The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  They seemed… easy together, she thought. A far cry from yesterday’s stiffness at the beach.

  Chewing her lip because that flutter thing couldn’t be good, Tate caught sight of her mother out of the corner of her eye. “Let me help you with those dishes, Mom.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood.

  “Nonsense.” Maggie dismissed her daughter with a wave of her free hand as she approached. The other hand was loaded with the delicate cups and saucers a couple of their elderly guests had used for their tea. “You’re taking care of a guest.”

  The corner of Tate’s mouth quirked into a wry little smile. “Given the circumstances both last night and this morning, I’m not charging him for the room, Mom.”

  Maggie straightened away from the table she was clearing and bristled indignantly at her daughter, a volatile combination of southern hospitality and Irish temper that had just been offended. “Paying or no, he’s still a guest in our home.”

  She glanced over Tate’s shoulder, and Tate followed her gaze. Max had dragged out one of his coloring books. He and Clay had their heads bent together, conversing sagely while putting their artistic stamps on Spider Man Versus the New Goblin. “Now, why don’t you earn your keep by seeing if there’s anything else he needs,” Maggie suggested. Her green eyes twinkled over the stack of dishes in her arms. “Maybe you can try to compensate for some of the damage you inflicted earlier.”

  Tate felt the heat rush into her cheeks. As far as first dates went, she and Clay’s had been a real doozy. She doubted many men had been put through quite as much in the pursuit of a little recreational romance.

  Clay looked up from his rendering of Peter Parker as Tate returned to the table. “I haven’t operated one of these in a couple decades.” He held up the neon yellow crayon, studying it with a curious eye. “I think they’ve added a few colors since my time. All my early artwork consists of blue and red scribbles. Of course, that might say more about my lack of imagination as opposed to limited materials.”

  Tate grinned, bending over to admire their work. Clay seemed to show the same disposition toward grinding the point of the crayon into the paper that her son displayed. Probably something to do with inherent male aggressiveness.

  “Very nice,” she concluded diplomatically.

  “I’ll say.”

  Hearing the heat in the words, Tate glanced down, realizing she’d inadvertently flashed him. Her shirt gaped to frame the tops of her breasts, trapped in black lace.

  “About those handcuffs…” he murmured.

  Tate muffled a laugh, because that would only encourage him. And Lord knew the man encouraged himself enough as it was.

  She pointedly ignored his disappointed look as she straightened, clasping a hand to the front of her shirt. “I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”

  At her offer, Max lifted his head and looked at her with innocent expectation. “Can Mr. Clay come to the carnival with us this afternoon, Mommy?”

  Tate’s gaze flew from her son’s to meet Clay’s with a nearly audible click.

  “I’m sure Mr. Clay has other things to do today,” she informed Max, trying to calm the rumpus taking place in her stomach. “You have to remember that he’s here on vacation. His friend might not appreciate it if we monopolize any more of his time.”

  CLAY reclined in the chair, watching Tate unconsciously brush that long fall of dark hair away from her face. The delicate smattering of freckles across her nose stood out like sprinkles on a luscious expanse of cream.

  He wanted to lick them.

  God, maybe she was right. He was turning into a damn cat.

  A hungry, predatory cat who could think of nothing he’d rather do than spend his day with the beautiful and highly entertaining Tate Hennessey.

  His gaze shifted to her son. The kid was working out better than a paid accomplice. “What carnival?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Tate started to gather up the stray crayons they’d been using. Her voice was mild, but the jerky movement of her hands let him know how nervous he made her.

  He probably shouldn’t have enjoyed that so much.

  “Just one of those traveling jobs that blew into town this weekend,” she said. “You know – carnies and funnel cakes and tilt-o-whirls, oh my. We passed an advertisement for it on the way home from the beach yesterday, and my brain was so fried from the heat that I promised to take Max this afternoon.” Shrugging, she tucked the crayons back into their carton. “I’m sure it’s not your usual scene.”

