Help Wanted (16 page)

He had forgotten how good she felt in his arms, all soft and warm, and the way she smelled like the inside of a bakery.

When she slipped her arm behind his back and gripped his waist, his breath hitched, and he felt his chest tighten.

I miss this.

He indulged his urge to pull her close and kiss the top of her head as they climbed the back porch stairs. Fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket while balancing her with one arm and her backpack with the other, he glanced at his wife—the one who always had to feel as if she was in complete control of every situation. Only now, she was clinging to him for dear life and swaying a bit, as if she'd had too much to drink.

He wasn't used to seeing her off her game.

He kinda liked it.

After gaining entry to the house, he deposited her things in the mudroom and led her to the red microfiber couch in the family room.

As soon as Claire sat down, she crinkled her eyes and informed him that the room was spinning.

The doc told him she might feel dizzy on and off for the next couple of days, partly because of her injury, partly because of the painkiller. Other things to watch out for, he'd pointed out, were nausea, confusion, and heightened emotions.

Feeling a grin tug at his mouth, he leaned down and held her face in his hands until her eyes met his. "Sit tight, Imp. I'll be right back."

After she nodded her acknowledgement, he stood and took a step away from her before returning to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Better squeeze in as many as I can before the meds wear off.

Making his way up the back stairway, he grabbed a pair of her pajama bottoms and a matching tank top out of her—
their
room—along with a sheet, a couple of blankets, and pillows out of the linen closet. On his way back down, he realized he was looking forward to being alone in the house with her more than he could ever have imagined four hours earlier.

Thank you, Kate.

When he returned to the couch, he was relieved to find Claire awake, although looking a little dazed and wearing a bit of a smile, the reason for which he couldn't exactly pinpoint.

Sitting next to her, he set the clothes in her lap. "I thought you'd be more comfortable in your jammies."

"Right," she replied. But she just looked at him. And still with that smile.

Well, ok then.

Kneeling in front of her, he slipped off her shoes, unable to keep his grin at bay. Next, he helped her tug off her sweater, one sleeve at a time and then oh-so-carefully over her head until all that was left on top was her bra. Her beige, lace-trimmed, open-in-the-front bra.

Have mercy.

How to undress one's wounded wife while she's under the influence of painkillers was definitely not a topic that was covered in his Boy Scout leader training. Sitting on the edge of the couch next to her, he waited, half amused, half aroused.

Way more than half.

He figured the right thing to do in this situation would probably be to walk away and let her manage the rest by herself.

"Ok, so are you good here?" he asked without getting up.

With that, she turned toward him. In a move that took his breath away, she grabbed his face with both hands, looked in his eyes, and rested her forehead against his.

"Say it," she whispered.

His breath caught in his throat. "Claire, I don't think this—"

She pulled his hand to her bra clasp, pressed her mouth against his, and ran her tongue lightly over his bottom lip.

"Say it," she demanded.

Standing on the edge of the empty, dark elevator shaft, he whispered "
Te llamo, querida
" and executed a perfect swan dive into its depths.

*   *   *

When Claire blinked in the morning light, she cast a bleary eye to her surroundings.

Why am I in the family room?

Her head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, but it didn't matter, really. She was so comfortable and…content. Exceedingly so, but she couldn't figure out why and was too tired to try. Closing her eyes, she was aware of one thing and one thing only—aside from the slight stinging sensation on the side of her head, she felt different. Lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted.

Snuggling back against her pillow, unable to place its familiar scent, she was vaguely confused as to why it felt so firm and warm. And it was moving ever so slightly. Up and down, up and down. She willed her eyes open only to find that she was curled up against a body. Paul's body.

Seeing that he was wearing nothing but a blanket (
and was that a hickey?)
, she sucked in a breath.

What the…?

Her heartbeat accelerated as a heated rush coursed from her scalp to the tips of her toes, reminding her of the sensations she had enjoyed just a few hours before.

