it examined.â
The woman looked concerned, and waved toward some clothing on a rack to one side. âDo you want to wrap that in something?â
âGreat idea.â She took an old silk hair scarf from a hanger. A collection of soft, airy dresses in bright India cottons had caught her eye, one in a cranberry shade, one in a beautiful green. They were maternity dresses, with the tags still hanging from the sleeves, and very tiny. She pulled one out and thought of Crystalâs dark hair against the fabrics. âHow much?â she asked the woman.
âA dollar each.â
Marissa bought them, and feeling buoyed by the little yelp of the woman when she opened the check, she drove to Robertâs house. The happy mood carried her all the way up the steps and she gave a quick, strong knock to the screen doorâthen courage deserted her.
Suddenly she felt like an idiot. Women must think up excuses to see him all the time. How would this look? She frowned, looking at the dresses again, and worried that Crystal would never wear such things. Robert would probably be offended that she thought he wasnât taking care of the girlâs clothes well enough.
Oh, bad idea. She nearly bolted, but a voice called from within, âHang on a second!â and she couldnât move. Anxiously she looked down again at the dresses, simple summery things that would be so much more comfortable for Crystal over the last month or so of herpregnancy. The colors were still as beautiful as she thought, and she sighed.
âMarissa!â The word held surprise.
She looked up and saw Robert, dimly, through the screen.
Shirtless.
And his hair was down. âHi,â she said weakly.
He stayed where he was, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head and tugging it down over his flat, brown belly before he crossed the room and opened the screen door to her. A wicked twinkle lit his eyes. âYou look like youâve come to the wolfâs door,â said that slightly hoarse voice.
Marissa could not summon a single word to her lips, mainly because every thought in her brain evaporated, splatting like water on the heat he generated just standing there in a pair of very old jeans and a threadbare white T-shirt that clung to his torso like a layer of oil, showing every muscle, every sleek line, every indentation of his body. It was inside out, and she wondered vaguely why heâd been in such a rush to cover his chest.
But it was his hair that made him dangerous. Sheâd never seen it down like this. It streamed over his shoulders, each strand as glossy and healthy as every other, the mass of it not nearly as black as sheâd thought, but laced with warmer browns and even a few glitters of lighter brown.
She didnât like long hair. She liked razor cuts and army styles, even crew cuts. Long hair said a man hadnât grown up. It said he didnât give a damn about what the world thought. In Colorado, it often said he was a redneck with a shotgun in his truck and a ready six-pack of beer.
On Robert, long hair was right. It was a rejection ofthe mainstream culture, but he had that right, didnât he? She thought, suddenly, of the upside-down American flag on the jean jacket he wore sometimes.
âCat got your tongue?â he said, and a slow, sly grin turned up the edges of that wide mouth. His eyes crinkled the slightest bit at the corners.
âUm.â She looked at the dresses in her hands, and wished for a long, painful minute that she had never had a single impulsive impulse, and especially that sheâd never had this one.
She felt her cheeks redden with total social humiliation, and flailed around for some explanation as to why she was here. Helplessly she lifted the dresses, as if they might tell him, and suddenly her tongue came unstuck. âYou know, I had an idea, and maybe it was a bad one, and Iâll justâ¦umâ¦â She backed away, her free hand fluttering
The woman looked concerned, and waved toward some clothing on a rack to one side. âDo you want to wrap that in something?â
âGreat idea.â She took an old silk hair scarf from a hanger. A collection of soft, airy dresses in bright India cottons had caught her eye, one in a cranberry shade, one in a beautiful green. They were maternity dresses, with the tags still hanging from the sleeves, and very tiny. She pulled one out and thought of Crystalâs dark hair against the fabrics. âHow much?â she asked the woman.
âA dollar each.â
Marissa bought them, and feeling buoyed by the little yelp of the woman when she opened the check, she drove to Robertâs house. The happy mood carried her all the way up the steps and she gave a quick, strong knock to the screen doorâthen courage deserted her.
Suddenly she felt like an idiot. Women must think up excuses to see him all the time. How would this look? She frowned, looking at the dresses again, and worried that Crystal would never wear such things. Robert would probably be offended that she thought he wasnât taking care of the girlâs clothes well enough.
Oh, bad idea. She nearly bolted, but a voice called from within, âHang on a second!â and she couldnât move. Anxiously she looked down again at the dresses, simple summery things that would be so much more comfortable for Crystal over the last month or so of herpregnancy. The colors were still as beautiful as she thought, and she sighed.
âMarissa!â The word held surprise.
She looked up and saw Robert, dimly, through the screen.
Shirtless.
And his hair was down. âHi,â she said weakly.
He stayed where he was, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head and tugging it down over his flat, brown belly before he crossed the room and opened the screen door to her. A wicked twinkle lit his eyes. âYou look like youâve come to the wolfâs door,â said that slightly hoarse voice.
Marissa could not summon a single word to her lips, mainly because every thought in her brain evaporated, splatting like water on the heat he generated just standing there in a pair of very old jeans and a threadbare white T-shirt that clung to his torso like a layer of oil, showing every muscle, every sleek line, every indentation of his body. It was inside out, and she wondered vaguely why heâd been in such a rush to cover his chest.
But it was his hair that made him dangerous. Sheâd never seen it down like this. It streamed over his shoulders, each strand as glossy and healthy as every other, the mass of it not nearly as black as sheâd thought, but laced with warmer browns and even a few glitters of lighter brown.
She didnât like long hair. She liked razor cuts and army styles, even crew cuts. Long hair said a man hadnât grown up. It said he didnât give a damn about what the world thought. In Colorado, it often said he was a redneck with a shotgun in his truck and a ready six-pack of beer.
On Robert, long hair was right. It was a rejection ofthe mainstream culture, but he had that right, didnât he? She thought, suddenly, of the upside-down American flag on the jean jacket he wore sometimes.
âCat got your tongue?â he said, and a slow, sly grin turned up the edges of that wide mouth. His eyes crinkled the slightest bit at the corners.
âUm.â She looked at the dresses in her hands, and wished for a long, painful minute that she had never had a single impulsive impulse, and especially that sheâd never had this one.
She felt her cheeks redden with total social humiliation, and flailed around for some explanation as to why she was here. Helplessly she lifted the dresses, as if they might tell him, and suddenly her tongue came unstuck. âYou know, I had an idea, and maybe it was a bad one, and Iâll justâ¦umâ¦â She backed away, her free hand fluttering
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