Catching Claire

by Cindy Procter-King

  “We didn’t sleep together, then. What a relief.”

  His eyebrows arched.

  Her stomach churned at the scent of his cereal. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four. How old are you?”

  “Old enough to know better.” By three years. In other words, old enough to control her urges. Which she was sure she’d done last night. All right, sixty percent sure.

  Whatever, at least she hadn’t thrown herself at a cradle-aged stripper named Ridge.

  She massaged her throbbing forehead. Another memory attacked. He hadn’t wanted to sleep with her. The lout. She peered at him.

  “You have a problem with my name and age?” he asked around a mouthful of cereal. “You weren’t this judgmental in the laundry room.”

  Her face heated.

  He winked. “Yep. And I liked the way you tongued my ad.” Her mouth fell open, and he laughed. He said, “From what I gathered, you stayed at Alicia’s while she took her dog and drove Tanya home.”

  Claire groaned as more humiliating memories surfaced. After the other women had left the party, leaving her alone in Alicia’s apartment, she’d tried on the babydolls. As she’d paraded in front of Alicia’s bedroom mirror, fantasies of Ridge’s hot bod had consumed her. For some reason, she’d considered it the height of brilliance to seek out his ad in the laundry.

  Had she planned to call him? Why hadn’t she just checked her cell phone history?

  What a dope.

  “Is this Alicia’s building?” she attempted to clarify. “Do you live here, too?”

  “Yes to the first question, no to the second. I’m apartment-sitting. I couldn’t leave a drunk girl in the laundry. I took you up to Alicia’s, but she wasn’t home. Neither was her friend across the hall.”

  “Lacey,” Claire supplied.

  Ridge nodded. “From what you said then, you left your cell inside Alicia’s and couldn’t remember her number.”

  Damn speed-dial.

  “You couldn’t recall your address, either. You obviously needed to sleep it off, so I brought you here,” Ridge finished.

  Claire’s heart pounded. Oh no. She’d begged him to take her home. To make love with her. Thank God they hadn’t. He’d have seen her jelly belly! He’d have touched her thighs!

  She sucked in a breath. “I need coffee.” Gallons of it. “And toothpaste.”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “Coffee’s in the kitchen. Also got some orange juice.”

  She crawled out of the sleeping bag and kicked aside her purple sandals sitting on the wood laminate floor. Grateful her top covered her bottoms, she lumbered barefoot to the counter. A sugar bowl sat beside the coffeemaker, but no creamer.

  Cream, ugh. She’d try the orange juice.

  She opened the fridge.

  “Claire, wait,” Ridge called.

  Her gaze zeroed in on the middle rack. A mouse—its dead eyes staring and its tiny body oddly misshapen, as if it had contorted itself into a parody of a modern dance routine—lay on a dessert plate between the cheese and juice carton.

  Nausea punched her stomach. “Omigod,” she choked. “That is just…sick.”

  ~*~

  Ridge dumped his breakfast bowl on the floor and ran into the kitchen. Damn it, he should have remembered the snake’s weekly meal thawing in the refrigerator. The sight of Claire’s bouncing butt had knocked him into Stupid Land.

  Shutting the fridge, she spun around. “What. The hell. Is Ratatouille. Doing in your fridge?” Face white, she gulped in air.

  Ridge scrounged in the drawers for a paper bag. “Breathe into this for a few seconds.” He helped her fashion the bag around her nose and mouth, allowing space for the flow of fresh air. Her babydolls grazed his naked chest, and his skin tightened. “Six or seven calm breaths. One…two…three…”

  Claire followed his instructions. The paper bag inflated and deflated.

  “Sorry about the mouse,” he said, stepping away. “It’s for the snake.”

  She squealed into the bag.

  “My dad’s snake.” Ridge lifted a hand. “Don’t worry, he’s in the other room. The snake, not my dad. He’s a three-year-old ball python called Fargone.” He’d counted her inhalations—six slow, steady breaths. Her color returned.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” First he’d freaked her out in the laundry, and now this. Real smooth, Pederson. “You can breathe normally now. I’ll take the bag.”

