it as to shift his chin into his neck.

This had to put Johnny at six-two, maybe even six-three.

Yes, I liked that a lot.

I also liked the warmth of his body. I’d noticed just how warm it was in bed last night and it helped things (that his talents really didn’t need help with, but still), and it helped them in nice ways.

And last, I liked the solidness of him and this didn’t come just from him being built. It came from him looking right into my eyes, taking hold of me right away, making me feel welcome there, like he was glad I used his toothpaste, his mouthwash (even though he didn’t know that . . . yet), helped myself to a cup of coffee, woke up naked in his bed.

He wasn’t going to load me up in his truck and take me back to my car in town and be done with me, not looking back.

This was something else.

This was . . .

It was the beginning of something.

I relaxed in his hold.

“Hey,” I whispered.

His mouth hitched.

“Hey.” He slid his hand down my side to my hip as he asked, “Sleep good?”

I nodded because I had but also because the movement of his hand had so much of my attention I couldn’t speak.

It got more attention when his fingers met the hem of his shirt I was wearing and pulled it up.

Therefore, it came out kind of squeaky when I asked, “Did you? Sleep good, I mean.”

I also felt my cheeks getting warm and Johnny didn’t miss it. I knew this as his black eyes started twinkling even as the tips of his fingers found the waistband of my panties.

“I slept great,” he murmured, and then didn’t hesitate to go on, “Panties?”

“Sorry?” I asked, confused at his question perhaps because his fingers were trailing along the waistband of the item of clothing we were oddly discussing and it felt nice.

“Panties,” he repeated, not in a question this time.

“Yes, those are, uh . . . my panties,” I confirmed.

This got me the bright, white, beautiful smile. “Babe, why’d you put on your panties?”

I blinked up at him.

His fingers slid inside the waistband to lightly cup one cheek of my behind.

My lips parted.

“Sweet, shy Eliza,” he muttered like he was referencing me to someone else even if he was gazing right into my eyes. “Gonna have to break you of that.”

Yes.

Oh God, please let it be yes.

This was the beginning of something.

“You hungry?” he asked conversationally.

I nodded, not really knowing if I was or I wasn’t. Mostly knowing I liked the warmth and possessiveness of his hand down my pants.

“Wanna fuck before or after I feed you?” he inquired.

My legs wobbled.

He felt it, I knew because that got me another smile, this one less sweet and oh-so-much-more sexy.

“Both,” he whispered, his head coming toward mine. “Starting with before.”