21
Jesse reached up and held the trim above the open bathroom door, stretching his back comfortably as he watched Clara apply glittery eyeliner with painstaking care. He did not delude himself that she was doing it for him; it was obvious that she took pride and pleasure in her own appearance, and besides, she was filming herself to post on socials later.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sight of her leaning over the counter in a sleeveless pink dress and some truly remarkable pale pink boots.
“How’s it coming?”
“Good,” she intoned, engrossed in her work. She’d explained that it was to be a time lapse makeup tutorial, so after she had informed her phone camera that she was going to show them (who?) how she elevated her work makeup for an evening look, he was allowed to talk and she was free to respond.
His black shirt hung on a hook behind her. He’d known she would choose it, was equally unsurprised by the hat, and was only glad that there was no accompanying necktie.
“I’m starting to wonder if your eyelashes aren’t real.”
She laughed dryly. “Of course they aren’t. Only men have lashes this long.”
“Why are women so jealous of us?” he asked. “Why can’t they just appreciate what they do have?”
“Please go change your shirt,” she requested sternly.
Obeying her would require him to cross the threshold, and he had been avoiding joining her in the small room.
He stayed where he was. “Can I ask you something?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you own like two hundred pairs of shoes?”
“Fifty pairs. If I buy a pair, I get rid of a pair.”
“Does that slow you down?”
“More than you’d probably think.” She grabbed the hanging shirt and held it out to him.
“Thanks.”
“Yes, I’d like you to tuck it in.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“Yes, you were.”
He frowned at her and took the shirt to his office, where he quickly swapped the blue one he’d worn all day.
When he returned to the bathroom, Clara’s phone was flipped over, filming done, and she was cleaning up her products. She surveyed him critically. “I like it. This is a nice shirt.”
“Thanks.”
She adjusted the lay of the collar a little, brushed her hands over his shoulders, and then picked up a comb and ran it through his hair before covering his eyes and dousing him with hairspray.
“Thanks, Mom,” he rasped, coughing.
“Don’t want you getting hat hair.”
“Want me to shave?”
“No. You look good with a little stubble. It’s like nature’s contouring,” she said, tossing the remaining items into her bag.
When she turned to face him again, he took a moment to study her sparkling eye makeup. He’d had his doubts about it, but it didn’t look half bad.
She smiled. Then she reached back into her makeup bag for a little tub. She opened it, rubbed her ring finger into it and reached up to dab it onto his lips.
Their eyes met and he was pretty sure she turned a little pink, but she finished what she was doing.
“It’s just lip balm,” she explained, as an afterthought. “It’s windy out there.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” he said, but it sounded almost like a growl.
She did not answer, but she glanced at his mouth and then back up at his eyes.
“Stop looking at my mouth, Clara.”
“I’m not,” she said immediately.
“You want me to kiss you or something?”
“Of course not,” she said, but her chocolatey brown eyes said the exact opposite.
The office was empty and dark; Yoli had gone home as soon as the last patient had left, and now it suddenly felt very…private.
He took her face gently in both hands, stepped closer and looked into those big brown eyes again.
Clara was spellbound, her pupils dilated in the dim lighting, and her expression was dreamy. Time slowed down and he zeroed in on her lips, which, although he was holding her still, seemed to be getting closer.
He was suddenly aware of his own pounding heartbeat, and realized in the same moment that he had been lowering his head to hers. What was he doing? This was Clara! He’d only meant to tease her a little. How had he let it get this far? Pull back!
“Clara.”
“Hmm.” She was looking at his mouth again.
“Clara, I need to tell you something.” What he needed to do was let go of her, but he couldn’t seem to do that.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Her soft, throaty voice was almost his undoing. He pulled hard on his self-control. “Remember that time you got kicked in the face at cheer practice,” he whispered, “and your dad forbade everyone from mentioning your fat lip, and Beck slipped a drawing of a duck-billed platypus under your door and you had a meltdown?”
Instantly, surprise and humor replaced whatever she’d been feeling a moment ago. She nodded cautiously.
He smiled wryly. “Beck didn’t do it.”
She understood instantly. “No.”
He nodded in modest pride.
