For the Girls' Sake - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,35

hope not. Tell me the truth. Do you look forward to Mondays?"

"No." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "The drive is getting old, and I don’t like wasting a day over there any better than you do here. Okay. We can do better."

"How about fewer but longer visits? Overnight stays?"

"Rose has never even spent the night at her grandparents’."

"Would you, um, consider staying over the first few times?"

The austerity was back as he frowned, and she quailed a little at her boldness.

"On your couch?"

"You can have my bed," she said, too quickly. Why so eager to persuade him? she asked herself. "I’m shorter. I’ll take the couch."

"I do have the extra bedroom here." He was still thinking. "They have more fun when you’re around, too."

"I know it’s awkward."

"At first it was awkward." He contemplated her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. "I’m not so sure it is anymore."

"Maybe we could be friends." Only friends?

"All right." The lines between his dark brows cleared. "I’m game. How about if we make it the weekend after next? I’ll come Sunday and Monday. That way I can entertain the girls while your shop’s open on Sunday."

"It’s not too long for you to take off?"

A shrug. "I can bring my laptop. Put in a little time Monday. I can be flexible."

"Okay." Two weeks. How would she wait two weeks to see them again? "Um..." she began apologetically. "My place is pretty tiny. I’ve put my money into the business. Maybe we can eat out," she decided with quick relief. But he’d still have to use her shabby bathroom, see the chips in the porcelain sink and tub, bump his head on the too-low lintel.

She had a suspicion he read her shame and anxiety as if her face were the open screen of his laptop.

"Real life, remember?"

"Yes. All right." She was taking a risk in baring her life for his scrutiny. In court, he could use her poverty against her. But he could have done that anyway, she reminded herself. It wasn’t any secret.

And she was beginning to believe, to hope, that he wouldn’t.

"I’d better go check on Shelly." She picked up her silverware and glass. "Unless you need help cleaning up..."

Adam crossed the kitchen and took them from her, his fingers bumping hers. "Don’t be ridiculous. Go."

Foolish that her pulse bumped in sync.

"Thank you, Adam. For listening."

His eyes softened. "We should have talked sooner."

"No one said this would be easy."

"Has anyone else ever had to figure it out?" He released a breath. "Good night, Lynn. Make yourself at home if you wake up before I do in the morning."

She edged backward. "Right." At home. "Sure."

"I left Rose’s shampoo in the shower. I’ll put out clean towels."

"Thank you." Why was she still standing here? Why was she wondering, hoping, at the way his eyes seemed to darken, at the step he took forward?

"Rose needs a mother’s touch."

Rose. Not him. Of course not him.

She was being foolish. He looked at her oddly sometimes because of her resemblance to his Rosebud. Not because she was a woman and he was a man.

This new plan wouldn’t work, either, if she started suffering delusions. So don’t, Lynn told herself sharply.

With a cool nod and another good-night, she went.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ADAM TRIED TO ROLL OVER and had to muffle a groan. The couch was not only a foot too short for his big frame, but it was about as comfortable as squatting against a driftwood log on a rocky beach: okay for a while when the sun was hot and the beat of the surf steady and lulling, but nowhere you’d want to snooze for eight hours.

Lynn had offered, four or five times, to sleep out here and let him have her bedroom. Offered, she’d tried to insist. But, no, he was too chivalrous to accept.

He still didn’t regret his refusal, and not just because he liked to think he was a gentleman. It would have made sense for her to sleep on the couch instead of him. She probably could have stretched out. She might have even rested more easily on the lumps and bumps. Along with being a good ten inches shorter than he was, she must weigh fifty pounds less.

What Adam hadn’t liked was the idea of invading her private space. Of being surrounded by her scent and her most intimate possessions. Oh, she’d have cleaned up for him, but her makeup decorated a dresser, her books covered a bedside table, the prints on the walls