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“She cleans my toilets too. Should I be on a first-name basis with her?” Gone was the sly smile.
Cain leaned in close. “You forget, Rebecca, there was a time when my mother cleaned your toilets and half the town’s elite’s, for that matter.”
“But,” she sputtered, “that’s different. Lauren’s one of us now, and technically they weren’t my toilets, they were my mom’s.” Nervous laughter fell from her lips as she swept her tongue over what Cain now decided were collagen blunders.
The remainder of his sandwich was tossed into the garbage. He was tired as hell, and the beer and vodka hadn’t helped. The day had been an emotional roller coaster, and he didn’t have the time or patience for someone like Rebecca Stringer.
It wasn’t as if he was looking to get into her pants. Hell, that boat had sailed, crashed, and burned.
“And what is it you do these days?” he asked.
“Do?” Rebecca looked surprised. “You mean, like a job?”
He nodded. What did someone like Rebecca Stringer do with her time?
“Well, I—I’m married.” She shrugged. “I don’t have to work.”
“Figures.” He glanced at her hands. The fingers were tipped scarlet, their perfection and length obviously fake. A large diamond sparkled on her finger. “Who’d you marry?”
Rebecca’s eyes were now dark slits of anger, her pouty lips pursed so tight, she resembled a goddamn blowfish. She raised her chin and took a step back.
“Bradley Hayes. He’s just been named junior partner in his father’s law firm.”
“Good luck with that.” He’d spied Hayes chatting up a leggy brunette outside. The bastard was no different than his father. Cain’s mother had stopped working for the family after the elder Hayes had been inappropriate one time too many.
He walked past her without another word. Rebecca was much like the bored, rich housewives who were a dime a dozen in LA—always looking over the horizon, loving no one but themselves and the size of their husband’s wallet.
“Hey, need some help?”
The redhead jumped, her eyes wide as she glanced up at him. He’d startled her, and for one second she reminded him of a deer caught in the headlights of a car.
She regained her composure and looked away, her voice soft, the drawl he’d noticed earlier a little more pronounced. “No, thank you. I’m tidying up for Marnie. It’s the least I can do.”
“I don’t mind.” Cain grabbed the stack of plates she’d gathered into a pile and moved them to the counter near the dishwasher. He stared down at the machine for several seconds. He had one at home, a supersized monster, in fact. He’d just never used it before.
“Don’t worry about dishes. The caterers will be here within the hour to do the real cleanup. Everything belongs to them.”
She was there, beside him, placing several wineglasses in a neat row next to the dishes. Her fingers were long and delicate, the nails short and free of color. She was smaller than he’d thought. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Her scent lingered in the air, and Cain wondered what it would feel like to hold her. Would she lean into him, soft and pliant, with those big blue eyes looking up at him? Or would she be aggressive and hard, pushing and reaching for something more?
He took a step back, ran his hand along his forehead, and then rolled his shoulders. He really shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. Hell, he shouldn’t be thinking about anything right now except sleep.
“I see you’ve met our Maggie.”
Lauren Black slipped her arm through his, and Cain gave his mother a hug.
Maggie. It suited her. His dark gaze swept back to the redhead, but her eyes were lowered. Her hands clutched a rag so tightly, her knuckles were white.
“We met earlier on the porch,” he answered. “Though I don’t think we were officially introduced. I’m Cain.”
She looked up. Her eyes were darker than before, the deep blue now two shades past navy. A thin layer of freckles sprinkled the bridge of her nose, and an image of his tongue sweeping across her creamy skin flashed before him. Cain’s groin tightened; his lips thinned.
What the hell was wrong with him? He was at a funeral reception for Christ sakes.
Jesse’s funeral.
It was the booze. The lack of sleep. It had to be.
He nodded toward the far end of the kitchen.
