Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

bottom. Then lingered long enough to drop a kiss on one sweet-smelling cheek before backing from the room.

And very nearly bumped into Tate.

“Hey,” he whispered, surprised.  “I didn’t see you there.”

He had just enough time to catch the sheen of tears before she launched herself into his arms.  “Hey now.”  He squeezed her tight, then gently pushed her back so he could cup her face.  And rubbing his thumb across her cheek, caught the first tear as it spilled over.  “What’s this all about?”

“You,” she admitted, smiling as she swiped at her other cheek.  “If I hadn’t already fallen for you that certainly would have done it.”

Whatever had moved inside Clay began to shimmy.  Do a happy little tango inside his chest.  “I love you, Tate.”  And he said it without stuttering.  “I never believed it when people said it happened like this, but I think I was gone the moment I saw you.  In that yellow bikini, on the beach.  Trying to burn all this beautiful skin to a crisp.”

She laughed.  Cried some more.  And then took his hand to draw him with her.

“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward her bedroom.  “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes so that I can cry all over your manly chest.”  And stopping at the door, stretched up to kiss his cheek.

“And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I love you too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

CLAY considered that next morning at breakfast that he was happier than he’d ever been in his life.

Not content, merely. But actually happy.

Goofy happy.  The kind of happy that made other people reach for the Pepto Bismol, because they got indigestion just looking at you.

He’d found himself singing in the shower.  Of course, the fact that Tate had slipped into that steamy little enclosure with him and given him something to sing about could very well have had something to do with it.

Oh yeah.  He’d definitely gone off the deep end.  A big ole’ fat belly flop into love.

And yet here he sat, grinning like an idiot.

Max, who was firmly ensconced on his lap while they debated the merits of having syrup versus powdered sugar on their waffles, twisted around to peek over Clay’s shoulder when he heard the squeaky hinges on the door.

Rogan Murphy – looking more disreputable than ever with his shoulder length brown hair all loose and wet around his face; a face heavily shadowed by at least three days worth of stubble – made an appearance at the doorway to the dining room. The man’s jeans looked like they’d been through a shredder, and his T-shirt today recommended Peace, Love and Beer.

Clay, resplendent in his newly dry-cleaned suit, frowned.

Max, sporting bed-head and Sponge Bob Squarepants pajamas, was a little more gracious with his greeting.  “Cousin Rogan!”

“Hey squirt.”  Rogan snagged a muffin and an apple from the sideboard, pulling a chair right up to their table.  And crunching noisily into the fruit, flashed a grin at Clay.  “Copeland.  Fancy meeting you here.”

Clay’s frown twisted into a rueful grimace.  He had no doubt that Rogan had known exactly what he was doing the other night.  Clay’d made a crack about bar psychology, but the joke seemed to be on him.  “You know, if you ever get sick of pulling pints, I might be able to get you a pretty good gig.”

Rogan snorted, and then laughed outright.  “Why, so I can dress like Ward Cleaver? No thanks.  But, you know,” he crunched another bite of apple, “it was nice of you to offer.”

“Cousin Rogan’s taking me to the aquarium today,” Max piped up, and reached for the powdered sugar.  He hit the bottom of the canister hard enough to send a cloud of white all over his waffles, Rogan’s wet hair, and Clay’s black suit.

“So you said,” Clay coughed, waved the powder away, and looked at Murphy through the haze.  “Max says these Thursday outings are something of a tradition.”

“Yep.”  Having finished with the apple, Rogan pulled the wrapper away from his chocolate muffin, sinking a row of white teeth into the side.  “It goes back to when the little guy was a baby.  We were all pitching in so that Tate could finish up her degree, and Thursday sort of fell to me.  I figure since he’s off to the School of Hard Knocks this year when he gets locked down in kindergarten, I better snatch my Thursdays while I can.”  He chewed, pointed the muffin at Clay.  “That’s not going to interfere with any plans you might have made now, is it?”

“No.”  It was absolutely stupid to feel jealous.  As a reasonable adult he should be happy for this man who was a pretty solid fixture in Max’s life.

Even if he was teaching the kid to cuss.

But damn it, this whole male role model thing was new and he was kind of enjoying it.

“I’ll be working, pretty long hours, probably for the next several days.”

“You gonna stick around after that?”  Rogan came right out and asked.

“Since I’ve ended up working this case while I was supposed to be on vacation, I’ll have a week or so coming to me when my part’s through.  And after that,” he reached around Max’s shoulders and began cutting the waffle into neat little pieces.  “I’ll be here as often as I can.”

Seemingly satisfied, Rogan nodded and worked on his muffin.  “That’s good to hear.  I got the impression you were a stand-up kind of guy.”

Clay dug into his own waffles.  “In all honesty, Murphy, I used to be the guy that trips and falls down while trying to run away.”

“That happens to me,” Max agreed “when I forget to tie my shoelaces.”

Clay and Rogan both stopped, mid bite, and looked at the child between them.  Then burst out in shared laughter.

THE son of a bitch was laughing.

Just sitting over there at that table, like he owned the damn place, stuffing his face with waffles.

Holding the kid on his lap.

He’d been so close – so damn