entire house was torn apart. Her Mardi Gras book—Dixie Doodle and the Missing King Cake Strudel—was coming out in a month and a half, and her new one was due to her publisher in a week, and she had only half of it completed. She’d spent the last week sleeping at Tippy Lou’s, which at least aided her in avoiding Clay but hadn’t helped her productivity.
Clay Caldwell had been the most pleasurable mistake she’d ever made, but their one night of horizontal mambo had been a mistake nevertheless. A typical one-night stand would have been easier to face the next day. She knew how women did it in the movies—a gal had too much to drink, stumbled up to his hotel room, and then the morning after, hooked her high heels in her fingers and tiptoed to the elevator, never to be seen again. But Daphne had slept with her contractor, a man she saw every day, a man she had to stand beside and pick out kitchen drawer pulls with.
Yeah, she was beyond brilliant.
Her only consolation was that Clay seemed to know the score. After all, his casual remark of “It’s just sex” had cemented her tumble into his arms. Sounded crass to suggest she’d been just scratching an itch, but that’s pretty much all it had been. And if she needed an itch scratched again, she wouldn’t rub up against a guy she could never have an actual relationship with because he was wrong for her in every single way she could think of . . . except maybe in bed. They’d been good there.
Of course, Daphne hadn’t made it through the morning after before Clay cornered her on the back patio and flipped her self-assurances about the night before being no big deal upside down.
“Wanna try for some afternoon delight?” Clay had drawled, stomping onto the porch when she emerged not five minutes after Ellery had left.
“What? Uh, I don’t think—”
“Come on now, I thought we’d established that thinking was overrated?” His smile should have made her weaken, but she’d girded herself with guilt, logic, and the image of her daughter’s face when she’d talked about “appropriate” guys and her reputation as a sane children’s author. Nope, Daphne wasn’t falling for his sexy teasing. They were one and done.
“Uh, Clay, I’m not sure that’s necessarily true. Thinking definitely has its place in life.”
“Aw, come on, babe. I’ve been thinking about last night all morning and waiting for Ellery to leave,” he said, looking around to make certain no one was listening or watching them. None of the workers were because why would they? “I keep thinking about those sweet little sounds you made when you came. And, Lord, Daphne, you know how to treat a man.”
Daphne moved away from him, trying not to turn the color of the maple leaves that had begun turning a punchy red. Dear Lord. She liked making those noises. Really, really liked them. “Uh, Clay, last night was . . . exactly what I needed, if I’m honest. It’s been a long time since I felt that good. But you and I, well, it’s not a good idea.”
He made a face. “Why? Because of Ellery?”
“Yeah, that and the fact that we’re not suitable.”
He’d laughed, and she’d had to punt away the awareness that he was an awfully sexy man. Her body still hummed when she thought about the night before. But her mind warned that saying yes to Clay would be like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. It could happen, but it would be a hell of a mess.
Nope. One and done. That was her mantra.
“Come on. Suitable? What’s this? A Victorian melodrama?” Clay asked.
“You know what a melodrama is?”
Clay stopped grinning. “You know, most people assume I’m as dumb as a stump. I’m not. I chose to go to vocational school and start my own business because I know my gifts. Doesn’t mean I’m stupid, Daphne, and I would expect you of all people to be able to look beneath the cover of the book.”
Shame burned in her gut, something she’d grown too accustomed to in the last twenty-four hours. “I’m sorry, Clay. That wasn’t kind or fair. I realize that you’re more than just a pretty face.”
He smiled. “Thank you, but being pretty ain’t half-bad, as you should know.”
She hadn’t felt pretty in so long. Yes, she felt shame for what she’d done, but dwelling right beside it was the pleasure of feeling desirable. She couldn’t remember