Morgan laughed.
“Unlikely,” she replied. She sat down on the couch next to Clint. “Still haven’t found Mr. Right yet. And the way I’m going, it’s unlikely I will anytime soon.”
“Don’t worry about that, Banks. The right guy will find you.”
As soon as he said that, though, Morgan’s mind did not picture a guy. It pictured Chloë. Morgan took a big gulp of the red wine she had poured for herself.
And that is exactly why I called him!
“I like your house,” Clint said.
“Thanks! Sorry it’s such a mess, though. Either I’m just too lazy or I just can’t find the time to get it all sorted.”
Clint waved her comment off.
“You’re a schoolteacher,” he said. “Even though we’re all teaching from home nowadays, it doesn’t mean we suddenly gained more hours in the day.”
Morgan smiled. Clint understood, which was one of the reasons Morgan had always liked spending time with him. It made her wonder why she hadn’t dated more teachers. There were always good-looking male teachers around. They practically grew on trees. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t dated teachers. She had. And looking back now, she recalled that she had purposely stopped dating them because it was like dating her job. No matter what, her and whatever teacher she happened to be dating at the time always ended up talking shop or turning date nights into let’s-grade-papers-together nights.
But Clint was different. Yes, he was also a teacher but whenever they got together, he also made a point to not talk about teac
hing or students or pain-in-the-ass school administrators.
Anyway…enough small talk. Clint was here for a purpose and Morgan intended on using him for that purpose and then sending him on his way.
Alarmingly, though, she found herself hesitating, unsure. One thing Clint had in abundance was a magnetism that drew women to him. It was undeniable and strong, even though he was approaching sixty. So why wasn’t she feeling that magnetism tonight? Why was it that tonight she felt like she had to force herself to make a move on this handsome, charming, whiskey-drinking man? Seriously, what the fuck?
OK, get over it! Let’s do this!
Scooting closer to him on the couch, she pressed her body against his right side, being sure her breasts made contact, which ought to get his attention.
Clint quirked an eyebrow at her over his whiskey glass.
Morgan took the tumbler out of his hand, placed it on the coffee table, leaned in and pressed her mouth against his for kiss. But, oddly, as she closed the gap between their lips, she had tried to avoid the hairs of his mustache, which was impossible considering how it overhung his upper lip. This had never happened before. Ordinarily, his mustache and the feel of it against her face was enjoyable, the manliness of it was kind of a turn-on. But no, this time she had actually tried to avoid it as her lips drew closer to his. The resultant kiss was awkward, off-target and clumsy. Yet, she still ploughed on, working her lips furiously against his, trying to ignore the hairs of the mustache pricking at her mouth, determined to start feeling something normal for the first time in days.
But then she felt Clint’s hands on her shoulders gently pushing her away.
“Not so fast, Banks,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” Morgan asked, wanting to move in again but unable to because Clint kept his hands on her shoulders.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
Morgan huffed.
“Look, I’m just trying to have sex here, Clint.”
“No…you’re trying to convince yourself to have sex.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Clint sighed and then moved several inches away from her so that they were no longer touching.
“Look, if you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, fine,” he began. “I know we’re not exactly bosom buddies. But that being said, I’d like to think that I’ve proven to you over the years that I can be someone to trust. So, you can either tell me what’s wrong or you can choose not to. You can ask me to leave or you can pour me another drink and I’ll stay awhile. But, Banks? We are not having sex tonight.”
Two things happened simultaneously inside Morgan right then. The first was relief, the kind of relief she imagined a patient must feel when the doctor tells her that the spot on the x-ray was just a thumbprint. The second was gratitude. Clint was a good man.
Morgan collapsed against the back of the couch, her hands covering her face.