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peeling paint, chipped and missing tiles and a tub and sink that had seen better days. There were cupboards underneath the sink and what seemed to be a floor-to-ceiling linen closet in one corner.
    Since Cal had said towels and washcloths were in the cupboard, she tried under the sink first. But beyond a few cleaning supplies and some spare rolls of toilet paper, the cupboards were bare.
    Turning to the linen closet, she finally found what she needed in the way of man-size washcloths. She took two because the only towels were bath sheets and she didn’t want to dirty a whole bath sheet just to dry her face. She didn’t really want to impose by using anything, but vanity prevailed over her reticence.
    The countertop around the sink was clean but cluttered with a straight razor, a can of shaving foam, a bottle of aftershave, deodorant and shampoo. But there was no soap. For that she had to venture inside the black shower curtain that sealed off more than half the tub.
    There was a bar resting in a dish on the tub’s far edge, and she leaned in to get it. Residual steam from what could only have been Cal’s shower wafted around her from inside, smelling the way he did—clean, fresh, masculine.
    And although she told herself she’d lost her mind, she actually closed her eyes and breathed deeply, finding herself relishing the thought that not long ago he had been in there. Naked. Glistening wet. Scrubbing that big, hard body with that very soap...
    â€œFindin’ everything you need in there?” he asked from outside the door.
    The sudden sound of his voice and her own guilty conscience startled Abby into straightening up fast. Without the soap. Which she dived back in for, snatching it like a child stealing candy.
    â€œFine. I’m fine,” she answered too loudly, the sound of her own raised voice erupting yet another memory of the previous evening and her lack of aplomb.
    Feeling rotten, she spun around to the sink again and gave herself a fierce stare in the mirror.
    â€œYou’re just a big, dumb idiot for acting like something you’re not,” she whispered to herself harshly. “It serves you right to get stuck here now, like this, humilitating yourself all the more. If this doesn’t teach you not to pretend to be something you aren’t, nothing ever will.”
    And with that she turned on the hottest water she could stand and proceeded to scrub the life out of her face for punishment.
    When the residual makeup was gone and her cheeks were their own color again, she eased up on herself by gently patting her skin dry.
    As she did, she became increasingly aware of the bad taste in her mouth. And of how unpleasant her breath must be.
    She would never in her life use someone else’s toothbrush, but a tube of toothpaste seemed to call to her and she ended up putting some on her index finger and doing a makeshift job on her teeth until every trace of liquor taste was gone.
    And then another bit of temptation struck.
    Bending over to slurp water from her cupped palm to rinse her mouth, her gaze fell to the bottle of aftershave on the counter. Her attention caught on it like a sweater on a bramble bush, and as she dabbed at her mouth with the dry washcloth she suddenly became obsessed with taking a whiff of the stuff.
    The rear-end cowboy had been clean shaved when he’d awakened her, but she hadn’t been aware of any cologne smell, so her curiosity about what scent he chose for himself got the better of her.
    She reached for the bottle, thinking that the top was screwed on tight.
    It wasn’t.
    The bottle tipped, splashing its contents over her hand, her forearm, her shirtfront and the countertop, filling the whole room with a scent not unlike the soap except with a woodsy undertone.
    Groaning yet again, she screwed the top on tight, washed her hand and arm and mopped up the countertop. But there was nothing to be done about the aftershave on her T-shirt to