“You shaving in there?” It was River. “Because no offense, but that beard is looking a little Unabomber these days.”
“Fuck off.”
“Just saying, a trim wouldn’t kill you.”
“You got breath mints?” X called. “Coffee breath is a first impression killer.”
“Yo, guys, enough.” Jonah this time. Always the peacemaker. But then even he added, “X had a point about the breath mints, though.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning his forehead against the cool tile.
“Did you say something?” River asked through the door. “We can’t hear you over the water.”
He turned off the shower and reached for his towel. “Don’t you people have jobs? Horses or dogs to train? Something besides standing outside this door?”
“Nope,” River replied cheerfully. “This is way more entertaining.”
Anson wrapped the towel around his waist and dragged a hand through his wet hair. He considered hiding in the bathroom until they all got bored and left, but that would waste precious minutes. Better to face them now.
He unlocked the door and swung it open, ready for more teasing, but not ready for what waited on the other side. Half the bunkhouse residents had gathered in the hall. X and River at the front, Jonah, Jax, and Bear behind them. Even Ghost stood at the far end, arms crossed but clearly interested despite himself.
“What the hell,” Anson said flatly.
“Damn,” X whistled. “You clean up okay for a blacksmith.”
“You need to trim that beard though,” River added. “Just saying.”
“And put on decent clothes,” Ghost said, surprising everyone.
Anson glared at them all, acutely aware of the water droplets sliding down his neck, the chill raising goosebumps along his scarred arms, the fact that he was wearing nothing but a towel in front of six grown men who all wore varying expressions of amusement.
“I have fifteen minutes before she gets here,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you’re all wasting my time.”
“Exactly why we need to intervene,” X said. “Fifteen minutes isn’t enough for you to figure out how to dress yourself properly. You need our expertise.”
“Your expertise,” Anson repeated, deadpan.
“Hey, I’ve dated,” X protested. “Successfully.”
“Depends on your definition of success,” Bear muttered.
X gestured to his tight jeans and fitted shirt. “Ladies love this.”
“I don’t want to look like you,” Anson said.
X clutched his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Sut.”
Bramble nosed his way between their legs, knocking them aside with his bulk, thankfully making a path. At least someone in this place wasn’t against him. He stalked to his room and yanked open his closet door, staring at the row of shirts hung in a military-neat row. Five flannels in various states of wear. Three Henley shirts—navy, black, and dark green. Two plain tees. Nothing special. Nothing that said, “Nice to finally meet you after six years of baring my soul.”
The door opened without a knock. X strode in holding two shirts aloft like trophies. “These are your options. The blue brings out your eyes. The black says you’re mysterious but approachable.”
Anson frowned. “They’re yours.”
“Exactly. I’m sharing the wealth.” X thrust the shirts forward. “Choose your weapon, Sutter.”
River appeared in the doorway. “Jesus, X, he’ll rip those. His shoulders are twice as big as yours.”
“So he’ll show off those muscles.” X rolled his eyes. “You see any better options?”
