Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

muffled a laugh, because that would only encourage him.  And Lord knew the man encouraged himself enough as it was.
  She pointedly ignored his disappointed look as she straightened, clasping a hand to the front of her shirt. “I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”
At her offer, Max lifted his head and looked at her with innocent expectation.  “Can Mr. Clay come to the carnival with us this afternoon, Mommy?”
Tate’s gaze flew from her son’s to meet Clay’s with a nearly audible click.
“I’m sure Mr. Clay has other things to do today,” she informed Max, trying to calm the rumpus taking place in her stomach.  “You have to remember that he’s here on vacation. His friend might not appreciate it if we monopolize any more of his time.”
CLAY reclined in the chair, watching Tate unconsciously brush that long fall of dark hair away from her face.  The delicate smattering of freckles across her nose stood out like sprinkles on a luscious expanse of cream.
He wanted to lick them.
God, maybe she was right.  He was turning into a damn cat.
A hungry, predatory cat who could think of nothing he’d rather do than spend his day with the beautiful and highly entertaining Tate Hennessey.
His gaze shifted to her son.  The kid was working out better than a paid accomplice.  “What carnival?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”  Tate started to gather up the stray crayons they’d been using.  Her voice was mild, but the jerky movement of her hands let him know how nervous he made her.
He probably shouldn’t have enjoyed that so much.
“Just one of those traveling jobs that blew into town this weekend,” she said.  “You know – carnies and funnel cakes and tilt-o-whirls, oh my.  We passed an advertisement for it on the way home from the beach yesterday, and my brain was so fried from the heat that I promised to take Max this afternoon.”  Shrugging, she tucked the crayons back into their carton.  “I’m sure it’s not your usual scene.”
No.  Clay’s usual scene involved dead and dismembered bodies and humanity in its lowest forms.
“I’d love to go.”
“You would?” Tate and Max asked at the same time.
“Why not?”  His lazy smile expanded to include both mother and son.  If someone had told him yesterday that he would willingly put himself in the company of a gorgeous single mother and her little boy, he’d have told them they were nuts.  But maybe the repeated and prolonged exposure to stressful stimuli was more beneficial to his wellbeing than running the other way.  Max had already done him the favor of superimposing the image of a child’s laughter over another child’s tears.
And besides that, he really wanted to get his hands on Max’s mama.
“It’s not every day one has the opportunity to ride a tilt-o-whirl.”
TATE was surprised – and not a little alarmed – at how pleased she was that he’d agreed to come along.  Other than her cousins, she never included men on any outings with Max, and she’d certainly never taken her son on a date.  Partly due to her unavoidable wariness.  But mostly because hanging out with a toddler wasn’t a single guy’s idea of fun.
It would be a mistake to read too much into what was merely a nice gesture, but it made her heart lift a little to see how Clay’s easy acceptance made Max smile.
“How about you and your mama give me a ride to my friend’s house,” Clay suggested as he smiled at Max, “and then I’ll come back here and pick you both up around noon.”  He looked at Tate for confirmation that the time was okay, and when she nodded, leaned his forearms on the table, bringing his head closer to Max.  “Then I’ll take you out to a big, greasy hamburger-and-French-fry lunch, and we can see which one of us can ride that spinning thing the longest before throwing up.”
Max giggled and slapped the hand Clay extended for the now expected exchange.  “I like you, Mr. Clay.”
“You know something, Max?  I like you, too.”
Bentonville Fairgrounds
THE sweet, doughy smell of frying funnel cakes made Casey Rodriguez want to barf.  Her mother ran the booth, and since Casey was off school and of an age that adults felt she needed to do something constructive so that she didn’t wind up experimenting with alcohol, drugs and horny teenage boys, she’d been pressed into service.
Dropping the thick rope of dough into the vat of oil, Casey bit off a curse. Hot droplets leapt out to sizzle along her arm.  She already had a whole armada of tiny red welts sailing around on her suntan, and she grimaced at the new additions.  At the sound of her mother’s laugh, she shot a nasty glance over her shoulder.
Lola leaned out the little sliding window, blocking whatever hopes Casey had for catching even a hint of a breeze.   She was busy batting her heavily made-up eyes at some hulky looking guy in an Atlanta Braves cap.
Casey was forbidden to wear even a hint of lip gloss, but her mother looked like she’d been hit by a car driven by Mary Kay.  Blues and pinks and thick applications of powder turned her pockmarked skin into a lumpy birthday cake disguised with too much frosting.  And given the heat, it all ended up running off her sweat-bathed face in colorful rivers, anyway.
Bobo the clown, the official carnival mascot, had absolutely nothing on Lola Rodriguez.
Casey watched in disgust as her mother’s frizzy, bleached hair blew around her face. It swallowed up the fresh air in a tornado of over-processed greed.  The man outside didn’t seem to notice how tacky she looked because he was entirely too fixated on the generous display of breasts that Lola’s tank top did little to hide.  And judging by the way her mother leaned over so that her soft, plump arms squeezed them up and out like ripe melons, she knew her outrageous figure was her best hope of snagging another man.
“Order up,” Casey said dryly,