Claire blamed the baby horse. This was all Elmo’s fault. She had been so overcome with the lingering emotions of watching Poppy give birth that Claire hadn’t fully thought through the whole “borrow some extra clothes” request she had made to Tom when they got to his cabin on the water. Now she faced the items, neatly folded on the back of the toilet, and felt like she was having a heart attack.
There was something too relaxed, too intimate about wearing Tom’s old Columbia sweats that were soft and warm and smelled like his probably carcinogenic laundry detergent and paraben-laden shampoo. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, already curling in the absence of product and a flat iron—a miracle she had discovered after college, at her first job at Couture magazine in Manhattan. Straight hair meant she was in control—of her schedule, her career, her life. Curly hair meant the exact opposite. Curly hair was the spontaneous, go-with-the-flow, dead-end Pennsylvania Claire. Her fingers pressed down on the bandage on her hairline that was already coming undone. It was a good metaphor for Tom Harrington re-entering her life: a busted head, a torn dress, and unruly hair.
She thought she had it together when she left the bathroom, clad in Tom’s sweats, smelling like Tom’s shampoo, but then she saw him, standing at his stove, the scent of something rich and warm in the air, and suddenly she didn’t have it together—not at all.
Their eyes locked. There was an expression on his face that she’d caught before, something between affection and appreciation, and it only fueled the panic growing inside her. She took one look at the stack of grilled cheese sandwiches next to him and said, “I’m not hungry.”
The affection in Tom’s eyes receded. “You need to eat something.”
“I don’t eat after ten.”
“You lost some blood. I’ll feel better if you eat something.”
Claire made an obvious gesture of looking at the chunky watch on her wrist. “Nope, still after ten.”
Tom slid the plate in front of her. “I’m asking nicely.”
“Of course you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
Tom frowned at her. “Well, I’m not making sandwiches by accident.”
“You’re being nice.” She said it like a dirty word, and Tom drew back.
“Wow.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Tom looked like he was about to respond, but then he shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You can say what you want. There’s no one else here.”
He ignored her for a moment, turning his shoulder, running water on the pan in the sink. Then he couldn’t help himself. She knew him better than he knew himself: his expression changed, and he was about to say something so passive-aggressively critical of her, she’d have to fight fire with fire. Same old song, same chorus, same everything.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Oh right. Sure. “For what?”
He pushed back the hair on his forehead. “Tonight. With Poppy. I shouldn’t have asked…shouldn’t have made you get down there to…you know.”
Oh! Claire made a sound of frustration. This was so Tom! Trying to make her seem like the spoiled big-city girl who couldn’t bear to get her hands dirty, who wouldn’t assist a helpless animal in her time of need. “You…jerk!” Claire balled her fists to keep from swinging at him. “Of course I’d help! I’m not some heartless bitch who would just let a sweet thing like Poppy suffer!” Before she could stop them, Claire felt the tears start rolling down her cheek. “Being there tonight, watching Poppy bring her baby into this world, was one of the best things I’ve been a part of, and I’m not going to let your shitty opinion of me ruin that!”
Tom grimaced and muttered a curse word, which was shocking, since Boy Scout Tom never had a potty mouth like her. And now she was crying for real.
The memory of Elmo’s sweet first steps had unlocked all the emotions, and it was too much to stand there, vulnerable, with a man who couldn’t stand her, so Claire left the kitchen. She wanted to run, but it was the middle of the night, and she had no shoes and she didn’t know where she was, so she headed back toward the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Get the message, Tom. Leave me alone.
It might have been the first time a door was slammed in his little clapboard cottage. Single guys like himself didn’t often argue and flounce. It was a perfect metaphor for bringing Claire Portelli back into his life. His perfect peace, his easy bachelor life destroyed by some raging PMS and incomprehensible logic.
He grabbed a grilled cheese and ate it in three bites. What had he been thinking? Trying to be nice to Claire was like trying to be nice to a zombie on The Walking Dead. Sooner or later your head would get torn off.
He reached for a second grilled cheese—he, unlike some people, had no problem eating in the middle of the night—and his hand froze over the plate as a memory hit him in the face. Claire, in college, in the suite that she and Laurel had lived in. Claire making grilled cheese in their toaster oven because she was a vegetarian and she had become convinced that the cafeteria food was all cooked in lard.
He shook his head and leaned back against the refrigerator. The subconscious was an amazing thing, and now that it was accessed, other memories rushed in. Claire feeding the stray cats on campus. Claire yelling at him for not donating to her Greenpeace Save the Dolphins fundraiser. One time, Laurel killed a spider in their room and Claire bit back tears…much like tonight.
Tom rubbed his hands over his face. She didn’t have raging, uncontrollable PMS. The great bitch Claire Portelli had a soft spot a mile wide for animals. He felt worse than ever about his failure of a practical joke. What a jackass he was, to insinuate to someone like Claire that Poppy had been in any kind of medical danger. Worse yet, he was a veterinarian. And a grown man, who should be over needling and messing with a woman simply because she’d… Well, if he was going to be honest with himself, Claire had pretty much taken out his heart, stomped on it, and given it back to him.
