Brenna stepped from the bathroom and pointed down the hall to the left as she led Rebecca in the opposite direction. “Daddy and Mama’s room is down there. Behind door number one here,” she walked past the first closed door to the right of the stairs, “is Jack’s old room. Sean’s is behind door number two, and my old room is here.” She stopped at the end of the hall across from Sean’s room. “You’d think Mama and Daddy would’ve converted these bedrooms into useful spaces after we moved out, but they never bothered. And I’ll apologize now for the Backstreet Boys and ‘NSync posters.” She opened the door to her childhood bedroom.
“Justin Timberlake still does it for me,” Rebecca said, “so you’re forgiven.”
She stepped into the time machine that was Brenna’s old bedroom. As promised, boy band posters adorned the walls, along with Bright Hills High School and University of Georgia pennants, and four framed poster replications from Monet’s Water Lilies series. Three walls of pale pink were offset by a fourth of eye-popping fuchsia from which protruded the canopied bed dressed out with lacy trimmings and an overabundance of pillows running the gamut from frilly to plush. Red fuzzy dice the size of cantaloupes dangled from one of the bedposts, and a collection of Mardi Gras beads swung from another.
“Wow,” Rebecca said, taking it all in.
“I know. I was such a cliché.” Brenna made a face. “Did your parents entomb your old bedroom like this?”
Rebecca laughed. “Hardly. The day I moved out my mother moved in her sewing machine and a new TV, and that was that.”
“Well, let’s see what we can find you to wear. I got into the habit of leaving a few changes of clothes here because it’s convenient, like on a night like tonight when the weather is bad and it’s easier to just stay over. Sean does the same thing.”
While Rebecca poked through the few things hanging in the closet, Brenna looked through her dresser drawers.
“I appreciate your offer for a change of clothes, but I can’t imagine you have anything that will fit. I’m a flagpole and you’re an hourglass.”
“You’re willowy,” Brenna argued, tossing a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants onto the bed, followed by a pair of thick socks. “That isn’t the same as a flagpole. How tall are you, anyway?”
“Five-seven.”
“You look taller than that, but then I’m height challenged at five-foot two. Maybe these sweatpants will work, and the sweatshirt is a large. I gave up trying to be a size six long ago. And anyway, I like to give the girls plenty of wriggle room.” She shimmied to make her point.
Rebecca looked down at her own chest and smirked. “I like my sweatshirts roomy, too, so this will be perfect. Thanks.”
“I don’t have any extra bras here—”
“They wouldn’t fit me if you did.”
“—but there are some undies in the top drawer, and I’ll share, but if you feel hinky about that I understand. And you know where to find the bathroom. Other than that, I guess you’re all set.”
“Thanks, Brenna. I appreciate it.”
“See you downstairs.” Brenna smiled and slipped from the room.
Rebecca finished her hot drink and set the mug next to a Bedazzled princess phone that sat on the bedside table nearest the door. She made a mental note to bring the mug downstairs with her so she could fill it up again. The mulled wine, spiked with whisky, had done its job, and her relaxed muscles and warm belly conspired to remind her of her exhaustion. Maybe taking a shower was just what she needed to wake her up. She eyed herself in the mirror over Brenna’s dresser and admitted that she’d benefit from a make-over.
She stepped from Brenna’s room and saw that the door to Sean’s boyhood bedroom stood ajar. With a guilty glance down the hall, she pushed the door open farther with her foot and peeked in, but earned only a slight glimpse afforded by the light spilling in from the hallway. Typical room for a teenaged boy from what she could see, with posters of athletes on the wall. Judging from the Atlanta Braves paraphernalia, baseball had been Sean’s sport of choice back in the day. Vying for attention amid the sports stuff hung a movie poster for 9-1/2 Weeks, depicting a tousled and sexy Kim Basinger. Rebecca pictured Cynthia, Sean’s date at the Fourth of July picnic. There was no doubt about it. The man preferred well-endowed blondes.
Not that it mattered, of course. Her relationship with Sean was superficial at best and silly at worst. She was the flat-figured redhead he joked with, not the sort of sexy bombshell that attracted his male attention.
And that was fine, a totally good thing. Being just friends with Sean was great. Really. She enjoyed their ridiculous verbal play and wanted it to continue. Besides, she was dating Nate, even if he was too demanding, too eager to turn their romantic friendship into a serious relationship. She’d have to talk to him and reiterate her desire to keep things casual. Maybe it was time they took a break.
She resisted the urge to flip on a light for a more thorough view of Sean’s boyhood room and instead pulled the door closed and headed to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower and stripped off her wet clothes. She didn’t care about the jeans, but the sweater she had chosen to set off the green of her eyes had exceeded what she could afford without feeling pinched, and now it would require a trip to the dry cleaners where she hoped a miracle might be wrought to undo impending shrinkage. That’s what she got for a giving in to a little vanity.
The hot shower completed the relaxation of her muscles and infused her skin with a rosy glow. She towel dried her curls, bemoaned the lack of products to tame them, made a lame attempt to smooth them down, and huffed in resignation. She’d traded Marge Simpson for Medusa, but even in tumbleweed mode her hair looked better than before. Sort of.
She glanced around for the sweatshirt and pants, and muttered, “Crap.” She’d left them on Brenna’s bed. Great. Just freaking great.
The plush towel covered her most important parts, so she cracked the door and peeked out, nibbling her thumb. Conversation and laughter floated up the stairs from the kitchen, but otherwise the coast was clear. She’d make a run for it past the stairs and down the hall. No worries.
She set off toward Brenna’s room at a near lope, seeing too late that Sean’s door hung wide open. A moment later he stepped into the hall. Rebecca gasped. She couldn’t halt her forward motion fast enough to avoid a collision.
She hugged her arms to her chest to keep her towel in place a half second before she slammed into Sean Kinkaid.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Ricard Claro is an award-winning author and Pushcart Prize nominee with published articles and stories spanning multiple media. She resides in Georgia with her husband of more than three decades and counting, is a mother of three (a ruggedly handsome son and two stunningly beautiful daughters—she might be a little biased), and dreams of one day living at the beach. Seriously dreams of it. As in, she’s already decorating her dream beach house. In addition to an array of sand dollars and seashells, she keeps a framed sign hanging in her office: Sandy Toes and Salty Kisses Welcome Here.
Claro is also a lover of dogs and cats, and has a heart for rescues. This is why you will find a rescued pet companion in every one of her books. Sometimes they are part of the story line (Pirate, the dog, in Love Built to Last), and sometimes they’re already ensconced in their forever home with one of Claro’s characters (Pavarotti the cat, in Love to Win). As you read her books, watch for the rescues!
While Claro is a fan of storytelling in all genres, Romance is her favorite because she believes everyone deserves love and a happily-ever-after. But she adores a little mystery now and then, too, so keep an eye out for Claro’s authorship of a whodunit one of these days soon.
GENRE: CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE/WOMEN’S FICTION
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely co
incidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. The publisher does not have any control over or assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.
LOVE BUILT TO LAST ~ Fireflies ~ Book 1
Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Ricard Claro
Cover Design by Melissa Stevens
All cover art copyright © 2015
All Rights Reserved
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626942-80-2
FIRST PUBLICATION: June 2015
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
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