  No. Clay’s usual scene involved dead and dismembered bodies and humanity in its lowest forms.

  “I’d love to go.”

  “You would?” Tate and Max asked at the same time.

  “Why not?” His lazy smile expanded to include both mother and son. If someone had told him yesterday that he would willingly put himself in the company of a gorgeous single mother and her little boy, he’d have told them they were nuts. But maybe the repeated and prolonged exposure to stressful stimuli was more beneficial to his wellbeing than running the other way. Max had already done him the favor of superimposing the image of a child’s laughter over another child’s tears.

  And besides that, he really wanted to get his hands on Max’s mama.

  “It’s not every day one has the opportunity to ride a tilt-o-whirl.”

  TATE was surprised – and not a little alarmed – at how pleased she was that he’d agreed to come along. Other than her cousins, she never included men on any outings with Max, and she’d certainly never taken her son on a date. Partly due to her unavoidable wariness. But mostly because hanging out with a toddler wasn’t a single guy’s idea of fun.

  It would be a mistake to read too much into what was merely a nice gesture, but it made her heart lift a little to see how Clay’s easy acceptance made Max smile.

  “How about you and your mama give me a ride to my friend’s house,” Clay suggested as he smiled at Max, “and then I’ll come back here and pick you both up around noon.” He looked at Tate for confirmation that the time was okay, and when she nodded, leaned his forearms on the table, bringing his head closer to Max. “Then I’ll take you out to a big, greasy hamburger-and-French-fry lunch, and we can see which one of us can ride that spinning thing the longest before throwing up.”

  Max giggled and slapped the hand Clay extended for the now expected exchange. “I like you, Mr. Clay.”

  “You know something, Max? I like you, too.”

  Bentonville Fairgrounds

  THE sweet, doughy smell of frying funnel cakes made Casey Rodriguez want to barf. Her mother ran the booth, and since Casey was off school and of an age that adults felt she needed to do something constructive so that she didn’t wind up experimenting with alcohol, drugs and horny teenage boys, she’d been pressed into service.

  Dropping the thick rope of dough into the vat of oil, Casey bit off a curse. Hot droplets leapt out to sizzle along her arm. She already had a whole armada of tiny red welts sailing around on her suntan, and she grimaced at the new additions. At the sound of her mother’s laugh, she shot a nasty glance over her shoulder.

  Lola leaned out the little sliding window, blocking whatever hopes Casey had for catching even a hint of a breeze. She was busy batting her heavily made-up eyes at some hulky looking guy in an Atlanta Braves cap.

  Casey was forbidden to wear even a hint of lip gloss, but her mother looked like she’d been hit by a car driven by Mary Kay. Blues and pinks and thick applications of powder turned her pockmarked skin into a lumpy birthday cake disguised with too much frosting. And given the heat, it all ended up running off her sweat-bathed face in colorful rivers, anyway.

  Bobo the clown, the official carnival mascot, had absolutely nothing on Lola Rodriguez.

  Casey watched in disgust as her mother’s frizzy, bleached hair blew around her face. It swallowed up the fresh air in a tornado of over-processed greed. The man outside didn’t seem to notice how tacky she looked because he was entirely too fi
xated on the generous display of breasts that Lola’s tank top did little to hide. And judging by the way her mother leaned over so that her soft, plump arms squeezed them up and out like ripe melons, she knew her outrageous figure was her best hope of snagging another man.

  “Order up,” Casey said dryly, stalking to the window beside her mother. It was hotter than blue blazes in the trailer, and the small amount of fresh air that made it past that puff of hair felt like a little slice of heaven.

  Lola took the greasy plate from Casey without bothering to spare her a glance.

  However, the man she’d been trying to seduce – about six foot, brown hair, brown eyes and enough muscles to indicate that he had a lot of time for weightlifting on his hands – appeared a lot more interested. His ball cap obscured his face, but from beneath its brim his gaze slid over Casey in a way that made her feel as if he’d just undressed her with his eyes.

