that was an order, not a suggestion. She’d had plans. They’d arranged this. She was off for the weekend with her best friend, Marge, leaving him here—alone—for a night filled with lots of overdue sex.
But Rachelle simply kept walking, shaking her head as she gathered her purse and clothes.
“Yes,” his mother said. “I am leaving. I just—Pom Pom, no!” She rushed to the side of the hill but it was too late. Pom Pom, his mother’s precious Pomeranian and Clint’s royal pain in the ass, had darted down the hill. And being that the dog had a mind of its own, Clint knew it wasn’t coming back any time soon.
Tying his towel tightly around his waist, he stepped toward the edge of the hill, hoping the dog might be within reach, but the puffed-up furball had crept under a bush. “Great.” He turned back to his mother. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I am leaving,” his mother tried, but Rachelle had already pulled out her phone and was calling a cab.
He stepped back to his date. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t going to work at all.”
His mother attempted to call her dog.
“What isn’t going to work?” he asked, becoming slightly annoyed by the impatient look on her face. “I told you, my mother is leaving.”
Rachelle snorted, snapped her phone closed and tucked it in her purse. “I thought you were a little more…independent?” Then she began walking toward the house, holding her clothes in her hand and the towel around her chest. “Really, Clint. If I’d known you were still tied to the apron strings, I wouldn’t have wasted my time.”
Okay, now he was pissed.
“Apron strings?”
His mother gasped. “My son is no such thing!”
Nice gesture, but his mom defending him right now was definitely bad timing.
“Thanks for dinner. I’ll have a car send your towel back later,” Rachelle said.
“Really, I’m sorry,” his mother tried, but Clint was one step past apologies.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched with amazement as Rachelle hurried to the door. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Rachelle simply looked at Jillian, then back at him. “You two enjoy your evening.”
“Wait—” Jillian attempted, but Clint shot up a hand. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier with, his mom for coming home when she knew he had a date, or Rachelle for being so quick to dash off—after he’d waited three weeks for her.
Right now it was a toss-up, though Mom would surely win the bonus round if he had to go traipsing through scrub brush chasing after the damn dog.
Jillian stood with her mouth open, watching Rachelle disappear into the house on her way to the front door.
“Well, now that you’ve ruined my evening, would you finally answer my question?” he growled. “You were supposed to have left with Marge hours ago.”
When they heard the distant slam of the front door, she snapped her mouth shut and turned her eyes to him. All signs of remorse were gone; instead, his mother looked aghast.
“Well,” she huffed. “If that’s all it takes to ruin an evening, what does she do on a bad date? Pull out an Uzi and start firing?”
“Why are you here?”
She clamped her hands to her hips. “Honestly, Clint, I don’t know where you find these women. Do you actually think you can have a relationship with someone like that?”
He hadn’t been looking for a relationship. He just wanted some really hot sex. But instead of pointing that out, he opted to skip to the obvious.
“You embarrassed the hell out of her—out of us. Do you have any idea what you walked in on?”
“The same thing that goes on here every time I leave for the weekend. And they’re all the same, shallow and self-centered. Did your father and I set such a horrible example that you can’t even consider dating a woman who might actually make a good wife?”
“You and Dad were great.” And it was true. His parents had a wonderful marriage. Which was what had devastated his mother so when his father died. They’d been perfect for each other. Like peas and carrots. And someday, Clint would love to have what they had. He just wasn’t in a hurry.
“Then why can’t you bring home someone kind and intelligent for a change?”
His eyes narrowed. “You keep avoiding my question. What happened to your weekend in Palm Springs?”
His mother let out a breath and plopped down in one of the stuffed chairs at the covered end of the terrace. “Marge and I had a difference of opinion.”
“You got in a fight.” What a shock. It had been happening since the two women had met back in grade school.
He should have known.
“She wanted to bring a date! It was supposed to be the two of us, and at the last minute, she announced she was bringing some guy named Arnie along.”
Clint stepped to the bar he kept stocked in the outdoor kitchen and poured himself two fingers of scotch. It was looking as though his entire weekend was about to be shot.
“And the worst of it all,” his mother went on. “Do you know where she found this man?”
Knowing Marge, it could have been anywhere. The woman was on her fourth divorce. Or was it five?
He shrugged.
“A dating service!”
“What’s wrong with a dating service?”
That blanched look returned to her face. “It’s the final stage of desperation, that’s what. You know those places are only for social misfits.”
“Mom, I hardly think that’s fair. Lots of people use dating services these days—” He stopped and stared. “Wait a minute. Did you tell her that?”
“Of course. She’s my friend. If I don’t look out for her, who will? She should appreciate my candor instead of swearing me out of her life.”
Oh, beautiful. Another Hilton-Dawson feud. The last one had lasted four months and that was over a sweater from Nordstrom’s. If she and Marge were headed for another big one, that meant his mother would be hanging around bored again. And if there was one thing worse than living with his mother, it was living with his bored mother.
He slugged back his drink. “No. Oh, no. You call up Marge and apologize.”
“Over my dead body.”
It just might come to that. Seriously. He hadn’t known how a five-thousand-square-foot home could end up too small for two people, but it was. It had been barely tolerable having to schedule his social
