Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (best affordable ebook reader txt) 📕

women of his acquaintance heard that particular thought, but it didn’t make it any less true.

Tate pulled a fresh batch of the most delicious smelling blueberry muffins he’d ever had the pleasure to encounter out of the oven, and he was glad, after the initial insult of waking up, that his hangover hadn’t lent itself to nausea.

The noise of happily breakfasting guests drifted in from the dining area, and Tate glanced toward the door as if to listen for potential problems.

Then, sensing either his presence or his malodorous clothes, turned around as she set the muffins on a cooling rack.  “You’re awake.” And her eyes were all smiles.  “And not looking too worse for wear.”

“You’re either blind, or you’re lying.”  Pulling himself away from the doorway, he moved close enough to stroke her hair.

“Maybe I have beer goggles – oh, wait!  That was you last night.”

He wrapped the sleek black strands around his fist, and pulling her close, kissed the teasing smile right off her lips.  “I may have been a little drunk,” he admitted, because there was no denying that fact.  “But I’m stone cold sober this morning.  And you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“WELL.” Feeling her knees turn liquid, Tate struggled to stay upright.  And just to keep things light, and maintain some perspective, patted his arm with an oven mitt.  “I’m glad to see that your hangover hasn’t made you grumpy.  A little vision-impaired, maybe.  But certainly pleasant.”

“No.”  He kissed her throat, nipped her ear.  “If I had more time, I’d prove to you how very desirable you are.”  He cupped her butt to draw her closer.

“I do believe you made that point quite a few times last night.”

“Yeah.  About that.  It was some kind of fluke of nature.  Like Haley’s Comet.  Or a blue moon.  I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that’s what you’ll have to put up with every time.  I’m not sure whether you’ll be disappointed or relieved.”

Actually, Tate was more struck by the fact that he’d spoken as if that was something they’d be doing again in the future.  She’d hoped, of course, but…

“Where’s Max?” he asked, drawing her attention away from their sex life, and focusing it on her son.  And she could tell that he wasn’t asking out of mere courtesy.  He looked around the kitchen, searching for signs of little boy life, and there was a flash of disappointment in his eyes when he found none.

“He’s in the back parlor, watching cartoons.”  She’d shut the door to the family room earlier, because she wasn’t sure of Clay’s reaction this morning. So she’d tried to make his passage easier on both of them by distracting Max.

“Do you mind if I say good morning to him, or… do you not want him to know I spent the night?”

“He would love to see you,” she said, pointing toward the door which led off the back hall.  What had she done to deserve this turning out so well?  “But just to warn you, you’ll have to let him know up front that you have to run.  Or else he’ll be trying to talk you into another trip to the carnival.”

Groaning, Clay backed toward the door.  “Well, the carnival’s out, but depending on what time I finish today, how about a little dinner?  The three of us.  My treat.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but Tate blinked them back.  “We’d love that.”  Then, because she wasn’t sure she could keep the emotion from her face, turned away and started working on the muffins.  “How about I fix you up some breakfast to go?”

“That would be great.”

Tate thought the whole damn thing was great.

But unfortunately, the really great things in life were never easy.

“I thought you said the locals were friendly.” Kim’s blue eyes danced over him as she opened her hotel room door.  “Was that before or after they busted your lip?”

“Ha, ha.”  Touching his finger against the flesh in question, Clay moved past her into the room, noting that Kim had made the bed. And actually used the closet.  A row of neatly pressed business attire hung obediently along the rod, several pairs of shoes standing at attention beneath.

If she wasn’t so much fun, he’d probably be obliged to hate her.

“What?”  She turned from the mirror, tidying a deep auburn curl that had dared spring loose from her efficient twist.

“Nothing.”

Clay moved from inspecting the closet to looking over Kim’s shoulder into the mirror.  He prodded his busted lip.  Kim’s hand flew to her nose.  “Good God, Copeland. Tell me that’s not you.”

Clay stopped messing with his lip and sent her mirror image a grimace.  “You can still smell it?  I was hoping the Febreze would work.  Apparently, I was overly optimistic.”

He’d been seriously unhappy when he’d gotten back to Justin’s only to discover that he’d packed no extra dress pants.  He hadn’t counted on needing even the one pair he’d brought.  And he sure as hell hadn’t anticipated sadistic bartenders and their lethal drinks.

“You smell like the barroom floor,” she informed him, getting close enough to sniff his shirt.  It was clean, nicely ironed, but his pants were another matter.  Motioning for him to turn around, she gave his backside a considering glance.  “You might want to consider emptying the whole bottle on your butt.  What did you do, sit in a keg of beer?”

“These are the only pants I brought with me.” Kim shooed him from the room, and as he looked down at the black trousers, he couldn’t quite keep the defensiveness out of his voice.  “It was either smelly pants or swim trunks, and I opted for malodorous as opposed to ridiculous.  But after seeing your reaction, I’m questioning my decision.”

Her room was on the fourth floor of the hotel, and by unspoken agreement they headed toward the stairs.   The smell was bad enough out in the open, let alone closed up in a moving box. On the landing of the second floor, she deployed the