Not sure whether to shove him to the floor for taking advantage of her concussed condition or to rouse him for round two (or five—she had lost count), she pulled away just far enough to watch him sleep. The thick waves of his hair were mussed, and his long, dark eyelashes curled upward from his closed lids. His full lips were redder than normal, a tad swollen (no wonder) and slightly parted.

Like the Grinch in Dr. Seuss's yuletide fable, she felt her heart grow and grow and grow until it was near bursting.

So gorgeous. And he's all mine.

Her sister was right. She was a first-class dope. Thinking of all she had put him through over the past several months, and for what? Her eyes began to fill.

His fluttered open. When they focused on her face, his lips curled into a smile. "Hey."

"Hey," she whimpered.

"What's the matter?" Alarmed, he edged onto his side to get a better look at her.

She ran her fingers against the dark stubble on his cheek and sniffed, "I'm so sorry, Stretch."

His expression softened. Wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb, he asked, "For what, babe?"

She widened her eyes, desperate to list every infraction, only she didn't know where to start, so she gasped, "Everything."

Paul reached over her head for the box of tissues on the end table, plucked one out, and handed it to her.

"That's a pretty big thing to be sorry for."

She leaned into his touch as he tucked her hair behind her ear.

Puppy-dog eyes were not in her arsenal of sympathy-begging expressions—maybe because she made a point of never begging for anything. Whatever it was that the muscles in her face tried to do, they made a mess of it.

Paul scrunched his eyes and cupped the side of her face with his hand. "Did I hurt you?"

Claire attempted to sit up, despite her throbbing head. "No. I'm fine."

Which was a lie. The more she woke up, the more frustrated she became with her inability to articulate her feelings in a way that wouldn't make her sound like a blithering idiot.

"Liar." Paul sat up, fluffed the pillows that had been smushed behind them both, and laid her back down. "Now stay put. Can I get you anything?"

Before he could turn away, she grabbed his arm and laced her fingers between his. "What I really want to say is, if you don't want to go back to work, it's all right with me."

What the hell?

Her plan was to stop fighting with him about it, not give him carte blanche to live the life of leisure while she slaved in the trenches all day.

Regardless, she rather expected him to leap for joy. Instead, he just narrowed his sleepy eyes and gave her a faint
I'll believe it when I see it
half smile for a long minute.

"I already have a job, Imp," he replied as he unlocked his fingers from hers and bent to grab his jeans from the floor.

Right. Stay-at-home dad extraordinaire. Yada, yada, yada.

Not wanting to spoil the mood and reopen old wounds, she ran her hand up and down his back and teased, "I'll let you call me Sugar Mama."

At this, he laughed. "And what would that make me? Your Cabana Boy?"

Now you're talkin'.

Not waiting for her response, he started turning his jeans right side out and asked, "How about something to eat? You hungry?"

Certain she could find a more effective way to convince him, she replied, "Not for food, CB," and she pulled him on top of her. "Not for food."

*   *   *

"So, let me get this straight," Kate started. Having brought the boys back late Sunday afternoon, she had just settled in for a long chat.

Now that Claire and Paul's unplanned lost weekend was behind them and the haze of her pain medication was beginning to lift, she sat at her kitchen table clutching her favorite mug that was filled with her favorite caffeinated blend. Like a repentant drunk nursing a hangover, she struggled to remember all of the dumb things she said or did while under the influence.

Instead, she listened as her sister recounted what she had just told her.

"You bang your head on the train, Paul takes you to the hospital, and now everything is right as rain between the two of you."

Claire squirmed. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, "Yeah, I wouldn't go that far."

Paul had barely left her side all weekend, but even after her all-encompassing apology, an olive branch the size of the Sears Tower, and a whole lot of unbridled, narcotic painkiller-induced promiscuity, she had a nagging feeling all wasn't forgiven. Not completely.

