Chapter 8
Asher
After Claire unpacked, she insisted she tag along to stock up on food. We bickered at the cash register at the convenience store in town when I wouldn’t let her pay, nearly causing a scene. In the end we went dutch.
While dinner with her at my in-laws went well, it was odd. I haven’t visited them with anyone but Bea since Daisy—What the hell am I thinking? Claire is a colleague, not a woman I’m bringing home to Mom and Dad.
After helping Jack clean the kitchen, she headed back to my house, and by the time Bea and I returned, she had retreated to her bedroom and I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.
This is fine. I can totally live with a woman. It’s not even technically living, really. She’s a roommate. It’s like I’m back in college. Only my roommate is a very attractive woman with pretty skin, and not a smelly nineteen-year-old male with acne.
This morning, while Bea is out front speeding around in her jeep, I stand in the kitchen, tapping my foot, nerves getting the better of me.
For the hundredth time, I peer around the corner and find that Claire’s bedroom door is still closed.
I figured she’d be up and moving by now, seeing as it’s her first day on the job.
Should I knock?
I should knock.
No. She’s my roommate—not my responsibility.
If she’s late for work, that’s on her.
Fuck it.
I’m going to knock.
When I hear movement from the other side, I still, my hand frozen in mid-air.
Just knock.
With a deep breath, I lightly rap on the door. “Claire?”
The movement ceases. “Yes?”
“Uh, I’m headed out. Are you… um… Please meet me at the clinic in ten minutes.”
“Will do,” she calls back.
I turn to leave, then pause and whip around again. “The keys to the golf cart are on the kitchen counter. Are you okay driving it?”
“Yup. I grew up next to a country club,” she chirps. Followed by, “Sorry, that sounded pretentious. I swear I’m not.”
With amusement rolling through me, I say, “Didn’t think you were. I know your brother. I assume you’re just as down-to-earth.”
When she doesn’t respond, I tell her I’ll see her soon, then walk away.
Jack and Natalie are on grandparent duty, so I hop in the spare golf cart and head toward the clinic, where I find Jessica waiting.
“Thanks for coming in to help Dr. Connelly get situated.”
“Don’t mention it, honey,” she replies. “Happy to help. Dr. Connelly has some big shoes to fill after all these years with Dr. Parsons, but she seems delightful.” She cranes her neck, looking behind me, then checks her watch. “Where is she?”
I shrug. “She was still getting ready when I left, but she said she would be here in ten.”
Exactly eleven minutes later, Claire flies through the door. “Asshole reporting for duty.” She salutes.
I scoff, straightening. “You’re not going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“Nope.” She smirks.
“Do I even want to know?” Jessica chuckles. “Why are you out of breath? Did you run here?” she asks Claire, then zeroes in on me. “Did you not leave her with transportation?”
Claire brushes back the stray hairs that have fallen from the knot sitting on the top of her head.
“No. He did. I—Well, I was running a tad behind. Maybe I should have disclosed this to you earlier, but I have a bad habit of being late. It’s not ideal, trust me, I know.
” She chews on her bottom lip, and the urge to pluck it free with my thumb startles me.
“My last receptionist shifted the appointment times on my schedule by thirty minutes so I’d technically be on time.
” The nervous laughter that falls from her lush lips is so endearing I can’t even be upset.
But this is my place of business, so I say, “Then I suggest you make a note to be here thirty minutes earlier.”
She bristles, but I ignore it, turning to Jessica. “Please acclimate Dr. Connelly. I’ll be back later.”
With a terse nod, Claire sets her purse on the desk.
Then, because a wall of regret has slammed into me and I fear I’ve come across as a major dick, I grin and say, “Welcome to the team, Doc.”
My face flames as I exit the building. Fuck.
Was I an ass? It’s just—all the changes recently have thrown a huge curveball.
First the tree falls on the cabin next door.
Then Jack and Natalie announce they’re not leaving.
And now Claire has moved in. No, not moved in.
Shacking up? Nope. That sounds even worse.
Claire is temporarily cohabitating my space.
That’s it.
At least with Jack and Natalie sticking around, I have built-in babysitters.
