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“It’s just smart. I’ve got to go. I’m closing tonight.” She took Clare’s shoulders. “Have fun, and call me tomorrow and tell me everything.”
“I will.”
She took another moment, studying herself from every angle. Three kids, she thought, but she’d kept in pretty good shape. That was a matter of vigilance and lucky genes.
If tonight went well, if the chemistry continued, she and Beckett could—probably would—end up doing what single adults with chemistry did.
“It’s called sex, Clare,” she muttered to herself. “Just because you haven’t had any in years doesn’t mean you can’t say the word.”
She didn’t even know if she was good at it. She and Clint had enjoyed a healthy, satisfying sex life, but he was the only man she’d been with. And they’d known each other’s rhythm, signals, bodies so well even with, maybe because of, the long separations.
And now, Beckett.
What would it be like with Beckett?
What would she be like with Beckett?
Don’t think about it, she ordered herself, or you’ll never be able to enjoy a simple date. Be in the moment. One step at a time.
She went downstairs. She could hear the boys in the playroom. Loud, but getting along. Saw them ranged around a superhero war as she walked by to the kitchen. Alva sat paging through a garden magazine at the table while the happy sound of popcorn popped in the microwave.
“We’re watching How to Train Your Dragon.”
“Again?”
“Good thing I like it.” Alva tipped down her reading glasses. “Clare, you look beautiful.”
“It’s nice to dress up for a date. Different, but nice.”
“You did a good job of it. And he’s right on time,” Alva added when the doorbell rang. “Want me to get it so you can make an entrance?”
“No, and too late,” she said as Harry shouted I’ll get it. “I’d better go save him from the pack.”
They outnumbered him right inside the door, battering him with questions, begging for a game. She realized she’d gotten used to seeing him in work clothes so it came as a pleasant jolt to study him in black dress pants and a steel gray jacket.
He held a bouquet of pink baby roses in his hand as he grinned down at her boys.
She knew, in that instant, she was a goner.
“Boys, let Beckett get in the house at least.”
His grin softened to a smile when he looked at her. His eyes warmed. “You look great.”
“Mom got dressed up ’cause she’s going out,” Murphy informed him.
“Me, too. These are for you.”
“They’re beautiful. Thanks.” She saw Harry’s solemn, searching look as she bent her head to sniff the blooms. Instinctively she ran a hand down his back. “Come on in while I put these in water. I’ll—”
“Mom.”
“Just a minute, Liam.”
“Mom, I don’t feel good. My belly hurts.”
As she shifted toward him, he bent over and threw up on Beckett’s shoes.
“Oh God.” She thrust the flowers back at Beckett. “Harry, go tell Mrs. Ridenour that Liam got sick, and ask her for a towel.”
“Wow,” Beckett said as Clare crouched to feel Liam’s forehead.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just let me—Baby, you’re a little warm.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“I know. Let’s get you upstairs. Beckett, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Alva came bustling out with towels, a bucket, and a mop.
“Liam puked,” Murphy informed her.
“I heard. Poor thing—and you, too,” she said to Beckett. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“I have to get him upstairs.” Clare gave Beckett a distracted smile. “I’ll need to take a rain check.”
“Sure.”
“The flowers—thanks. Sorry. Come on, baby.” She hefted Liam into her arms. He laid his pale cheek on her shoulder.
“Can I get in your bed?”
“Sure. We’ll fix you up. Harry, sweetie, will you bring up a glass of ginger ale?”
Upstairs, she washed his face—held his head when he threw up a second time. She took his temperature—ninety-nine point three—then urged the ginger ale on him.
“I threw up two times.”
“I know,” she soothed as she changed him into his Iron Man pajamas. “Do you feel sick again?”
“No.”
“I’ve got the bucket right here if you do and we can’t make it to the bathroom.” Stroking his head, she picked up the TV remote. “Cartoon channel or Nick?”
“Nick. I feel better since I threw up.”
“That’s good, baby.”
Tears glimmered as he huddled against her. “I didn’t mean to throw up on Beckett.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“Is he mad?”
“No, he’s not mad.” She kissed the top of Liam’s head. “I’m going to change my clothes.”
“Are you mad?” he asked as she pulled yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her drawer.
“Why would I be?”
“ ’Cause you got dressed up.”
She took off the pretty, impractical shoes. “It was fun to get dressed up. And I’ll get dressed up again another time.” Angling the closet door, she stepped behind it, took off the dress, put on her mom clothes. Because it smelled faintly of vomit, she stuffed the dress in the dry cleaning bag.
Oh well.
“Mom, can I have Iron Man—the new one, not the old one—and Wolverine and Deadpool? Can I have Luke, too?”
Luke was his tattered stuffed dog, named for Skywalker.
“Sure.”
“And can I have more ginger ale?”
“You bet.” She laid her hand on his brow again, then her lips. Still warm, she thought, and so very pale. “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s the bucket now. You call if you feel sick before I come back.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
She got the toys first, left him curled up with Luke.
“Alva? Thanks so much for—” She broke off when a barefoot Beckett stepped out of the playroom.
“She just left. She said to call if you needed any help. How’s Liam doing?”
“Better, I think. He’s in my bed watching Nickelodeon with his stuffed dog, Wolverine, Iron Man, and Deadpool for company. Deadpool’s—”
“I know who Deadpool is. You keep forgetting I used to be a boy.”
“You know who Deadpool is. Okay, anyway, he’s just got a low-grade fever, and his color’s already a little better so it sounds like the same thing Mazie had. I didn’t expect you to stay.”
“We had a date.”
“Oh, but—”
“So, since you’re standing me up, I’m hanging with the bros. It’s what men do. I guess you’ve got some nursing to do. And I don’t guess you’ve got one of those uniforms, with the little white skirt and—”
“Did Liam frow up again?” Murphy asked.
“Yeah, he did, but he felt better after.” She laid a hand on his brow. “How about you?”
“I don’t feel sick.”
“We don’t call you Iron Guts for nothing. Harry?”
“I feel okay. We’re going to play Bendominoes, but Beckett doesn’t know how.”
“I’m a quick study. Set it up, prepare to be beaten.”
“No way!” Harry grabbed the box.
“Beckett, you don’t have to—Oh, hell, I need to take more ginger ale to Liam. I don’t want him to get dehydrated. Just give me a minute.”
She hurried into the kitchen. Popcorn sat in a bowl, and her lovely, lovely roses in a vase on the table.
“Am I in the way?”
She turned to see Beckett watching her from the doorway. “No, of course not, but you can’t want to spend two evenings in a row with a bunch of kids, including one who threw up on your shoes. How are your shoes?”
“They’ll survi
ve.”