This wasn’t going to work. He’d agreed to be a groomsman as a favor for Laurel and Tyler only because he thought he was over these complicated feelings about Claire. In only a few short hours it was clear that there was still something between them—something that needed to be cleared up immediately, if only to make this weekend slightly less stressful for the bride and groom.
First he needed a shot of courage, courtesy of the bottle of Jack he kept in the cabinet above the sink. Then he carried the bottle with him back to the bedroom in case he needed a booster.
He didn’t knock because it was his bedroom, by God, and there was absolutely no chance that Claire would be undressed or anything like that. What he found was a hundred times more disorienting than a naked Claire.
It was like stepping back in time. Claire with her wild curls, in a Columbia sweatshirt, cross-legged on the bed with a laptop. They were in school again—maybe he was walking into Laurel and Claire’s room to pick Laurel up and Claire was giving him that superior glare of annoyance that always made him…
Wait a second…
“Is that my laptop?” He stomped closer and saw that not only was it his computer but that she had somehow hacked into it.
“I needed to check my emails.”
“How did you get my password?”
She lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “I guessed.”
“You hacked it.”
“You should pick harder passwords.”
He didn’t believe it. It was impossible. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly eight years. There was no way she had guessed his password that complied with all of the recommended security protocols…
“Redsoxchamps2013.” She batted her eyelashes. “Exclamation point.”
“Shit,” Tom muttered. Claire still looked smug, which only pissed him off. “You are unbelievable, you know that? You can’t just walk in here, hack into someone’s computer…” He ripped the cap off the Jack and took a swig. “The world
does not revolve around you, Claire.”
“You’re just pissed you’re an open book.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You’re hardly a man of mystery.”
“Like you? Ms. Cappuccino for breakfast, California roll for lunch, grilled cheese for dinner while holed up over a computer?”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. Guess someone’s routine hadn’t changed much in the last seven years. He decided to take a chance and go in with one more dig. “And let’s not forget the candy bars you sneak in your purse all the time. Had a Kit Kat lately?”
“Fine.” She snapped the lid of (his!) laptop and went to her knees on the bed. “I like what I like and I don’t have to apologize for it. At least I’m not wearing the same jeans I wore sophomore year!”
“Typical Claire. Already resorting to insulting my wardrobe. In case you missed it the first thousand times you tried, I don’t care. I live in Maine. I’m a veterinarian. And Levi’s have a lifetime warranty!”
Somehow he’d moved closer to the edge of the bed, close enough for Claire to reach out and snatch the bottle of Jack from him. She took her own swig, and her resulting cough was somewhat satisfying. “You know what your problem is?”
“I can’t wait for you to tell me.”
“You’re intimidated by women with brains, with ambition. Women who don’t sit back and giggle at every stupid thing you say. Women who have opinions and”—she arched an eyebrow at his jeans—“standards.”
She took another drink from the bottle, and Tom had to laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was ridiculous. He had no problem with women who had ambition and opinions.
“Really? The last five, no, the last ten women you’ve dated. I can see them now. I could probably point them out on a street. Sweet, wholesome, clean-cut in their Lands’ End cardigans and preppy rain boots. They go to church and they’re elementary school teachers and like to garden.”
Tom thought for a moment then grabbed his bottle back. Jenny, Mary, Katie, Rose, Lena… Shit. He had a pattern. They weren’t all exactly like Claire described. Rose had been Jewish. Katie had been in vet school with him…and had rain boots in all the colors of the rainbow. After another swallow of Jack, he saw things more clearly.
“Laurel.” He said it suddenly, and it wiped the smirk off Claire’s pretty mouth. “Does she fit my type, too?” It must have pushed several of Claire’s buttons, including the big red one, because she scrambled off the bed, far away from him.
“Don’t be an ass about it.”
“Why? You brought this up. You were right: you should feel like you won something. A ribbon, maybe. Laurel is a teacher. She’s sweet and nice and she loves a good cardigan.”
“Fine,” she spat. “You’re right. Laurel doesn’t fit your pattern.”
“Yes she does.”
“She doesn’t. She has ambition.”
“No. She has goals, not ambitions. Not like you.”
Claire’s wide eyes met his. How did he get over here? On this side of the room? This side of the bed, next to her? “Laurel is my best friend.”
“I remember.” Tom reached up and lifted a corkscrew curl that fell over the side of Claire’s forehead. “You told me that several times that night.”
He didn’t need to remind her what night he was talking about. He could tell she remembered it as well as he did, by the way her lips parted, the way she drew in a quick breath. Gently, he pressed on the edges of the butterfly bandage that had curled up on her scalp. It was supposed to be a clinical gesture, but he was foggy, maybe a little disoriented. The presence of Claire, the fight that he might have just won, the Jack Daniel’s—it was all throwing him for a loop.
Loop. Like the loop he and Claire were stuck in. A giant roller coaster loop-de-loop, over and over, upside down and at dizzying speed. Looping. Like these curls he had around his finger, tucking around her ear. He scooped a fistful of curls at the back of her neck and she came toward him when he pulled her to his mouth. Just like before…
Chapter 5
Tom kissed her.