The summer childcare programs at Daisy Lake are exceptional.
We offer caregivers an opportunity to take advantage of activities their children may be too young to partake in, like horseback riding or sailing.
Or relaxing at the adults-only spa. Or experiencing a meal without a toddler spilling spaghetti on their laps.
Ask me how I know.
But I prefer not to take advantage of the programs all day, every day, even though I sign the paychecks.
“It’s not a choice, Dolly. You have to wash your hair.”
“But I don’t wanna.” She slumps onto the bathroom floor, her little arms and legs sliding across the tiles like she’s making a snow angel. Though it’s more like a dust bunny angel. Damn, I swear I just cleaned in here.
I gently grasp her arms and set her upright. “You’ve been swimming in the pool today. If you don’t wash it, the chlorine will make it turn green.”
“So?” She stares up at me, head dropped back. “Your eyes are green.”
She’s as endearing as she is frustrating. “But hair is different.”
“Why?”
“Because.” I huff. For the love of all things feminist, why are five-year-olds so inquisitive? I want to raise my daughter to be curious and ask questions, just… not during bathtime.
“Hello?” a feminine voice calls from the front of the house.
Bea darts past me out of my room and down the hall in her bathing suit. “Claire!”
I chase after her. “It’s Doctor—” I stop short when I discover my new camp doc looking like she’s just come from a wet T-shirt contest in Daytona Beach. Her white shirt is plastered to her skin, though her hair is perfectly dry, and when I glance outside, it doesn’t look like it’s rained.
“What happened?” I ask, while working hard to pull my gaze away from her perfectly peaked nipples. Fuck, they’re hard.
She crosses her arms over her chest and clears her throat. “Just a little accident in the cafeteria at dinner. A kid spilled lemonade on me. But it’s all good.”
I snag Bea’s mostly dry pool towel from where it’s hanging by the door and offer it to her.
“Thanks. I’m gonna shower,” she says as she steps toward the hallway.
Unconsciously, I take a step toward her. “Are you going to wash your hair?”
“Yes?” She frowns at me, the expression screaming why the hell would you ask me that, weirdo?
Turning to my daughter, I say, “See, Dolly. Dr. Connelly is going to wash her hair. Don’t you want to wash yours too?”
“No.” She stomps her foot.
I throw my hands up with a groan. I can’t have my daughter’s hair turning green from the chlorine.
Claire’s eyes dance between mine and Bea’s, assessing. Then she claps once, stealing my daughter’s attention, and grins. “Oh my gosh. Do you want to play beauty salon?”
Bea cocks her head to the side. “What’s that?”
“Have you ever gone somewhere to get your hair cut?”
She nods.
“That’s a beauty salon. I could pretend to be the hairdresser, and you have an appointment to get your hair done. Wanna play?” She holds her hand to her mouth and whispers, “We won’t really cut your hair,” then winks at me.
I have no clue where she’s going with this, but her enthusiasm is contagious.
My daughter appears as intrigued as I feel, her eyes wide as she nods.
“Okay, you go outside and pretend to walk into the salon.” With the towel still wrapped around her chest, she directs Bea to the door. “Count to one hundred. I’m going to change my shirt real quick.”
“Daddy, come play.” Bea opens the front door and waves me over.
I obey, closing it behind us.
She bounces on her toes in anticipation while I help her count to one hundred. Then she throws the door open with a flourish, and we find Claire standing at the counter behind her laptop, gold-rimmed glasses on. She did, in fact, change her shirt. This one is dry, much to my dick’s dismay.
“Good evening. Welcome to Claire’s Hair Affair,” she trills.
I snort at the quippy name and she shoots me a warning look.
“Hi,” Bea squeaks.
Claire peers over her glasses. “Excuse me, ma’am, do you have an appointment? What’s your name?”
“Dolly,” my sweet girl answers.
Humming, Claire makes a fuss over looking for Bea’s appointment on her computer. “Ah! Here we are. Dolly. One hair wash and blowout.”
Blow… what?
I blink and stagger back a step. “What’s a blow—”
“It’s a fancy name for blow-drying your hair.” She smiles at Bea then locks eyes with me. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Greer.”
“Sure thing, Doc.” I salute.
