shiny pink leotard.
“Mom, Sabrina told me…” Her eyes widened. “What’s he doing here?”
“Cait!”
Her face got mulish. “Well, what is he doing here?”
“Talking to your mother.” He drained the last of his tea and stood. “We have some feelings about what’s happened, too, you know. Sometimes talking them out with someone who understands can help.”
She’d been raised to be polite, he suspected, because now she flushed. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
He smiled at her. “It’s okay. Looks bad, I know. Two adults, alone in the house…” He shook his head solemnly, pleased when she laughed. If she only knew, he couldn’t help thinking. She sure as hell wouldn’t like the way he’d contemplated her mother’s toes and what they’d be capable of doing. He didn’t suppose that she saw her thirty-five-year-old mother as a sexual being. Which made him reflect on what Trevor would say about his father lusting after the mother of his former girlfriend. Probably nothing very nice.
“Thanks for the tea, Molly. And for letting me drop in.”
She stood, too. “No problem.” She glanced at her daughter. “Let me walk Richard to the door, hon.”
“Richard?” The kid sounded outraged.
Even laughing, he felt every year and then some as he headed for the front of the town house.
“Your daughter is a puritan,” he suggested to Molly, while she got out his parka.
She laughed—okay, giggled—and then pressed her fingers to her mouth to hush herself. “Possibly. I’d never noticed.”
“There’s a certain irony.”
“No kidding.” There was the grown-up, sardonic. And then she gave him an uncertain smile. “Thank you for coming, Richard. And for listening.”
“No problem.” Not letting himself hesitate, he took a chance, stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Call anytime,” he said, and went out, not looking back. He felt a little uneasy to discover he took with him a whole lot of sensory impressions: the velvet texture of her skin, the gentle, pillowy feel of her cheek beneath his mouth, the tickle of her hair and an illusive, sweet scent. And his last glimpse—those long toes curling, because he’d kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TREVOR COULD NOT BELIEVE that Cait was still dodging him. He had some rights here, didn’t he? Shit, yeah, he did.
He tried to catch her between classes; she was as quick as a minnow in a lake, darting away. After school—she never again made the mistake of leaving without having surrounded herself with girlfriends first. Postdance—more friends, or else her mother or another girl’s mother was waiting in the car out front. Her phone never seemed to be on anymore, but he sent texts.
Cant we talk?
The only response he got was:
When Im ready so quit stalking me.
Sure. He sent back:
Ill quit stalking when you talk.
She ignored that one.
The weird thing was, he didn’t know what it was he needed to say, or to hear from her. Only that he felt like his skin had shrunk and now it itched and prickled and he felt trapped inside it. It was a little like when he’d thought sex with her would make him feel all better, but…different, too.
Because he knew what an asshole he’d been and he needed her to say it was all right even if it wasn’t.
No.
Lying on his bed, he groaned and pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He needed her to say it because she meant it. But he also knew that wasn’t happening. Because she was majorly, totally screwed over. And it was his fault.
His phone rang and he rolled over to snatch it up. Not that it would be Cait, but… He was disappointed anyway when he saw the number. Bree’s. She’d left a couple messages, and he hadn’t called her back.
This time, after a brief hesitation, he answered.
“Hey,” she said. “You’ve disappeared.”
“Yeah, well, things have been…” He tried to think how to explain without explaining. “Happening,” he finally concluded.
“Like what? Did you decide to go out for basketball?”
“No.” Man, he knew the coach would still take him, and there were moments when he really missed playing, but… How fair was it if he got to play a sport he loved while Cait had to quit dance?
“Do you tell Mom everything?” he said abruptly.
His sister huffed. “You know I don’t. Did I ever tattle?”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “Yeah, when I shaved the head on every one of your Barbie dolls.”
“I was five! And that was mean.”
“They’d gone to boot camp.” Another huff. He was still grinning. It was wiped from his mouth, though, when he took a