The Personal Touch. Lori Borrill

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 life around the comings and goings of his mom. It would be worse if she stopped going entirely. After all, it wasn’t as though he could just leave her here and not come home. When she got lonely, she got depressed. When she got depressed, she started looking for things to bother herself about. And when she started looking, his life became a living hell no matter where he was.

      No, he’d learned all that the hard way. The best thing for his mom had been Marge, and if she was out of the picture indefinitely, he’d need to find someone besides himself to fill the gap.

      His mother rose and poured herself a glass of wine. “No. Marge is making a big mistake with this man, and when she finds that out, she’ll be the one apologizing to me.”

      Clint snorted. Marge was the only woman more stubborn than his mom. He doubted she’d ever apologized for anything.

      “In the meantime, my Palm Springs weekend is off.” Then she finally showed a sign of apology. “I’m sorry about your date. I had really been trying to sneak up to my room unnoticed. But you left the side gate open and Pom Pom flew through before I could catch her.”

      The gentleman in him pressed him to say it was all right, but the sex-deprived bachelor wouldn’t let him. Right now, he was supposed to be working on his second orgasm, just the thought of which had him grinding his teeth so hard he nearly split a filling. He didn’t need apologies. He needed a good hard screaming climax with a beautiful blond bomb-shell to wipe away three weeks of anticipation and pent-up steam.

      Instead, he had an irked and lonely mother and her puffed-up, oversized rat.

      Hardly the life of a swinging single bachelor.

      Setting his empty glass on the granite counter, he moved toward his bedroom to symbolically shut off the fire. “I’m going to drive down to the coast for a swim.”

      “In the ocean? I don’t understand why you go all the way down there when you’ve got a perfectly good swimming pool right in your backyard.”

      He slid open the glass door, flattened his lips and grumbled, “Water’s colder.”

      2

      “SHE’S DRIVING ME crazy.”

      Clint was stretched out on the couch in the reception area of his Wilshire Boulevard office. For the last twenty minutes, he’d been spilling his problems to his office manager, Carmen Padilla, as though she were his personal shrink. After four years with his firm, it had become one of her unofficial job titles.

      “Your mother’s not that bad,” she attempted.

      She sat behind her large reception desk, the Bluetooth receiver a permanent fixture to her ear, while she listened to Clint’s woes.

      “Do you know how I spent my weekend?”

      “From what you’ve told me so far, I’m almost afraid to ask.”

      “My mother and I toured