“No! I hate you,” she cried, pushing his hands away. “I blamed Beck for ten years!”
“I know. I got away with it.” The intimate mood was broken and every cell in his body was wildly disappointed with the outcome, but at least she was smiling. “Can we get out of here yet?”
She heaved a great sigh. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Finally. I’m starving.” He was not starving, could not even think about eating, but it seemed like a normal thing to say.
“It’s going to be catered. They always have good food.” She led the way down the hall to the front door, set her bag on a chair, and handed him her coat, gathering her hair carefully to lift it off her shoulders.
Jesse held the garment for her and she slipped into it and let her hair down carefully, engulfing him in her delicate floral scent.
“Will there really be a ring toss?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.
“The flyer said carnival games.”
“Nice. Hey, it fits,” he said, placing the hat on his head.
“Good. You look good in it. You’re a hat guy.”
She was certainly free with the compliments, and he didn’t hate it. “Why, thank you, little lady. Sure hope you’ll save me a two-step.”
“Oh, I will. I haven’t danced in forever! You’re a good dancer, right?”
“I can do it,” he said, locking the door behind them. “Doesn’t mean it’ll be pretty.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Are you driving or am I?”
“I don’t mind driving.”
“Okay, good. I think parking’s going to be tough. Dang, I can’t believe you drew the platypus! That’s wild.”
He half-listened to her chatter as they got into the car, responding as needed. He’d made the mature, safe choice back there in the tiny powder room, but he wasn’t completely convinced it was the right one.
When Gijo Del Amo asked Clara to dance, Jesse had been a little relieved; it wasn’t going to be solely up to him to entertain her all evening. The enthusiasm with which she’d accepted may have been a little annoying in the face of Gijo’s Tejano good looks, but people were electric sliding to an old Tim McGraw song and she probably hadn’t wanted to miss it.
So Jesse had plopped the black cowboy hat onto her head and watched her lead her partner to the floor while he half-listened to Skip talk about real estate.
Clara sure looked cute, stomping and twirling in her fancy pink boots. The nice thing about line dancing was that the dancers didn’t touch each other or even really interact—Gijo’s hands rested innocuously on his silver belt buckle.
“Hey,” Skip interrupted his thoughts. “You’re not hearing a word of this. Why’d you ask me about my work if you don’t care?”
Jesse turned back to his old friend. “Why are you talking to me about work when you’re on a date with your wife?”
Skip punched his shoulder, sloshing Clara’s ice-cold soda over his hand. “All right, we’re gonna go get some food. Don’t worry about Gijo, man. He’s a good guy.”
“Yeah, but he’s like forty.”
“More like thirty-five,” Pearl put in.
“Who’s he trying to look like? Roy Rogers? He’s a caricature.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” she countered, laughing. “I think they look cute together.”
Jesse looked at the dancers again. Did they?
“You gotta remember that Clara’s not a kid anymore,” Skip advised, and then they left him standing there alone near the dance floor, two red Solo cups in one hand and two foil-wrapped choripanes in his other.
“Dr. Jesse!” a voice called. “Happy Valentine’s Day! You remember Hayden.”
He nodded at his six-year-old patient. “Hey there. How’s the ear?”
“Good,” Hayden said.
“He’s doing great,” his mother assured him. “Listen, my husband Roy is working tonight but he said to invite you to his poker game.”
“He did?”
His astonishment must have shown, because she looked embarrassed and confessed, “Well, not in so many words, but he would if he heard about you. This morning Clara and I figured out you were two years ahead of Roy at Romeo High—a year behind my brother, Ted. The poker guys are mostly firefighters—Roy is, and Ted, and Helio—”
“Heliodoro?”
“That’s him! Do you know him?”
They’d wrestled together in high school. “Wait, are you a McMann? Ted McMann’s little sister? Uh, Allie.”
She answered delightedly that he was correct, and again encouraged Jesse to join the poker night while he was in town. “They play every Friday night at eight, at the hardware store. Oops, Hayden wants to play some games. I’d better quit yapping.”
She made her indifferent son say good-bye to him and Jesse lifted the sandwiches in farewell.
“Jesse!” Clara rejoined him.
“Where’s Gijo?” he asked, glancing around.