And then there was that little inner voice that kept shouting about what a mistake it was to let him off the hook in the first place. Especially given the fact that her contract position with John was almost at its end.

Her head started to throb all over again.

Chuckling, Kate replied, "All I can say is, that must've been one hell of a whack."

Claire stared into her steaming mug. "Maybe it knocked some sense into me."

With that, her sister let out a laugh. "Right. You're working two jobs, one of which you're keeping a secret from Paul because you want to pay back his lost nest egg, which—and I'm just guessing here—was big enough to buy a condo in Hawaii. With cash. That's not exactly what I'd call sense."

"Our lost nest egg," Claire corrected. "But yes. It makes perfect sense."

She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under her older sister's scrutiny.

Kate shook her head. "You're just like Mom."

Glancing toward the foyer when she heard a loud clatter come from upstairs, Claire hunched over her mug, annoyed at the accusation. Lowering her voice, she asked, "What are you talking about?"

Her sister took in a sharp breath. "Mom hid her job from Dad for six months because she wanted her own career and she was afraid of his reaction. But Paul's nothing like Dad, so I don't see why you just don't tell him."

Using a soft voice to counter Kate's needling, Claire replied, "Because I've got a family to support. I can't just dive feet first into a new career, no matter how much I like it, because it doesn't pay enough to cover the bills."

Never one to pull off a poker face, Kate's skepticism was evident. "So why are you kidding yourself about replenishing his nest egg?"

Claire shrugged. "It wasn't his fault that he lost it. The least I can do is try. And who knows? Maybe this advice column thing will turn into a full-time job. With benefits. And a fat paycheck."

It was Kate's turn to shrug. "Maybe. But what if he finds out about it before that happens?"

Again, Claire's eyes darted toward the foyer, the main entrance to the kitchen. "The old Paul, the one I married? He'd be happy for me. But this Paul," she said as she pointed upstairs, "for him it's all about staying afloat while he stays home with the boys."

Shrugging, she added, "Otherwise, it's a nonissue. He only reads the Sports section." She tried to laugh off the paranoia she felt creeping over her.

Not a minute later, Paul padded barefoot into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his jeans and balancing an overflowing laundry basket on his hip.

Claire looked at Kate and mimed buttoning her lips and throwing away the key. Kate winked back.

"Oh. Hey, Katie. Didn't know you were still here. Thanks again for taking the boys this weekend."

All muscle and testosterone, Paul leaned down to kiss his sister-in-law on the cheek. 

"Hey, Paul. My pleasure."

After winking at Claire, he crossed the room, pulled open the basement door, and descended to the laundry room.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Kate looked at her sister. "Tell me again why you won't fix me up with one of his cousins. It's the least you could do after I gave you guys a weekend alone." She batted her eyes at Claire.

Kate had been after her to set her up with one of Paul's cousins ever since they'd gotten engaged. That they all had the same swagger and smolder as Paul was bad enough, but they were also great dancers, athletes, and amateur chefs. And each one was, unfortunately, married.

"Sorry," Claire said after reminding Kate of that fact.

"Damn."

"Oh, as if you need help getting dates. Please. Men drool at the sight of you." Reaching for her sister's smart phone, she observed, "I'll bet you've got a whole collection of men in here."

She started flicking through Kate's selfie gallery. "How do they not know that they're supposed to be looking at the camera and not at you? So annoying. Oh, and who do we have here? Pao Gasol? Nice. Jonathon Toews, cute. Duncan Keith? Hot."

Her sister snatched her phone back. "Too tall and too already taken, the both of them."

Claire pointed at her. "Too picky. And I can't believe you went to a Blackhawks game without me."

The basement door opened and Paul emerged buttoning a flannel shirt, with a pair of socks draped over his shoulder.

Joining them at the table, he asked, "What are we talking about?"

Both women exchanged blushing glances before Claire offered, "Nothing important."

She had Kate's promise to keep her career as an advice columnist under wraps. And that was all that mattered.