  At fourteen – or near enough, anyway, considering her birthday was next month – Casey was just beginning to show promise of the future beauty she was destined to become. She was lithe where her mother was voluptuous, dark where her mother was fair. Not to be stuck up about it, but genetically speaking, she’d hit the jackpot by taking after her slim, handsome Hispanic father.

  As far as everything else was concerned, she’d drawn a bitch of a hand.

  Her father had left her and her mother for parts unknown when Casey was still in diapers. Since then, Casey had watched a steady stream of losers parade in and out of her mother’s life. About six years ago, one of those losers had convinced Lola to hit the road with him in this traveling fleabag carnival, but he’d left her high, dry and pregnant when he met a sweet little thing in one of the towns they visited and decided to settle down.

  Since then, Casey had been in and out of about ten different schools, lived primarily out of cheap hotels and campers, and acted as surrogate mother to her little sister while their real mother was at work.

  Despite the unpredictability of their lifestyle, Lola was fanatic about guarding her daughters against the wages of sin, or whatever, and consequently Casey was sheltered in a way that most of the other girls in the carnival were not.

  But she was still mortified when she found herself blushing.

  She’d had plenty of invitations for experimentation from some of the boys they traveled with, but this was the first time a real man had bothered to look at her that way. Like she was more than just some kid. She glanced up from under the heavy fringe of her lashes…

  He smiled.

  Casey thought he was kind of handsome.

  “Thanks, Casey,” her mom said, in that absent way people talked when they were distracted. She handed the man his funnel cake and went about the business of making change. “Why don’t you go grab your sister and take her on some rides?”

  To Casey’s slight disappointment, the man withdrew his attention. Probably because Lola offered another eye catching view of cleavage while counting out his fives and ones.

  “Okay.”

  With a last glance toward the man she pulled open the door, welcoming the blast of fresh air as she strolled off to find her sister.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “FIRST I want to ride a roller coaster, and then I want to eat one of those frozen bananas on a stick, and then I want to go in the fun house but you might have to hold my hand because sometimes the fun houses aren’t so fun and I get scared. I don’t know why they call ‘em fun houses when they make ‘em all dark and spooky. Last time I went in one there was a gorilla in a cage and I almost peed my pants until Mommy showed me that he wasn’t real. I don’t know who would want to keep a fake gorilla in a cage when he’s not going to get away because he isn’t even real. And there was a funny mirror that made Mommy look real short and fat and she said that she didn’t like it.”

  “He talks a lot when he gets excited.” Tate’s tone was rueful as they pulled into the grassy parking lot. So far her son hadn’t managed to divulge any more than two or three of her more embarrassing secrets, but given the time he had at his disposal today, she figured he’d completely humiliate her before they made it back home.

  She grimaced at Clay while the chatter from the back seat continued unabated.

  “So I noticed.” Clay’s smile was easy as he turned the SUV into an empty spot. They’d just finished their greasy hamburger and French fry lunch and her son hadn’t stopped babbling once during the entire ride.

  Clay turned off the engine, came around to open Tate’s door, taking her hand as he helped her alight. Then he opened the rear passenger door to unhook Max from his car seat. He studied the contraption in confusion, to which the chattering Max was oblivious, but finally managed to free her excited child from his restraint.

  Tate’s throat constricted as she watched him lift Max from the car.

  She wasn’t unused to a man with manners – southern men were famous for their chivalry, after all – but the unstudied ease of the action piqued her curiosity. “Do you have children, Clay?”

  Clay startled at the question. “What? No. Why do you ask?”

  She gestured toward the car seat and the small child standing in his shadow. “You don’t seem the least bit uncomfortable.”

  “Ah. A byproduct of training and experience.” Tate took Max’s hand and they started to move off in the direction of the action. “I studied under a renowned child psychologist, and my best friend – Justin’s brother, actually – is the father of a three-year-old girl. Last time they visited, she refused to let anyone but ‘Uncle Clay’ do anything for her. I learned a lot in an awfully short period of time.”

