A noise from the kitchen drew his attention from the drama taking place in his head, and he glanced up from his computer screen as Clare walked into the room wearing a plain blue nightgown that matched her eyes. It was short and had little straps and was sexy as all hell simply by virtue of not trying too hard. A lot like Clare herself.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, and stopped in the doorway. I didn’t know you had to work.”
“I don’t.” He stood and stretched. “I’m not really working. Mostly just playing around.”
“Solitaire?” She moved farther into the room and took a drink of coffee from the mug in her hand.
“No. I have an idea for a book.” It was the first time he’d been this excited about writing anything in a while. Probably since before his mother had died.
“On a story you’ve covered recently?”
“No. Fiction.” It was also the first time he’d mentioned what he was doing. He hadn’t even told his agent yet. “I was thinking more along the lines of an investigative journalist who uncovers government secrets.”
Her brows rose up her forehead. “Like Ken Follett or Frederick Forsyth, maybe?”
“Maybe.” He came out from behind his desk and smiled. “Or maybe I’ll become a male romance novelist.”
Behind her mug her eyes got wide and she started to laugh.
“What are you laughing at? I’m a romantic guy.”
She set the mug on his desk, and somehow her laugher turned into a choking jag that lasted until he threw her over his shoulder and carried her back to bed like Valmont Drake from her latest book, Surrender to Love.
On the third day of March, Clare turned thirty-four with real ambivalence about becoming another year older. On one hand, she liked the wisdom that came with age and the confidence that came with that wisdom. On the other, she didn’t like the ticking time clock in her body. The one that kept track of every day and every year and reminded her that she was still alone.
A few weeks ago she’d made plans to celebrate the day with her friends. Lucy made dinner reservations for the four of them at The Milky Way in the old Empire building downtown, but they were expected to meet at Clare’s house first for a glass of wine and to give Clare her birthday gifts.
As Clare dressed for the evening in a Michael Kors jersey dress she’d picked up on sale at Nieman Marcus, she thought of Sebastian. As far as she knew, he was in Florida. She hadn’t spoken to him in a week, when he told her he’d decided to write a piece on the most recent wave of Cuban immigrants to hit Little Havana. In the past two months she’d seen him at least every other week when he’d drive or fly into Boise to see his father.
Clare hooked a pair of silver hoops in her ears and sprayed Escada on the insides of her wrists. For now, her nonrelationship with Sebastian was working. They had fun together and there was no pressure to try and impress him. She could talk to him about anything, because she didn’t have to worry about whether he was Mr. Right. He clearly wasn’t. Mr. Right would come along. Until that time, she was happily spending time with Mr. Right Now.
When he came into town, she was glad to see him, but her heart didn’t race or pinch, and her stomach did not get light and queasy. Well, perhaps a little, but that had more to do with the way he looked at her than what she felt for him. She did not lose her ability to breathe or think rationally. He was just easy to be around. The day it no longer worked was the day she would end it-or he would. No hard feelings. That was the deal. They might be exclusive for now, but she knew that it wouldn’t last forever, and she didn’t let herself think too far ahead.
She reached for a tube of red lipstick and leaned toward the dresser mirror. She wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. Not yet. Just last week she’d decided to test the waters and had met Adele at Montego Bay for the restaurant’s eight-minute date night, in which a person spent eight minutes getting to know someone before moving on to the next table. Most of the men she’d met that evening had seemed perfectly fine. There’d been nothing really wrong with them, but two minutes into her first “date,” she’d opened her mouth and said, “I have four children.” When that hadn’t totally turned him off, she’d added, “All under the age of six.” By the end of the evening she’d somehow become a single mother who collected stray cats. When that hadn’t totally turned off one stalwart dater, she’d alluded to “female troubles,” and he’d practically knocked over the table in his haste to get away from her.
The doorbell rang as Clare finished with her lipstick, and she moved through the house to the front door. Adele and Maddie stood on her porch, gifts in hand.
“I told you two not to get me anything,” she said, knowing full well that they totally would.
“What’s this?” Maddie asked as she pointed to an express mail box at her feet.
Clare wasn’t expecting any mail orders or anything from her publisher. When she knelt to pick it up, she recognized the Seattle return address. It had a Florida postmark. “I think it’s probably a birthday present.” Sebastian had remembered her birthday, and she tried to tamp down the pleasure of it before it reached her heart. When she heard footsteps walking up the drive, she half expected to see Sebastian. It was Lucy, of course, and she was carrying a bouquet of pink roses and a small gold box.
“I thought I’d beat you girls here,” she said as Clare let her friends into the house.
Clare took the roses from Lucy and went in search of a vase while her friends hung up their coats. In the kitchen, she cut the bottoms off the stems, and her gaze drifted to the white box on the counter. She was surprised that Sebastian had remembered her birthday. Especially on assignment, and the pleasure she’d tried to suppress brushed across her skin. She told herself it probably wasn’t a thoughtful gift. More than likely the box held the usual self-serving man present. Something crotchless with nipple tassels.
“Lord, I’ve had enough of the cold,” Maddie complained as the other three women moved into the kitchen.
“Could one of you pour the wine?” Clare asked as she arranged the flowers in some deceased relative’s Portmeirion vase. Lucy poured, and when she was finished, the four friends moved into the living room. Clare set the vase on an end table next to the sofa, and when she turned around, Adele was setting the gifts on the coffee table. Including the white box.
As the four women talked about getting older, Clare opened the presents her friends had bought for her. Lucy gave her a monogrammed business card holder, and Adele a bracelet with little purple crystals. Maddie, being Maddie, gifted Clare with a personal safety device in the form of a red stun pen to replace the faulty one she’d given her the year before. “Thanks, guys. I loved all the gifts,” she said as she sat back with her glass.
“Are you going to open that one?” Adele asked.
“Is it from your mother again?” Lucy wanted to know. A few years ago when she’d been avoiding Joyce, her mother had sent her beautiful bed linens for her birthday. Picking up the phone and calling Clare would not have been passive aggressive enough.
“No. My mother and I are speaking this year.”
“Who’s it from?”
“A friend of mine.” The three women stared at her, brows raised as they waited for more information. “Sebastian Vaughan.”
“Sebastian the reporter?” Adele asked. “The guy Maddie thinks has heft?”
“Yes.” Clare’s face was purposely impassive when she added, “And he is just a friend.”
Maddie sucked in a breath. “Just a friend, my ass. I can tell by your face you’re hiding something. You always get that look when you’re hiding something.”
“What look?”
Lucy pointed at her. “That look.” She took a drink of her wine. “So, is he a boyfriend?”