Read Online Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by Lisa Clark O'Neill - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Clark O'Neill
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“Let me help you with those dishes, Mom.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood.
“Nonsense.” Maggie dismissed her daughter with a wave of her free hand as she approached. The other hand was loaded with the delicate cups and saucers a couple of their elderly guests had used for their tea. “You’re ta king care of a guest.”
The corner of Tate’s mouth quirked into a wry little smile. “ Given the circumstances both last night and this morning, I’m not charging him for the room, Mom.”
Maggie straightened away from the table she was clearing and bristled indignantly at her daughter, a volatile combination of southern hospitality and Irish temper that had just been offended. “Paying or no, he’s still a guest in our home.”
She glanced over Tate’s shoulder, and Tate followed her gaze. Max had dragged out one of his coloring books. He and Clay had their heads bent together, conversing sagely while putting their artistic stamps on Spider Man Versus the New Goblin. “Now, why don’t you earn your keep by seeing if there’s anything else he needs,” Maggie suggested. Her green eyes twinkled over the stack of dishes in her arms. “Maybe you can try to compensate for some of the damage you inflicted earlier.”
Tate felt the heat rush into her cheeks. As far as first dates went, she and Clay’s had been a real doozy. She doubted many men had been put through quite as much in the pursuit of a little recreational romance.
Clay looked up from his rendering of Peter Parker as Tate returned to the table. “I haven’t operated one of these in a couple decades.” He held up the neon yellow crayon, studying it with a curious eye. “I think they’ve added a few colors since my time. All my early artwork consists of blue and red scribbles. Of course, that might say more about my lack of imagination as opposed to limited materials.”
Tate grinned, bending over to admire their work. Clay seemed to show the same disposition toward grinding the point of the crayon into the paper that her son displayed. Probably something to do with inherent male aggressiveness.
“Very nice,” she concluded diplomatically.
“I’ll say.”
Hearing the heat in the words, Tate glanced down, realizing she’d inadvertently flashed him. Her shirt gaped to frame the tops of her breasts, trapped in black lace.
“About those handcuffs.. .” he murmured.
Tate muffled a laugh, because that would only encourage him. And Lord knew the man encouraged himself enough as it was.
She pointedly ignored his disappointed look as she straightened, clasping a hand to the front of her shirt. “I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”
At her offer, Max lifted his head and looked at her with innocent expectation. “Can Mr. Clay come to the carnival with us this afternoon, Mommy?”
Tate’s gaze flew from her son’s to meet Clay’s with a nearly audible click.
“I’m sure Mr. Clay has other things to do today,” she informed Max, trying to calm the rumpus taking place in her stomach. “You have to remember that he’s here on vacation . His friend might not appreciate it if we monopolize any more of his time.”
CLAY reclined in the chair, watching Tate unconsciously brush that long fall of dark hair away from her face. The delicate smattering of freckles across her nose stood out like sprinkles on a luscious expanse of cream.
He wanted to lick them.
God, maybe she was right. He was turning into a damn cat.
A hungry, predatory cat who could think of nothing he’d rather do than spend his day with the beautiful and highly entertaining Tate Hennessey.
His gaze shifted to her son. The kid was working out better than a paid accomplice. “What carnival?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Tate started to gather up the stray crayons they’d been using. Her voice was mild, but the jerky movement of her hands let him know how nervous he made
“Nonsense.” Maggie dismissed her daughter with a wave of her free hand as she approached. The other hand was loaded with the delicate cups and saucers a couple of their elderly guests had used for their tea. “You’re ta king care of a guest.”
The corner of Tate’s mouth quirked into a wry little smile. “ Given the circumstances both last night and this morning, I’m not charging him for the room, Mom.”
Maggie straightened away from the table she was clearing and bristled indignantly at her daughter, a volatile combination of southern hospitality and Irish temper that had just been offended. “Paying or no, he’s still a guest in our home.”
She glanced over Tate’s shoulder, and Tate followed her gaze. Max had dragged out one of his coloring books. He and Clay had their heads bent together, conversing sagely while putting their artistic stamps on Spider Man Versus the New Goblin. “Now, why don’t you earn your keep by seeing if there’s anything else he needs,” Maggie suggested. Her green eyes twinkled over the stack of dishes in her arms. “Maybe you can try to compensate for some of the damage you inflicted earlier.”
Tate felt the heat rush into her cheeks. As far as first dates went, she and Clay’s had been a real doozy. She doubted many men had been put through quite as much in the pursuit of a little recreational romance.
Clay looked up from his rendering of Peter Parker as Tate returned to the table. “I haven’t operated one of these in a couple decades.” He held up the neon yellow crayon, studying it with a curious eye. “I think they’ve added a few colors since my time. All my early artwork consists of blue and red scribbles. Of course, that might say more about my lack of imagination as opposed to limited materials.”
Tate grinned, bending over to admire their work. Clay seemed to show the same disposition toward grinding the point of the crayon into the paper that her son displayed. Probably something to do with inherent male aggressiveness.
“Very nice,” she concluded diplomatically.
“I’ll say.”
Hearing the heat in the words, Tate glanced down, realizing she’d inadvertently flashed him. Her shirt gaped to frame the tops of her breasts, trapped in black lace.
“About those handcuffs.. .” he murmured.
Tate muffled a laugh, because that would only encourage him. And Lord knew the man encouraged himself enough as it was.
She pointedly ignored his disappointed look as she straightened, clasping a hand to the front of her shirt. “I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”
At her offer, Max lifted his head and looked at her with innocent expectation. “Can Mr. Clay come to the carnival with us this afternoon, Mommy?”
Tate’s gaze flew from her son’s to meet Clay’s with a nearly audible click.
“I’m sure Mr. Clay has other things to do today,” she informed Max, trying to calm the rumpus taking place in her stomach. “You have to remember that he’s here on vacation . His friend might not appreciate it if we monopolize any more of his time.”
CLAY reclined in the chair, watching Tate unconsciously brush that long fall of dark hair away from her face. The delicate smattering of freckles across her nose stood out like sprinkles on a luscious expanse of cream.
He wanted to lick them.
God, maybe she was right. He was turning into a damn cat.
A hungry, predatory cat who could think of nothing he’d rather do than spend his day with the beautiful and highly entertaining Tate Hennessey.
His gaze shifted to her son. The kid was working out better than a paid accomplice. “What carnival?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Tate started to gather up the stray crayons they’d been using. Her voice was mild, but the jerky movement of her hands let him know how nervous he made
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