point.”
She strutted to the bathroom, and he reluctantly abandoned the bed and padded into the kitchen. After pitching the condom in the wastebasket beneath the sink and washing up, he set about making coffee. With the rich, earthy smell of chicory filling the air, he scrounged in the cupboards for some of the flavored creamer he knew she preferred. Yeah, it’d probably prove how pathetically hopeful he’d been, keeping her favorite creamer on hand, just in case. Still, he’d take looking like a loser if it scored him some brownie points.
Once the coffee was ready, he carried both of their mugs back into the bedroom. He spied Clarissa standing in front of the steamed-up mirror, trying to run his comb through her hair. Catching her grimace as the comb’s teeth caught in a snarl, he plunked the mugs down on the dresser and stepped into the bathroom. He pried her fingers from the comb, earning her startled glance, and gently worked on untangling her wet strands. She remained unusually quiet during the process, her gaze darting away from his whenever he happened to catch her staring at him. Her obvious nervousness over the simple yet intimate act of him brushing her hair only verified his earlier concern. Apparently she was okay with him fucking her, but anything else and she was ready to run for the exit.
Feeling like he was currying a skittish horse, he gathered a long section of her hair in his hand and dragged the comb through to the ends of her damp tresses. “Bet you didn’t know I sideline as a stylist when I’m not tending bar. Or you.”
That last bit managed to return the color to her cheeks, and she nibbled on her bottom lip. “My dad used to brush my hair sometimes. He wasn’t always as gentle as you’re being, but I’d go along with it anyway. I think it gave him something to concentrate on, other than—”
He eyed her profile, waiting for her to finish despite knowing she wouldn’t. When it came to any reference to her past, particularly the years leading up to her mother taking off, Clarissa always automatically shut down communication. He’d learned the hard way not to push her about it after suffering through a week of her silence the last time he’d unwisely brought up the subject of her mother. He released her hair, and she pivoted from him, nearly stumbling in her haste to escape the bathroom.
An old feeling he was all too familiar with sank in his gut while he watched her yank on her bra and panties. Clarissa had retreated into her impenetrable fortress of solitude and pulled up the welcome mat. There would be no admittance for him any time soon.
Chapter Seven
The harsh fumes of antiseptic and industrial-grade disinfectant assailed Clarissa when she entered the lobby of the Lafayette convalescent home. Janet, the day receptionist, glanced up from her magazine and waved Clarissa over to the desk. “They just wheeled your father into the dining room. He’s acting unusually spunky today.”
“Really?” A fraction of the tight heaviness eased behind Clarissa’s sternum. “That’s good.” Hopefully it meant he wouldn’t be on his typical quest to venture down nostalgia lane, dredging up painful memories neither of them needed to obsess over.
“I think it had something to do with his visitor yesterday afternoon.”
Clarissa blinked. “Visitor?” For one terrifying moment her mind veered to Seven.
“Your mother.”
The unexpected reply squeezed the air from her lungs. “What?”
“Your father was so excited,” Janet chattered on, apparently oblivious of the scab she’d just ripped open in Clarissa’s soul. “I take it it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Reunions like that always make me teary.” Sniffling, Janet reached for a tissue from the dispenser resting on the corner of the desk.
Not sticking around to hear another word, Clarissa spun and rushed toward the dining room. She spotted her father sitting at a table with three other gentlemen. Her
Tiffany Reisz
Ian Rankin
JC Emery
Kathi Daley
Caragh M. O'brien
Kelsey Charisma
Yasmine Galenorn
Mercy Amare
Kim Boykin
James Morrow