With my daughter’s hand in hers, she leads her to the sink where she hoists her onto a towel that she’s already laid out on the counter. Beside it is an unfamiliar bottle of shampoo and a matching bottle of conditioner.
“All right. Can I help you lay back?”
Once Bea is prone, Claire rolls up a dish towel and gently tucks it beneath Bea’s neck, then she eases the elastic from her hair.
“So. Dolly,” she says. “Is that your real name or a nickname?”
Bea giggles, her legs spread out long and twitching with excitement. “Nickname.”
Realizing she’s still wearing a wet bathing suit, I grab a throw blanket from a basket in the living room and cover her, then quickly step out of the way.
“Where’d this nickname come from?”
“Lee Lee,” Bea shouts, her high-pitched voice bouncing off the ceiling.
Claire turns on the faucet and runs her hand under the water once, then adjusts the temperature and checks again. “That’s what you call your Aunt Millie, right?”
Bea nods.
“Lee Lee said you looked just like one of her baby dolls when you were born,” I remind her. The nickname stuck, and these days, nearly everyone calls her by it.
“Let me know if the water gets too hot or too cold.”
A dull ache wraps around my ribs as Claire trickles water over my daughter’s head, the scene reminiscent of the way I’d bathe her in the sink as a baby.
“Hey, Ash,” she whispers, ripping me from my reverie.
I blink back to the present. “Hmm?”
“Can you cut a few slices of cucumbers for me, please?”
With a nod, I open the fridge. “Why? Are you hungry?” I ask as I pluck the cucumber out of the veggie drawer.
“You’ll see.” She turns back to Bea and continues her make-believe shtick. “So, Miss Dolly. Where are you from?”
“Umm…” Bea thinks for a second, bringing a finger to her chin. “California.”
I chuckle to myself. My daughter has never set foot in California.
While she works in the shampoo, Claire really commits to her role. At one point they both start speaking in British accents and I have to bite my tongue to keep from losing it.
After a rinse, she follows up with conditioner, the sweet scent wafting through the kitchen.
“Two cucumbers, please.” She holds out her hand.
I pass over two slices.
Delicately laying them over Bea’s eyes, she asks, “Are you comfortable?”
Bea giggles, though the sound dies on her lips when Claire begins massaging her scalp. I swear my daughter’s whole body goes limp and she lets out the biggest exhale.
I can’t help but study Bea, thinking, Tell me, dear child, what ails you at five years old?
And wondering if this tactic will work again in the future.
After rinsing her hair once more, Claire wraps and secures a clean dish towel around Bea’s head, then helps her sit up. The cucumber slices fall, but she quickly plucks them off her lap and shoves them into her mouth.
“Gross.” I chuckle with a smile, scooping my daughter up and situating her on my hip.
“We’re not done yet,” Claire says. “We still have the blowout.”
She holds my gaze a second too long when she says it, then she turns on her heel and strides down the hall.
We follow, and I set Bea on the counter in the bathroom, where Claire has a round brush and a hair dryer ready. The space is small, plus it’s hot and loud, so I excuse myself and let the two of them finish up.
After the hair dryer shuts off, laughter and whispers float down the hallway, and a few minutes later, Bea runs out and tackles me on the couch.
She’s dressed in her pajamas now, her hair straight and silky soft.
She may have skipped an actual bath, but her giant grin helps convince me to let that go. At least her hair isn’t green.
“Does this beauty salon also do teeth brushing?” I wink at Claire. “I’ll gladly pay for the extra service.”
“Daddy,” Bea laughs. “I’m a big girl. I can brush my own teeth.”
Oh, now she wants to comply? I shake my head, scoffing. Kids never cease to baffle me.
After helping her floss, I snuggle with her in her bed while I read. Or, rather, I attempt to read. She mostly interrupts, chattering on about how much fun beauty salon is and asking if we can play again tomorrow.
If it means no green hair, we can play every day, kid.
I press a good night kiss to her head, and instead of being hit with the playful watermelon fragrance I’m used to, I’m engulfed with the comforting scent of vanilla.
Claire.
Fuck.
This roommate thing might not be such a good idea after all.