  She handed it over. Her forehead furrowed. “You have a snake?”

  Ridge empathized with her confusion. Hangovers were a bitch.

  “My father’s snake,” he reiterated. “This is his apartment.” He motioned to the fridge. “Fargone’s next meal is tonight. The mouse will have thawed by then.” He’d removed it from the freezer moments before Claire had awoken.

  She shuddered. “Tell me you don’t murder mice to feed your snake.”

  He gave up. “It’s no different from you or I buying ground beef.” He placed the bag on the counter and fetched two coffee mugs from the cupboard.

  “I’m turning vegan.”

  He smiled. “Fargone eats once a week. You just happened along the night before his next meal.”

  She squinted. “What kind of name is Fargone?”

  “What kind of name is Merriweather?”

  Her lips pursed. “I see your point.”

  Ridge poured a mug of coffee and offered it to her. “Want milk?”

  “No, thanks.” Accepting the mug, she sipped.

  Ridge poured himself a mug and stirred in a spoonful of sugar. “My father’s a herpetologist—a reptile scientist,” he explained. “Fargone was a rescue snake. His previous owner was a meth head. At some point, Far lost an eye. Then the guy overdosed. A neighbor took the poor snake to a shelter. They said another day and the creature would have been too ‘far gone’ to help.” Ridge shrugged. “The name stuck.”

  Her lips twitched. “Didn’t the neighbor know the snake’s real name?”

  “He and the meth guy weren’t close.” Ridge maintained his focus above Claire’s alluring chest. “Anyway, when it became apparent no one wanted to adopt a one-eyed snake, the shelter contacted my father for advice, and my dad brought Fargone home.”

  “Where’s your dad now?”

  “In China, exploring the Great Wall and visiting a Giant Panda reserve. It’s his honeymoon. He and my new stepmom Ruth return in ten days. Then I’ll move back to my place.” Rosewood, the Seattle suburb where his father, Ruth, and Alicia Maxwell all occupied the same apartment building, sat too far from med school.

  “Where do you live?” Claire asked.

  “The University District. I have two roommates.” He sipped his hot coffee.

  “I’m in North Seattle, too,” she replied. “Ballard. But I work downtown.”

  “Ah, the lady remembers something.”

  A blush splashed her face.

  Shit, he’d done it again. “Don’t feel embarrassed, Claire.”

  “How can I not? I literally threw myself at you last night. If you weren’t a gentleman—”

  “But I am.” He grinned. “To a point.” Like if she didn’t cover up STAT.

  Leaving his mug in the kitchen, he strolled to the sofabed and collected the red plaid robe matching his pajama bottoms—both last year birthday gifts from Ruth.

  He walked back to Claire. “Wear this. It’s easier on my eyes.” Not likely. But his dad had raised him right. “Not that I don’t appreciate what you have on, but this is better. For both of us.”

  Claire put down her coffee and slipped into the robe. Wrapping the flannel over her breasts, she asked, “Do you really have a one-eyed snake?”

  He couldn’t resist. “I have two.”

  Her blush deepened. “Sorry, your father’s snake. I have a horrible headache.” She pressed two fingertips to her temple.

  “I’ll get aspirin.” Ridge popped into the bathroom. When he emerged wi
th the tablets and a glass of water, Claire was sipping from her mug and studying the framed photographs on the living room walls. Most featured Ridge’s father and Ruth on their many adventures. In the last few years, they’d traveled to Israel, Peru, and now the Far East.

  Ridge dodged his upended cereal bowl and strode in bare feet to his guest.

  “Thanks.” Claire traded her coffee for the water. He held her mug while she downed the aspirin. “I recognize these ruins,” she said, pointing out an enlargement. “Where is this place?” She ran a hand through her tangled hair.

  “Machu Picchu, in Peru.” Ridge stepped closer to the picture. “That’s my dad and Ruth at the view from the Machu Picchu gatehouse. The small mountain in the background is called Huayna Picchu. They climbed it later that morning. He asked her to marry him there.”

