A Man for the Summer Read Free Page A

man of her own, that is. And if her doctor had just explained in painstaking detail why fibroids had whittled her fertility down to a window that was rapidly closing.
    It wasn’t fair. That much went without saying. But who’d be naïve enough to expect life to deliver what was fair? Certainly not the youngest child of the Atkinson clan of Poplar Bluff.
    “Look, Rosie,” Junior protested, with a little more spirit than she felt. “Who says I’m even ready for a baby? I’m only twenty-eight. Hardly anyone has kids at that age any more. I know, I know—” she held up a hand defensively—”you did, and Mom and Dad, but that was different.”
    “I don’t know about that.” Rosie crossed her arms and leaned back against her desk, the familiar blue blaze in her eyes. “Seems to me the basics are still the same. You meet a fella, you fall in love—or not, in your case—and you do what comes natural. Bam! Babies.”
    “Wasn’t there supposed to be something about marriage in there?”
    Rosie stuck her fists on her hips and gave Junior a searing look. “Oh, so now you want to go all traditional on me? Well, little missy, I hardly think I need to remind you that your brother Charlie Earl and my Sandra were both love children, and your mama’s wedding dress fit me just fine because we were both five months along when we wore it.”
    “Rosie, you’re impossible.” Impulsively, Junior reached for a hug, and was rewarded with the wonderful old sensation of being held tight and cherished.
    “Not so. I’m just your devil’s advocate. Every gal needs one.” Rosie gave a final squeeze before holding Junior at arm’s length. “Besides, we make one hell of a team.”
     
     

 
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
    The shower felt good. He’d stayed in at least a half hour, idly counting daisies on the old avocado green tiles. The towels, if also old and a faded shade of pink, were clean and fluffy and smelled as if somebody’s grandmother had hung them out to dry in the spring air.
    In fact the sense of some benevolent grandmother was so strong that Griff found himself making the bed and wiping down the sink, making sure to clean up after himself, smiling to catch himself in the act.
    And why not smile? He felt good. No, he felt great. Nothing like getting over debilitating pain to make a man appreciate his health. Griff stretched luxuriously, rifled through his open suitcase and found a clean shirt.
    When he finished dressing Griff made a last sweep of the tired motel room. He was constantly forgetting things. He’d left so many razors behind in hotel showers that he’d finally given up and switched to disposables.
    He turned up nothing this time, though. Zipping up his suitcase he grabbed his courier bag, the black ballistic nylon he used instead of a briefcase.
    A sheaf of papers fell out. The stuff from the dentist.
    Picking them up, Griff hesitated before replacing them. On top was an incomprehensible series of instructions, notes written in the margins. Damn, even the woman’s handwriting was outlandish. It meandered in a crooked line, some of the t’s crossed and I’s dotted, some not. Her signature was rendered in a loopy scrawl, finished with a flourish.
    Junior T. Atkinson.
    Griff shook his head. A crazy woman with a crazy name and a crazy set of problems. Problems that had nothing to do with him. Problems he’d soon be leaving behind in his rear view mirror.
    He sighed heavily and sat down on the bed. Junior. Don’t go there, the warning voice in his head signaled, but it was already too late. His mind was full of her, the red hair and the translucent skin and the freckles, and he could almost smell her, the mixture of the drug smell and her perfume, something flowery and spicy at the same time.
    And all she wanted was to have sex .
    Griff felt himself respond to the thought, perspiration beading at his brow as he considered Junior’s problem. And how it might work out if he was the one to solve it. Just to be