It was the last rational thought Claire had for minutes, maybe hours.
It was the middle of the night, she was exhausted and defeated, and had had one too many shots of Jack Daniel’s and nothing to eat since…what? A bite of coleslaw at the clambake? These were all perfectly good excuses for why she let Tom Harrington kiss her.
Slowly. Expertly. Irresistibly.
With nary a peep of protest or disgust, she opened her mouth when his hand tangled in her hair, when his whiskey-flavored lips pressed against hers, when she felt the warm, hard chest under that ancient flannel shirt.
He kneaded the back of her scalp and wrapped an arm around her waist, which drew her flat against him and allowed him to deepen an already-intoxicating kiss.
Holy crap. With all the things she had remembered about Tom, how did she let herself forget this? This quicksilver chemistry between them—or was it alchemy? Turning hate into passion surely had to be some lost medieval art, and hell if Tom Harrington, small-town Maine veterinarian, hadn’t unearthed the ancient secret.
She let herself fall into the void. Losing herself in the feel, the heat of him—of them. It had been so long since she’d been able to surrender to sheer madness.
Then the spell broke. Whether Claire had pushed or he had pulled, she couldn’t say, but they moved together, and when she felt that Jack Daniel’s bottle in his hand along her lower back, it made her want to tell him to drop it. She wanted to hear the crash of glass and the glug of whiskey on the pine floor as they fell together, back onto that wide log-framed bed that she would have mocked an hour ago. Now, it seemed just sturdy enough to withstand all the activity she was in the mood for tonight.
“Tom.” She broke away from him, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that if she stayed another minute in his arms, she would do something that she would regret for another seven years. “Take me back to Virtue Cove. Now.”
He didn’t say anything. Of course he wouldn’t. Tom was Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Dudley Do-Right. He probably had a moral code and a knighthood waiting for him somewhere. He only looked at her, a strange expression on his face: regret mixed with…resolve? Resignation? She couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter. She had to push him away. Quick.
“You win.” Her voice was raspier than she’d like, thanks to the tonsil hockey they’d just played. “You don’t have a type. You do like girls with ambition after all.”
Tom dropped his head and shook it slightly before turning and heading toward the front door. She followed him, watched him drop the bottle off, pick up his keys.
The combination of gestures made her stop. “Wait—can you drive?” If he was drunk, they’d have to stay here. She would take the couch, of course.
Tom looked over his shoulder and gave her a rueful smile. “Yeah. Something sobered me up.”
The clock on the truck dashboard said it was 3:30 in the morning. They would probably have to wake up the security guard at the gate. Maybe they should wait until morning, head back to Tom’s cottage. The specter of Tom’s king-sized bed distracted her for a minute. No. There was a couch, she reminded herself, and plenty of room for two people to avoid each other.
But when they rolled up to the Virtue Cove guardhouse, the very professional and no-doubt well-paid guard waved as he opened the gate for Tom. “Bits calls me when the dogs get sick,” Tom murmured in explanation as he pulled into the circular gravel drive. This had not been a good idea. Claire was now going to have to sneak into the summer house of a sitting United States senator—with no shoes on!
“The kitchen door has a code,” Tom said, and he gave her the numbers in a voice as low and rumbly as the pickup’s engine.
“Thank you.” She wasn’t quite sure what she was thanking him for, but it was the proper thing to do. She reached for the door handle and stopped when Tom said her name and the four words she never wanted to hear from him.
“We need to talk.”
; “No. We do not.”
The click of the automatic locks said he disagreed.
“After all these years, you still don’t understand how to treat a lady.”
“Cut the crap, Claire.”
“Excuse me?”
“In three days two of our best friends are getting married and you and I have to stand up in front of a church with them.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“We cannot spend the next three days trying to kill each other—especially after what happened tonight.”
It made her want to scream. Made her want to launch herself back at him and kiss him again. To keep herself from doing that, she grabbed the first thought out of her exhausted, slutty head. “I don’t have shoes on.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, can we have this discussion when I have shoes on? I can’t think.”
“Because you don’t have shoes on?”
He sounded incredulous, and for good reason. It was quite possibly the worst excuse she’d ever given anyone—and she was a fashion publicist who routinely made absurd excuses! “Yes. It’s really late and I can’t…”
“Think without shoes.”
“Right.”
Tom took a deep breath and nodded. “Fine. We have a truce, then.”
“What?” A truce? What was that? She hadn’t agreed to that—had she?
“No more fighting. No more bickering until you get shoes on and we talk this out. Okay?”
He was never going to let her out of here until she agreed. “Fine,” she said. What harm could there be in agreeing to this? She could agree to not fighting—and not talking—to Tom for the next three days. And then they’d never have to see each other again.
Actually, this might be the best idea she’d ever had…
Chapter 6
Her makeup was perfect, her hair was glossy and smooth, and her dark jade dress was a sample from Nicola Stanton’s latest collection, the fashion designer who Claire did PR for. No one was going to guess that she’d only had three hours of restless sleep last night.
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