  A smile curved Claire’s mouth. Not a loopy one, like last night in the laundry, but a small, slightly shy smile that flipped his arousal switch. He’d love to wake up to a smile like hers…kiss her until she moaned...make love with her until she called his name, over and over.

  “I’d love to travel someday,” she murmured.

  He filed away the fantasy. “Me, too. I need to finish med school first.”

  As her head tipped, her wavy brown hair grazed the robe. “You’re a doctor?”

  “On my way. Stripping helps pay my tuition. That and my other part-time job.”

  “What else do you do?”

  “I shouldn’t say. You might upchuck.”

  She laughed. “I like you, Ridge.”

  “I like you.” A lot. His last girlfriend, a fellow med student, had rarely let loose. At first, Ridge had thought she was focused on her studies. Nothing wrong with that. Still, he’d spent weeks encouraging her to unwind. However, the longer they’d dated, the more he’d realized she wasn’t a people person. Although brilliant, she’d become one of those doctors with a lousy bedside manner.

  Not how he wanted to approach his career or his life.

  “Tell me about your job,” Claire said over her mug. “I can handle it.”

  “I dissect cadavers.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “You what?”

  “Cut up dead people. For summer session anatomy classes.” He set the water glass on the coffee table he’d moved last night to create room for Claire’s makeshift bed. “The students aren’t permitted to dissect, just observe the samples I prepare.”

  She waved a hand. “That’s enough.”

  “You don’t want to hear about the fellow I worked on last week? He had this—”

  “Triple sure.”

  “Too bad. It’s fascinating.”

  “Another time.” Stepping to a cluster of framed pictures, she drank her coffee. “Where’s your mom?”

  “In L.A. She left when I was two.”

  “Oh.” Sympathy infused Claire’s tone. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We reconnected when I was eight.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “When I was little…my mom had big dreams. She thought she’d make it as an actress.”

  “Aw. Did she?”

  “A few commercials now and then, a TV movie. Mainly, she teaches dance. She’s fun to hang out with, but I wouldn’t call her mother material. In some ways, I feel closer to Ruth.”

  The corners of Claire’s mouth tipped up. “Your mother sounds like quite the character.”

  “She is. She took my name from her favorite soap opera. I can’t remember which.”

  “Look at the bright side. She could have called you Brick. That’s a name from my mom’s old soap.”

  Ridge chuckled. “You surprise me, Claire Merriweather. You’re kind of serious, but fun, too. Never mind hot.” He jiggled his eyebrows.

  She glanced away. “About that toothpaste…” She set her mug on the coffee table.

  Now he’d scared her off. “Meet Fargone first.”

  “I think I’ll pass.” She fidgeted with the baggy robe sleeve. “Alicia and I have a fitting at the bridal salon at noon. I should call her. She’s probably wondering where I went last night.”

  “You wrote a note on that erasable thing hanging on her door. You said you’d left with me and would return at eleven this morning.”

  Claire smacked her forehead. “I don’t remember that at all!”

  “You also thanked her for dragging you to the laundry a couple of weeks ago, because otherwise you wouldn’t have seen my ad. And you, um, told her not to disturb us.”

  Claire groaned. “Did I write down your apartment number? Your cell phone?”

  “Nope and nope. I tried to, but you erased them.” With his T-shirt. While he’d been wearing it. He’d needed to squash against Alicia’s door so Claire wouldn’t rip off his tee during her energetic wiping. Blue marker stains now covered the shirt—another candidate for the laundry. “You were becoming rambunctious.” To put it mildly. “I brought you here before someone complained to the manager—and I tucked you straight into bed.” In the living room. He’d tried offering her the bedroom, but, to Claire, a real bed equaled sex. Last night it had, anyway. Twice after he’d dozed off, she’d snuck into the room to join him. Each time, he’d escorted her back to the sofabed. Sharing sleeping quarters with the curvy brunette would have pushed his libido over the edge.

  “We didn’t fool around at all?” she persisted. “We didn’t kiss, not even once?”

  He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.” Unless he counted her slobbering on his ear when he’d turned his head to avoid her lips at four a.m.

  She swore. “I’ll never hear the end of this. Alicia hates disorganization.”

