He had a bottle of drugstore shampoo and a bar of soap.
That was it.
The shower was a place to get clean, the end.
In fact, it was clear the bathroom only had utilitarian purposes on the whole and perhaps served as a mini-emergency medical ward.
Not that this was a surprise. Buck was definitely not the kind of man who took bubble baths.
Drugstore products were in my shower at my apartment too, except with the addition of conditioner.
But this lack of pamper paraphernalia was only due to necessity.
Back in the day, I had more bottles, tubes and tubs than a small but exclusive salon. My bathroom was not utilitarian. It was an oasis.
A soaking-tub, Swarovski-crystal-knobs-on-the-cabinetry, mirrored-trays-covered-in-masks-exfoliants-oils-and-lotions, walk-in-closet-complete-with-massive-jewelry-island-leading-off-it oasis.
I was definitely the kind of person who wasted life primping.
Or I used to be.
Rogan teased me about it. Rogan used to say that I didn’t need all that stuff. Rogan would tell me I looked beautiful, felt beautiful, smelled beautiful no matter what products I put in my hair, on my body and on my face.
And he said it like he meant it.
Then again, Rogan Kirk was a consummate liar.
There were a lot of things I missed about my old life, such as waking up and facing a day which consisted of making decisions on what to wear to work and what to make for dinner, not how to escape reporters or wonder if I’d get thrown into debtor’s jail.
These things constantly nagged at me, but I pushed them down and focused on missing things like salon-quality shampoo and facial masks.
Since those weren’t really important, I could handle that.
I shampooed and washed and then let the hot water run over me in an effort to work out the aches if not the pains. I got out, toweled off, and with difficulty, due to the tangles caused by no conditioner, pulled Buck’s comb through my hair.
After I did that, using my hand to scoop water into my mouth, I downed two ibuprofens and two acetaminophens.
To end my toilette, I put on my undies and the clean T-shirt.
I needed clothes, specifically underwear, but really everything.
I had to talk to Buck about that and what he said last night about my stuff being brought here and this being my place, my space.
I ignored the fact that I liked this place, this space and that it was Buck’s, who I also liked.
I further ignored the fact I liked to be somewhere that I wasn’t imminently going to get tossed out of.
I didn’t like Dallas Hill, but that didn’t change the fact that I genuinely owed him money and was living on his dime.
Sure, his apartments were crappy, his rent was inflated, and he treated his tenants like nuisances, even though their rent allowed him to drive a brand-spanking-new Jaguar.
Still, I didn’t like the guilt that not paying rent made me feel or the person that it made me be.
I ignored all that and thought about the fact that I didn’t know what to make of what Buck had said or what it meant. Everything seemed to be going very fast. Too fast. Too much happening. Some of it dangerous, some of it scary for other reasons.
But I needed to prioritize.
And clean panties were always top priority.
Panties and making sure Tia was safe. Then making sure Mrs. Jimenez and her children didn’t hate me after what knowing me had put her through the day before.
With these things heavy on my mind, I walked out of the bathroom being quiet so Buck could sleep, intending to go to the kitchen and make coffee.
I was two steps into the room when I heard Buck’s deep, gruff voice calling my name.
“Clara.”
His voice saying my name felt like a touch, a nice one that glided across every inch of my skin.
I stopped and turned my head to the bed.
He was on his back, sitting partially up, head and shoulders to the headboard. Covers around his waist, chest, muscles and tattoos on display, hair a sexy mess, eyes lazy, the Arizona sun shining into the room behind him.
He looked like an advertisement for the biker way of life.
Any man seeing him would want to be him.
Any woman seeing him would want to hook her star to the nearest MC if it meant she could be me, standing in his room, wearing his T-shirt after having taken a shower in his bathroom and spending the night in his bed.
And there I was, that woman.
My belly got warm.
“Morning,” I said quietly.
“Come here, baby,” he replied just as quietly.
I went there. I didn’t hesitate and I didn’t think. My feet just moved me to him, such was the power of his pull.
When I got close, he curled up slightly, grabbed my wrist and gently tugged so I was sitting on the bed by his hip. He released my wrist, settled back, and his fingers curled around the skin on my thigh, warm and strong.