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“That was . . .” Josh finally said. “I mean, you did . . . Your body is . . .”
“I hope the ends of those sentences are complimentary.” Clara smiled as she handed him a handful of tissues from the box on the end table, spent and happy and different from the woman she’d been an hour before.
“Yes, very,” he said as they locked eyes. The room filled with something more than attraction and unbridled lust. Josh clenched his jaw and Clara was the first to look away.
He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “I should probably go type up my notes. My findings, if you will.”
Clara hunted on the floor for her pajamas. “Right. Yes. You do that.” She admired his bare ass as he got up to walk away, weaving slightly.
“Oh, and Josh?”
He turned, holding his balled-up clothes in front of his waist.
“I’d say your strategy definitely worked.”
He huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh.
After Josh had locked himself back in his room, Clara cleaned up and changed into a fresh pair of pajamas. Then she picked up her discarded laptop and typed a single word into the domain search engine.
She grinned as she added her selection to her cart. Finally. Their fledgling project had a name. A word waiting to be reclaimed. One that beat in time with the thump-thump of her heart.
Shameless.
chapter twenty
CLARA WHEATON HAD experienced her fair share of embarrassment. She’d tripped down staircases in front of her peers, used the wrong French pronoun when addressing a native speaker, and once accidentally screamed “abort” when she ran into an ex-boyfriend at a Manhattan bodega.
Having endured so much worse, she decided not to let her little “living room rehearsal” with Josh ruin their strange, unnameable bond.
She needed him. Professionally now as well as personally. She would simply redraw some boundaries between them. No harm. No foul. It would probably be a good idea to stop getting off to the memories of him stroking himself. Just a thought.
In a desperate attempt to return to her comfort zone and get to know the performers and crew they’d hired over the course of the week, Clara convinced Josh they should host a barbecue in Everett’s backyard.
Entertaining was a skill set ingrained in Wheaton women, practically from birth. Clara could fold napkins in fourteen distinct shapes. That skill did not come in handy in this situation.
In an effort to appear laid back and unfussy, she’d purchased red Solo cups and rented card tables and folding chairs. She’d even gone so far as to allow Josh to write potluck on the invitations.
“No one our age can show up to a party empty-handed without feeling like an asshole,” he’d said. “At least let them bring beer.”
Clara had consoled herself by making a plethora of dips to accommodate any and all dietary preferences. She was still the hostess, and after the spectacle she’d made of herself at casting, this was her chance to make friends. To show them all she wasn’t a boss or a banker, but one of them. With delicious appetizers and stimulating conversation.
As the start time of their party neared, Josh came out of his room in a cheesy Hawaiian shirt.
“Are you seriously wearing that?” She didn’t know why she bothered to ask. She stirred fresh raspberries into a bowl of punch.
“Sure am.” Josh stole a piece of fruit before she could swat him away and popped it into his mouth. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Clara straightened the full skirt of her vintage dress. It had a halter neck. She’d thought it was charming. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I like it.” He let his gaze trail down her form. “But it’s white. At a backyard barbecue. With red punch.”
Clara frowned. She hadn’t considered that. “Perhaps I could wear my apron during the meal?” She pulled a pile of gingham and flounces out of the closet and held the material up for his inspection.
“That seems on brand.” He turned toward the fridge and Clara noticed a Band-Aid across his temple.
She stood on her tiptoes to inspect the bruised area. “What happened here?” He probably hadn’t thought to apply an antiseptic.
“Nothing.” Josh pulled away. “Just clumsy.”