  “She sounds charming.”

  “Once she’s mad—”

  “Enjoy the morning with me, then.” He darted a glance at the news crawler across the bottom of the TV. “It’s nine-fifteen. Meet Fargone before you go. You have plenty of time.” He didn’t want her to leave at all. For the first time in weeks, he had Saturday night off—no stripping gigs. He wanted to spend the day with Claire, talk, get to know her. Convince her that hanging around a dancer named Ridge wasn’t a bad idea.

  That it could be a great idea.

  She bit her lip. “What the hell. I’m dead meat with Alicia, anyway.” She eyed him. “First the toothpaste, then the snake. But no feeding him.”

  ~*~

  Claire stood at the bathroom sink, gaping at the horror show that was her reflection. Her hair looked like a chicken coop had exploded on her head, mascara smudges circled her eyes, and a zit had sprouted on her chin.

  Ridge hadn’t mentioned any of this. Not one blessed word.

  Was he blind?

  Pushing up the robe sleeve, she opened the top vanity drawer he’d said contained a new toothbrush—Ruth’s drawer, according to Ridge. As well as the toothbrush, makeup samples and an unopened concealer tube greeted her. Thank you, Ruth.

  Somehow, over the next ten days, before Ridge’s dad and new stepmom returned, Claire would replace every borrowed item—because no way was she exiting this bathroom looking like the Wicked Witch of the West had melted on her face.

  Minutes later, she fluffed out her loose brown waves. Tanya’s mother kept hassling her to get highlights for the wedding. Maybe she should. Ridge was intelligent, funny, generous, and undeniably hot. And, he seemed interested.

  He’d already seen her at her worst. She’d be a fool to walk away now.

  The thumping in her forehead receded to a dull ache. Claire unknotted the robe, plumped up the girls, then retied the sash to expose the white bow centered between her breasts. A hint of cleavage winked above the purple silk.

  Inhaling deeply, she left the bathroom. Ridge stood at the kitchen sink, wringing a washcloth. He’d cleaned the cereal mess off the floor and stowed away the sofabed. The rolled-up sleeping bag and pillow sat on the couch along with several Aztec-patterned cushions, and a local radio station played instead of the TV sports.

  “Hey.” He draped the washcloth over the tap. “You look dif
ferent.”

  “Aspirin works wonders.”

  “That’s why they call it the miracle drug.” He lifted a plate of buttered toast. “Hungry?”

  Her stomach rumbled. “Starving. Thanks.” She retrieved the top slice. As her teeth sank into the warm toast, he refilled her coffee. He’d barely touched his mug, but she welcomed the additional infusion of caffeine to combat her lingering cobwebs. She drank the hot liquid between bites of her second slice. Beside her at the counter, Ridge ate the other two pieces.

  His gaze flitted over her face. “You didn’t have to pretty up for me, you know.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you mistaking me for one of your corpses.”

  He laughed. “Fat chance of that happening. You’re a natural beauty, Claire. That’s what I like about you. You’re real.” He tapped her nose.

  Pleasure warmed her deep inside. She hadn’t dated since spring. The last guy had been the complete opposite of easy-going Ridge Pederson. Not only in personality, but also looks and age.

  She’d never been with a younger man. Would Ridge care that she had three years on him?

  “Ready to see Fargone?” he asked, setting his coffee on the counter.

  She swallowed. The snake again. “Is he poisonous?”

  “Nah. Ball pythons kill by constriction.”

  Gulp. “How long is he?”

  “Three feet. He’s still growing. He could reach five.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  Ridge chuckled. “Handled properly, he’s harmless. Most snakes are nocturnal. Far’s no exception. He’s probably curled in his hiding cave.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t disturb him.”

  He massaged her shoulder, his touch reassuring through the flannel robe. “It’s okay, he likes me. I take him out of his tank all the time. You can handle him if you want.”

  “How about you handle him, and I’ll watch?” She put down her mug, and Ridge’s hand settled on her back as he steered her to the spare bedroom. Claire recognized the apartment layout from visiting Lacey. “Which floor is this?”