“Dancing again.” She carefully took her drink and her sandwich. “Your hand must be freezing! I’m sorry.”
“Can’t feel it.”
She laughed. “At least the choripan was warm.”
He liked how she looked when she laughed. “First-degree burns. No big deal.”
Sure enough, she laughed again and apologized for that, too.
He balanced his sandwich on top of his beer so that he could take the Stetson from her head and put it back on his own. “Don’t want you getting hat hair,” he explained.
“Right. Thank you,” she said, still smiling.
He was about to suggest that they find a place to sit down and eat, when his beer was almost knocked from his hand, sending a tidal wave over the side of his cup…and all over the front of Clara’s wool coat.
Clara let out a startled squeak and Jesse let out a sharp oath. A rubber ball about the size of a baseball floated cheerfully in the remainder of his beer.
“Great,” he said crossly, watching the beer drip from her hem onto her pink leather boots. “Where the heck did that come from?”
A couple of teenagers arrived then, apologizing and laughing, and took the ball out of his drink.
Clara made a feeble attempt to brush off her coat with her foil-wrapped sandwich. “Have you seen any napkins…?”
“Yeah. Come sit over here and I’ll grab some.”
Jesse tossed his beer into the trash and squatted to wipe down her pink leather boots while she swabbed at her coat.
“It’s fine,” she said with a weak laugh. “It hasn’t soaked all the way through the material.”
But he knew she loved to look put-together, and based on how she felt about clothes, the coat probably had sentimental value. No way he was going to let her reek of beer all evening in soggy clothes. “Take it off. You can wear mine.”
“You’ll be cold,” she objected.
“It’s almost sixty degrees. I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “It’ll be too big in the shoulders. Might look kind of 80s or something.”
“Quality menswear juxtaposed with feminine elements can create a balanced and appealing look,” Clara chattered, shivering in her bare arms.
“Like a sportcoat and a sparkly pink dress?” he suggested, putting his coat around her shoulders.
She held up her wrists and he rolled the sleeves until her hands were visible. “Yes, exactly. Even better if the coat is silk-lined, pre-warmed, and smells faintly of cologne.”
“Gosh, you’re an upbeat lady,” he said, and she laughed again.
“Don’t worry, this is still the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“‘Not the worst’ I could understand. But the best? You must have been on some terrible dates,” he observed, steering her gently toward the parking lot.
“I dated this guy in New York for five weeks before I realized he was just trying to get Hart to invest in his startup. And he was engaged to someone else at the time! So, all of those dates automatically rank below this one.”
“Imagine thinking you could get on Hart Wilder’s good side by catfishing his only sister.”
“Right? What an idiot,” she said, grinning up at him.
“Total idiot.” In more ways than one. “Look on the bright side; Hart’s probably had guys try to use him to get to you, too.”
She looked impressed by the thought. “You think so?”
“He’d never admit it, so you can assume whatever you want.”
“Hmm, I think I will. Thanks.”
He unlocked the Maserati and tossed her coat onto the back seat. Then he slammed the door and they started back toward the festival. “So what else?”
“What else? You want to hear about my other terrible dates?”
He found that he was keenly interested in the subject. “Might as well.”
“Okay, let’s see—” she began, but was interrupted by shouts from somewhere ahead.
“Dr. Flores! Dr. Flores, come here, quick!”
He didn’t know the teenager on sight, but wondered if it was one of the STEM kids.
“Peter,” Clara provided.
“What’s up, Peter?” he asked.
“My little sister! She was doing a cartwheel and she hit her head on the metal railing and fell in the creek. We got her out, but she has a big cut on her head, and she’s not acting right. They’re calling an ambulance!”
“I can look at her,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Where is she?”
“Right over there,” he answered, pointing. “There’s a medical tent, but they only have Band-Aids. I was so glad to see you walking up—”
“Go with Clara to my car,” he interrupted, handing her the keys. “I have a kit in the trunk. It looks like a bookbag. Make it fast.”
“Yeah, we’ll be fast,” Peter promised, and took off at a run. He didn’t know what car to look for and he wasn’t holding the keys, but that didn’t slow him down any and it didn’t really matter; Jesse had only given him the errand to keep him busy.