  “I can relate,” Tate said with amusement. She knew he’d never been married, as they’d discussed as much at lunch, but the possibility that he might have a child out there hadn’t even been considered. “Being handed a helpless newborn is the ultimate on-the-job training. You learn fast out of sheer necessity.”

  “Watch your step,” she advised Max as they crossed a small ditch to access the dirt path leading to the carnival grounds. The surrounding vegetation hung limp and lifeless, covered with a fine layer of dust. At almost two o’clock, the sun’s rays were at their strongest, mercilessly beating recipients of their heat into submission. No larks or robins dared sing, and even the omnipresent mosquitoes – big enough to warrant the title of South Carolina’s unofficial state bird – hung back in whatever shadows they could find while waiting for nightfall to begin their feeding. Sweat began to form at the nape of Tate’s neck, making her glad she’d scraped the heavy mass of her hair back into a ponytail. She glanced over at Clay’s short, spiky locks with envy, thinking that men had all of the advantages when it came to dealing with the heat. No one thought twice if they walked around shirtless, and they somehow managed to look both masculine and sexy while dripping wet.

  In fact, she could see that Clay’s white T-shirt was already beginning to cling, and she decided he was either crazy or a saint for volunteering to put himself through this when he could be relaxing on a raft in the ocean or taking a stroll through Waterfront Park.

  CLAY was beginning to wonder if he’d taken leave of his senses.

  He’d just consumed two cheeseburgers, it was an easy ninety degrees, and a rickety looking Ferris wheel loomed large in his immediate future. That off-hand comment he’d made to Max this morning didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. In fact, if he had to wager, he bet that he’d be sorely tempted to hurl chow before this little outing was over.

  He must be insane to go through all this just to get a girl.

  And hell, it wasn’t like any of this was leading anywhere. He’d charm his way into Tate’s affections, enjoy her for a few more days, and then it was back to the real world.

  Romantic interlude forgotten.

  Max reached up at that moment to tuck a small, trusting hand into his, and Clay felt like a total ass. He liked this mother and child too damn much to act like a typical schmuck. He felt his priorities rearrange as conscie
nce began to overrule libido.

  He’d treat them to an entertaining afternoon, drop them off safely, and then go about the business of pretending he never met them. Anything else was simply making suggestions of promises he couldn’t keep.

  How the hell he’d stumbled into this situation instead of a nice, uncomplicated vacation fling was beyond him.

  He let go of Max’s hand long enough to fish his wallet out of his pocket – he’d insisted on footing the bill in payback for his accommodations the night before – and garnered them three hand stamps signifying paid admission. It earned them a limited amount of rides, but games, food and additional ride tickets cost extra. All in all he figured these carnival folks had a pretty good thing going.

  They made their way through the gate, and Max’s mouth hung open for a full thirty seconds as he took in the bevy of available thrills. To a child, the carnival was a veritable wonderland of exciting possibilities.

  To that child’s male chaperone, it looked like precariously cobbled together hunks of scrap metal operated by a bunch of shifty-eyed and possibly criminal characters.

  Tate’s pained gaze met Clay’s over Max’s head, and he found his sentiments mirrored.

  “This is the first time I’ve been to one of these in the daylight,” she admitted, looking around. A leather-skinned vendor hawked enormous clouds of cotton candy as a mechanical dragon looped overhead, ferrying passengers squealing with glee. The specter of Port-O-Potties cast a malodorous pall over the far corner of the park, while the competing aromas of caramel corn and bratwurst vied for the upper hand in their assault on the olfactory senses. Harried parents shepherded hot, sweaty children. Ear-splitting screams erupted from the direction of the “Tornado,” which spun unsuspecting folks in a vortex of centrifugal force while the ride’s bottom dropped from beneath their feet. “It, uh, sort of loses something without all of the midway lights and, you know. Darkness.”

  The corner of Clay’s mouth tugged into a commiserative grin. “I’d say the sanctity of Walt Disney’s empire remains comfortably un-assailed.”