Catching Claire (2 page)

What the hell did he do now?

~*~

Coffee. She smelled coffee. And something
fruity—with milk.

Claire’s stomach roiled.
Gross, not milk.

The bright mid-July morning sun streaming through
Alicia’s deck window pierced Claire’s closed eyelids. Moaning, she
buried her pounding head deep inside the sleeping bag on the
sofabed. The zipper chilled her nose, but the soft pillow cradled
her aching skull. A few blissful seconds of silence passed.
Then—
ugh
—an irritating munching sound assailed her ears.
Like someone eating cereal.

Her nostrils twitched. Alicia hated cereal.

The munching grew louder.

Please stop. Oh, please stop. Ohhh, pleeeeeease, S-T-O-P
STOP
.

Claire’s mouth tasted like the inside of a sweaty
sock. And she only had herself to blame. She rarely drank. Yet how
many Mudslides had she consumed last night? Four? Five?

Vodka, Kahlua, Baileys, and way too much light cream
had brimmed her glass. The drinks had tasted amazing.
Now…
disgusting.

She huddled beneath the sleeping bag as fuzzy
memories blipped in her brain. Last night…Tanya’s bachelorette
party. In Alicia’s apartment.
This
apartment. Where Claire
had planned to sleep over.

As maid of honor for Tanya’s August wedding, Claire
had felt obligated to keep up with her best friend. However, while
usually Tanya could handle her liquor, Claire could not. Then, not
only had Tanya rambled on about the male stripper Claire had hired
as a surprise, her friend had nearly scrambled out the door after
the handsome young guy who’d left every woman at the party
salivating. Including Claire.

Fearing her lust would reflect in her eyes, she
hadn’t even met his gaze when she’d paid him. She’d spent most of
the evening in Alicia’s kitchen, mixing drinks so he wouldn’t
notice her gawking at him.

Yes, it was all coming back to her now. In
snatches.

The cereal munching continued.

“Stop,” Claire managed in a raspy whisper.

A second later, the TV snapped on. Sports news
played, and the munching ceased.

A
lull. Heaven
.

Claire inhaled the sleeping bag’s cozy campfire
scent.

Her eyes snapped open.

Wait a minute.
Alicia didn’t own a sleeping
bag. And she didn’t watch sports.

Footsteps neared. The weight of someone far heavier
than Alicia sat on the end of the thin mattress. Springs
creaked.

Claire froze. “Alicia?” she mumbled into the
bag.

The munching commenced anew. The noise from the TV
and the mystery person’s chewing must have smothered her voice.

Holding her breath, Claire peeked out of the
bag.

Eek!
Her eyes bulged. The stripper from last
night!

His naked back blocked her view of the TV, the
remote resting by his hip. Why was he here? Had he returned to the
party after Claire had passed out—uh, fallen asleep? Had he and
Alicia gotten it on in Alicia’s bedroom?

The guy shifted on the mattress, and he spooned more
cereal into his mouth. His wonderfully broad shoulders tapered to a
slim waist and loose, red plaid sleep pants that tweaked a foggy
memory.

How did she know his pajama bottoms fit loose? Thank
God they did, because last night he’d definitely filled out his
leather G-string, and she wouldn’t want him to catch her staring if
he—

Turned his head and smiled at her.

Like right now.

“Good morning, Claire,” the hunka-stripper said.
“Feeling okay?” He muted the TV.

“Uh…” Pajama pants...loose
and
red plaid. A
humming dryer.

Forget Alicia! Had
they
done the bouncy in
the laundry room on a freaking dryer?

“Who are you?” she blurted.

His smile widened. “Ridge.”

“No, your real name.” She already knew his stripper
name. After all, she’d rented him.

“That is my real name. Ridge Pederson.” He shoved
another spoonful of colorful cereal into his mouth. As he munched,
the fruity aroma wafted above the sofabed.

“
Ridge?”
She frowned. Who saddled a baby with
Ridge? The name ranked right down there with Stone and Trip and
Dillweed.

She glanced around the apartment. Cappuccino-colored
walls swam into her field of vision. Alicia’s walls were beige.

And where were the party streamers? The
balloons?

She blinked at the marigold sofa arm. Where was
Alicia’s
blue-and-white-striped couch?

“Where am I?” In his apartment, obviously. In his
bed. Her music player rested on the side table. Tiny strips of
paper featuring his cell phone number littered the dark wood.
“We slept together?”
she screeched.

He chuckled. “You don’t remember?”

Sitting up against the couch cushions, Claire pushed
the sleeping bag to her waist. The cooling air slipped through the
silk babydolls her other friend, Lacey, a lingerie designer, had
given her before the party’s scavenger hunt. Claire loved the gift.
However, she loved even more that Lacey had snagged a pitch
appointment with Claire’s employer, a trendy Seattle investment
group.

Her stomach cramped, and she raked her hands through
her tangled hair.
Oh God.
When had she put on Lacey’s
fashion creation? And why?

“Of course I remember,” she wheezed.

“I don’t think so,” Ridge replied.

“What does that mean?”

“Number one.” He balanced the cereal bowl on a hand.
“I’m good in the sack. Number two, I wouldn’t do it in a sleeping
bag unless we were outside. Number three, that mattress murders my
back. We’d have done it in bed.”

“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 with 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.