A derisive noise huffed from the back of her throat before she poked him in the center of his sweaty chest. “Only because you cheated with your sneaky hand-job confession.”
“Never said I play fair.”
After an admonishing sniff, she pushed away from him and sat up. “Now I really need to go take a shower.”
“How about if I join you?”
She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Right. I wouldn’t get over to the nursing home until dinner.”
Licking his lips, he ogled her heart-shaped ass. “Good 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 heart cramped. No matter how many times she tried to steel herself, she would never get used to seeing him look so frail.
Sucking in a deep breath, she approached the men. She noticed her father was the only one conversing amongst the group. Judging from the expressions of his breakfast companions, he’d been talking their ears off from the moment he’d joined them. Her suspicions became verified when one of the men turned down the volume on his hearing aid. She tapped her father’s stooped shoulder, and he jerked his gaze upward, causing his bifocals to slip backward on his nose.
“Clarissa!”
A tiny sliver of the panic that’d seized her since learning of her mother’s visit dissolved as she took in her dad’s beaming smile. Today he remembered her. The realization was bittersweet because she knew that tomorrow he’d likely forget. Dropping onto her haunches, she leaned in to peck his wrinkled, papery cheek. She used the opportunity to blink away the moisture collecting in her eyes before shifting her head and returning his grin. “Hi, Pops.”
“She came back. Told you she would.”
The ache resettled in her chest as she surveyed the unrestrained jubilation shining on her father’s face. He looked so damn happy. All she could do was pray that he’d forget about her mother’s visit come tomorrow. Because she didn’t think she could handle having to be the one to break his heart all over again.
Not a second time.
“She asked about you. Wanted to know if you’re doing okay.”
A mixture of wariness and anger stiffened her spine. After all these years, the woman wanted to know how she was doing? Gee, how fucking maternal of her.
“I would have told her where to find you, but I…I couldn’t remember your address.”
The distress that flashed across her father’s features instantly overruled her silent grievances. She reached for her dad’s trembling hands and tucked them within her own. “It’s okay. If she really wants to see me, she can look me up in the phone book.” Please, goddess, see to it that she doesn’t. Not that she expected her mother to do any such thing. If she hadn’t done so by now, why would she?
Then again, the woman hadn’t sought out Clarissa’s father in all these years. What had possessed her to do so now? Or more to the point—what did she want?
Whatever her mother was up to couldn’t be good. Steely resolve armored Clarissa’s doubts. She’d do whatever necessary to protect her father from further heartbreak.
A portion of her panic resurfaced when she realized that come next Sunday, she’d no longer be around to watch over him. She stared at his wrinkle-lined face, hopeless defeat swamping her as he started jabbering away at his tablemates again. The cruel irony of her predicament wasn’t lost on her. To protect her father, she was willingly turning over her soul to Seven. But after she was gone, who would safeguard her dad from future threats? She would have to find someone to assume the responsibility. Someone she could trust. Her first instinct was Logan. Goddess knows, he was capable of taking over the job. The only sticky part would be getting him to agree without explaining why she needed him to look after her father.