Read Online Barefoot in the Rain by Roxanne St. Claire - Free Book Online Page A

where Jocelyn had made stacks of three different china patterns, not enough of any one to make a complete set. “You have to come and watch it with me,” he insisted.
    “I don’t have time for TV,” she said, scooping up one pile of plates to fit them in a box she’d found in the garage.
    “Not the blue roses!” Guy said, slapping his hands on his cheeks in horror. “I love them.”
    She looked up at him, still completely unused to every word that came out of his mouth. “Since when?” she asked.
    “Since…” His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know, I just do. They have sentimental value.”
    She almost choked. Her only memory of this wretched china pattern was when a bowl had gone sailing across the table one night because Mom had made mushroom soup.
    “They have no value,” she said, tamping down the memory.
    “But I really like flowers.”
    She looked up, the memory worming its way into her heart anyway, stunning her that same man who
hated fucking mushrooms
could
really like flowers
.
    “I’m sure you do,” she said. “But there aren’t enough to sell as a set, so I’m pitching these.”
    He shook his head like he just didn’t get that as he lifted one of the blue rose teacups off a saucer, dangling it precariously from his finger.
    She tensed, squaring her shoulders, her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the delicate china hooked to a thick forefinger. Any second. Any second and…
wham!
Whatever was in his hand would get pitched in the direction of the closest wall to make the loudest crash.
    But he just moved the cup left and right like a pendulum, a smile pulling at his face. “You gotta gift me.” He practically sang the words, his voice lifting playfully.
    For a second, she couldn’t speak. Just couldn’t wrap her head around this man. “Gift you?”
    “You know. I give up something precious and you gift me with something in return. A sofa. New carpet.” He sucked in a breath and dropped his mouth in complete joy. “One of those fancy flat TVs!”
    “I’m not going to—”
    Gingerly, he set the cup back on its saucer, making the tiniest ding of china against china. Then he held out his hand to her. “You need a little refresher on your own show, little miss.”
    “My own…”
Clean House
.
    “I’ve seen most of them before, ’cause they keeprunning the same ones over and over.” He closed his hand around her arms, his thick fingers lacking in strength but not determination. “But I don’t mind the repeats. Come on, let’s get to gettin’, as they say.”
    “As who say?”
    He clapped his hands and let out a laugh. “Very funny.”
    She followed him into the living room, where the TV blared a commercial. He gestured for her to sit on the sofa and settled into his recliner, waving the remote like a magic wand.
    “I’m holding on for dear life to this thing. The way you’re tossing stuff away you’re likely to hide it.”
    She sat on the edge of a heinous plaid sofa that she didn’t remember, something her parents—or Guy—must have bought after she left. Would Mom pick anything that ugly?
    “Relax,” Guy said, using the remote to gesture toward the sofa back. “It’s the fastest hour on TV. But you know that.”
    She didn’t relax, dividing her attention between a home improvement show hosted by a soulful, insightful, no-nonsense woman named Niecy—that must be who Guy called Nicey—and the man next to her.
    She really had to do more research on Alzheimer’s. Didn’t the disease turn its victims nasty and cranky? Or did it just change a person completely? Because this man was…
    No, she refused to go there. Leopards, spots, and all that.
    “Watch the show,” he insisted when he caught her studying him. “This is what you’re going to do for me.”
    Niecy Nash went about her business of taking controlof a family’s mess, tossing the junk, selling what could be salvaged, then redecorating their homes, all the while helping her “clients”