Home > The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil #1)(3)

The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil #1)(3)
Author: Kristen Ashley


I headed that way seeing three doors down the hall, two to the right, one to the left.

The first to the right was open. I glanced in and saw a big long room that had a lot of stuff. This stuff was a furnace, water heater and a Wi-Fi setup, but also a bunch of man things. Jackets and fleeces on hooks. Boots and running shoes in an untidy pile on the floor. A gun rack with four places for rifles, only two of them taken. What appeared to be a bound up tent and some folded camp chairs in the corner. A camp stove. Camp lanterns. Fishing nets. Fishing poles. A big backpack.

I walked a couple of steps down the hall and looked into the room at the left.

The bathroom.

I entered and was astonished.

The front room I hadn’t fully taken in. The ceilings, however, were wood. The walls, stone. It was a room you would expect in this building made of cream, tan and brown stone that had a water wheel.

The bathroom had been completely redone, and even to my inexpert eye I could see it was recently.

And it didn’t look like it belonged in this building.

All white.

Everything.

Shiny white, subway tile walls. A large shower (actually mammoth, with five sprays, two slanted in at the top sides, one at the ceiling, and two more coming from the walls). A white with gray veins marble-topped double sink with illuminated mirror. A toilet behind a half partition that hid it mostly from view. And a big (actually huge) corner tub with a narrow platform built around it where it met the wall, where a woman would put candles, plants, decorative jars with bath salts.

The last I knew because there was that there. The only thing on that narrow platform. A decorative glass jar with a handsome chrome top half-filled with blue bath salts.

This was not Johnny’s.

This was someone else’s.

Right just then I didn’t want to think of the possibility of “someone else.”

I looked away from the bath salts and the fabulousness of this huge, clean, gleaming, gorgeous bathroom that was any woman’s fantasy and so incongruous to the furnace/water heater room that was a mess of men stuff and outdoor gear, and I used the facilities. I washed my hands. I opened Johnny’s drawers until I found some toothpaste and used my finger as a brush. I rinsed and stared at the mirror into eyes that really needed the makeup removed, and in a further quick and as noninvasive as I could make it perusal, I searched for facial care products that might go with the bath salts.

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.”

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