“Nothing. Uh, just…I should get up and go home. I need to get ready for work,” I mumble, rolling to the edge of the bed with a groan.
I pause before getting to my feet and close my eyes in horror when I get a look at what I’m wearing. The same tank I didn’t want two intruders to see and a pair of panties I wouldn’t put in a rubbish heap. No, this specimen deserves burning straight up.
“Clari?”
“Er, I need to get up, but I’m not exactly presentable.”
“Woman, I undressed you after you passed out last night. I already know you sleep in a pair of old panties and a tank that should be illegal. Now stop messing around and go shower before I do something dumb like try to take you in that vulnerable state,” he growls.
I sit dead still for all of three seconds before I feel the bed move as if he’s lost patience.
My sprint to the bathroom is not graceful, and I hear him laughing all the way to the shower and halfway through my shampooing process.
I’m so glad to be here, safe and unharmed, that I don’t quite freak out when he comes into the shower a few minutes later and starts scrubbing himself.
My shriek is muffled when my tongue rolls down the back of my throat and I have to struggle to keep my eyeballs in their sockets.
Miah Lane is not just built like a model, the man has a crapload of tattoos covering the entire left side of his back and shoulder before dipping down his hip to his…holy mother of God.
Is that what a butt is supposed to look like? Because if it is, then Nick needs to start gyming, like, yesterday.
Don’t be a perv, Clara.
We get through it without incident, though I avoid looking at him just in case I do something horrifying, like lick him like a lollipop, or shame myself by becoming a beggar.
By the time I’m dry and my face has stopped trying to fry off from embarrassment, he’s thrown me a silky shirt and a pair of sweatpants that I have to roll a gazillion times just so they reach my ankles.
“Come on, babe. Let’s go eat and get you something decent to wear. Oh, and by the way, I told Jared to send that package back to your fucktard ex. You either buy your own stuff or let Ma take care of that shit, but you won’t be wearing anything another man provides. Please.”
“I was planning to send it back today, so thanks for that. And no, I don’t need your mom getting me clothes. I can buy my own, thanks.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
I guess that he’s more reasonable than I thought. The man is way too perfect for the newly emerged independent Clara.
Chapter Seven
Clara
The school day is terrible from start to finish, and by the time my pupils run screaming from like class in glee, I’m so relieved that Miah will be by to pick me up soon.
I’ve been jumpy all day, and almost had a coronary when one of the sixth graders set off a cherry bomb in the bathroom. Talk about paranoid. I almost took the poor kid’s head off, I yelled at him so loudly. To top it all off, half the staff room was abuzz with my ordeal and were being nosy about it.
“You ready, Clari?”
I look up and smile when I see Miah leaning against the doorjamb with his arms and ankles crossed, his eyes all hot on me as if I’m wearing something sexy as opposed to the drab brown skirt that I wear on Tuesdays, and the button-up blouse that matches.
“Yup, just let me grab my purse.”
“That ugly shit has got to go,” he says once I’ve closed my door and we’re making our way out of the school.
“Hey! I thought you said—”
“I said you can wear your own clothes and get your own stuff, but babe, that stuff is just plain ugly,” he gripes, opening my door and handing me into the car.
He runs around the front and settles in beside me, his eyes raking over my ensemble with distaste.
“I happen to like this skirt.”
“No, you really can’t since I know your eyes work just fine and you can see the color.”
“What’s wrong with brown?”
“Nothing. It just looks terrible with all that fiery red hair, and your eyes look mossy instead of the emerald green I’m used to.”
That’s when I know that he’s trying to distract me, and the knowledge does not sit well at the moment.
And okay, maybe I’m a little offended that he thinks I look bad today. If he hated the clothes so much, he should have said something about it before I walked out of the house this morning—my house, since he was gracious enough to take me home and look at the place while I got dressed.
“What happened? What did you find out today? And no, if you’re thinking about lying to me, you may as well save your breath. I lived with an alcoholic for eighteen years, I can spot a lie a mile away,” I warn, turning to him and folding my arms over my chest.