Hot water.
Yes.
There was just something about hot water that helped ease away whatever worry you had.
As the hot water from the shower poured over my skin, my brain started to come online.
Bits and pieces from the night before slowly started to filter in.
I ate something.
I drank.
A good bit.
I.... what else... oh shit.
A man.
Grey hair.
Gorgeous... and I told him that... oh. My. God.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head.
And then words I had never shared before came back with an alarming clarity, ones I had shared with that man. Grey.
Oh. My. God.
I wanted to slap my hand over my face for what had happened last night.
But what’s done is done.
I closed my eyes and let out another long-ass groan.
Oh, but how I wished I were one of those blessed people who suffered from amnesia the morning after getting rip-roaring drunk. Unfortunately, I wasn’t that fucking lucky.
Nope. Not me.
Not Kimber Diane Stevenson.
And then I recalled what had taken place with my sister.
Fuck.
Me.
Well... now that I wasn’t exactly drunk, and since everything that took place last night was back in my brain, I recalled what my sister had on.
Now... I didn’t know that the bar I went to last night was the clubhouse for the local motorcycle club, but I did read romance books about stuff like that.
And if I was being honest... my favorite was a motorcycle club romance. Actually, my favorite book was called Motorcycle Man. Freaking love that book.
And judging by what I know is referred to as a sweet butt, a bunnie, or a club girl, and from how my sister was dressed in a skimpy top that left nothing to the imagination, as well as a short leather skirt and sky-high heels... that’s what she was.
Her vagueness.
The unwillingness to go to our parents’ house.
