Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles) by S. M. Stelmack Page B

the hell would I want to be around someone who didn’t love me back?”
    Beneath the vehemence, there was a thread of sorrow Lindsay didn’t understand. Then again, there was so much she didn’t understand. “Well, seeing as how we’re not married, I can’t divorce you, so it looks as if we’ll stay on speaking terms.”
    She thought her voice was light and calm, yet his eyes flared. “Let’s get something straight. Just because we were friends half-a-lifetime ago, doesn’t mean we’re buddy-buddy now. I’m not Dan. I’m not someone you pick up and put down like”—he glared at Leo on the couch—“a stuffed animal. I’m here to help with your niece and that’s it.”
    He was so cutting, so plain mean. She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d touched her hair, when he’d given his regrets in the cab over her parents’ death. How could he be so different in such a short time? “Fine, then,” she said, slow and precise. “I refuse to believe that you're really the bastard that you're behaving like now, but if you want to be one, I’m not taking it. I’m going for a shower. You can stand there and stew, or you can figure out what it means to make yourself at home and do that.” She pointed at his parka. “And hang up your damn coat.”
     

 

    In her ensuite bathroom Lindsay got busy with shampoo and conditioner, soaps and moisturizers. And steam. She let off a whole lot of that. Only after she bundled herself into pink flannel pjs, and her hair into a clip, did she seek out Jack. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, eating Cheerios from a large glass measuring cup, the open milk carton beside him. She peeked into the foyer. Parka and boots were gone.
    She grinned. “See? You do know how to be civilized.”
    He scowled at her and kept spooning cereal into his mouth.
    “And when you’re done that,” she sailed on, “it’s your turn for the shower. There’s a towel over the curtain rod for you.” She moved into the living room.
    He mumbled into his cup.
    “Oh, you’re welcome. I’ll set up the couch for you.”
    The cup clattered into the sink, the fridge door opened and shut, and a moment later the shower was on.
    She pulled open the couch into a bed and made it up exactly like when Seline’s friends crashed for sleepovers, complete with soft white sheets, matching pillows and a down-filled comforter in burgundy and gold. Her lips twitched, and she arranged Leo so that he sprawled like a lounge lizard across the covers, belly-up, head on both pillows.
    Humming now, Lindsay slipped into the bathroom and, diverting her eyes from what she knew would be a very clear outline of his body, she scooped up his clothes and tossed them along with hers into the washer. It was only when she was gazing into the soapy churning waters that she realized that she’d left him with nothing to wear.
    She hurried into her bedroom and began rooting through her closet and drawers for something that might fit him and not make him seem a cross-dresser. Nothing. Seline would have something less fancy in her room, all too small. Then she remembered. Inspired she ran for the hallway storage closet and pulled out the box of Christmas decorations, which given that the joyous season had just passed, were thankfully near the front. What she wanted was right on top.
    The shower shut off and Lindsay knocked on the door. “Jack, I put your clothes in the wash, but I found something for you to wear.”
    The door was opened a crack through which Lindsay wedged a pair of boxers. She held them out for an eternity. She gave them a shake. “Uh, they’re new. They were a joke gift at the staff Christmas party. Long story. They haven’t been worn before.”
    “Not by any self-respecting male, at least,” Jack grumbled.
    “It’s either them or your birthday suit.”
    There was an even longer pause. “Jesus, Lindsay, have you looked at what these elves are doing to Santa? It’s wearable