over her shoulder and saw the tight tank top and short shorts Loren was wearing. "And just where do you think you're going dressed like that?"
"Don't worry, I won't get in a car with any strangers and a two-year-old couldn't get lost in this stupid hellhole if he tried."
"Watch your mouth, young lady." When Loren rolled her eyes and brushed past, Dee dropped the robe and stepped in front of her. Loren's eyes, even with hers, sparked defiantly. "You're not leaving this house until you change your clothes."
"I think they're cool. Besides, I bought this with my money, so you can't take it away."
"When and where did you get it? You haven't—"
"No, I haven't snuck off anywhere." Loren sighed dramatically. "Like I could the way we have to get your permission to even breathe. I picked it out at that store in whatever state we were in last week while you were busy buying dishes and sheets."
"The kind of attention you're asking for with those clothes isn't the type you want," Dee said firmly.
"You mean not the type you want. Except maybe with that dumb minister you were slobbering over. Just because my father's a jerk—"
"Don't talk about him now." Dee glanced uneasily at the open kitchen door.
Taking advantage of her distraction, Loren stepped around her and rushed out the back door.
"God help me." Picking up the robe, Dee buried her face in it. She pressed her mouth into the fabric to keep from screaming, hugged it close to absorb any remnants of strength or wisdom its wearer might have left within the folds.
What am I going to do? she silently cried. How am I ever going to get through this? I need help. A miracle. I need—
"Dee, hope you don't mind, but I helped Jason finish up. He's out front waiting to— Dee? Is something wrong?"
She quickly thrust the material under the spigot. Mascara stained the collar, she realized with dismay, and began to scrub in earnest.
"No, of course not. Everything's fine." The pitch of her voice was too high, too animated. "Thanks for helping Jason get settled."
Throat tight with the effort of control, she willed Matt to go away. Far, far away. At least until she got a grip on herself and washed the mascara out.
"Is it Loren?"
The fine hair on her nape rose as if static, not warm breath, fanned it. He stood behind her, at a respectful distance, but close enough that she felt laps of energy transmitted from his body. Or soul. Or wherever ministers got that certain something that whispered of calm assurance. If she turned and took a single step, she could rest against his chest and find the comfort she needed.
If she turned, he'd see tear tracks on her cheeks, a silent admission of vulnerability she couldn't share.
"It's nothing," she said dismissively. "I'll bring you and Jason a sandwich after I finish with this."
"If you rub any harder at that mascara, there won't be any material left to clean. C'mon, you can talk to me if you need someone to listen. I'm real good at it. At least, if practice makes perfect."
Dee closed her eyes, allowing his deep voice to seep into her and trickle soothingly into the empty places.
"Thanks, Matt. But it's my problem." One of them anyway. A minor one in comparison to the rest. When he didn't move or speak, she decided he was used to waiting people out, being nice and understanding until they broke.
Breaking was a luxury she couldn't afford.
"Look," she said abruptly, "I'm sure you're very good at what you do, listening and consoling and saving lost souls. But I'm not shopping for any of that, so you might as well save your services for someone who wants them. I don't, okay?"
Matthew studied the rigid line of her body, from her neck, down her spine to her slightly spread legs. Everything about her declared resistance, While the counselor in him said to offer a final word of empathy, then back off, his masculine instincts sent a conflicting message.
He leaned into the provocative murmur of those instincts. It lured him to move closer to her,
"Don't worry, I won't get in a car with any strangers and a two-year-old couldn't get lost in this stupid hellhole if he tried."
"Watch your mouth, young lady." When Loren rolled her eyes and brushed past, Dee dropped the robe and stepped in front of her. Loren's eyes, even with hers, sparked defiantly. "You're not leaving this house until you change your clothes."
"I think they're cool. Besides, I bought this with my money, so you can't take it away."
"When and where did you get it? You haven't—"
"No, I haven't snuck off anywhere." Loren sighed dramatically. "Like I could the way we have to get your permission to even breathe. I picked it out at that store in whatever state we were in last week while you were busy buying dishes and sheets."
"The kind of attention you're asking for with those clothes isn't the type you want," Dee said firmly.
"You mean not the type you want. Except maybe with that dumb minister you were slobbering over. Just because my father's a jerk—"
"Don't talk about him now." Dee glanced uneasily at the open kitchen door.
Taking advantage of her distraction, Loren stepped around her and rushed out the back door.
"God help me." Picking up the robe, Dee buried her face in it. She pressed her mouth into the fabric to keep from screaming, hugged it close to absorb any remnants of strength or wisdom its wearer might have left within the folds.
What am I going to do? she silently cried. How am I ever going to get through this? I need help. A miracle. I need—
"Dee, hope you don't mind, but I helped Jason finish up. He's out front waiting to— Dee? Is something wrong?"
She quickly thrust the material under the spigot. Mascara stained the collar, she realized with dismay, and began to scrub in earnest.
"No, of course not. Everything's fine." The pitch of her voice was too high, too animated. "Thanks for helping Jason get settled."
Throat tight with the effort of control, she willed Matt to go away. Far, far away. At least until she got a grip on herself and washed the mascara out.
"Is it Loren?"
The fine hair on her nape rose as if static, not warm breath, fanned it. He stood behind her, at a respectful distance, but close enough that she felt laps of energy transmitted from his body. Or soul. Or wherever ministers got that certain something that whispered of calm assurance. If she turned and took a single step, she could rest against his chest and find the comfort she needed.
If she turned, he'd see tear tracks on her cheeks, a silent admission of vulnerability she couldn't share.
"It's nothing," she said dismissively. "I'll bring you and Jason a sandwich after I finish with this."
"If you rub any harder at that mascara, there won't be any material left to clean. C'mon, you can talk to me if you need someone to listen. I'm real good at it. At least, if practice makes perfect."
Dee closed her eyes, allowing his deep voice to seep into her and trickle soothingly into the empty places.
"Thanks, Matt. But it's my problem." One of them anyway. A minor one in comparison to the rest. When he didn't move or speak, she decided he was used to waiting people out, being nice and understanding until they broke.
Breaking was a luxury she couldn't afford.
"Look," she said abruptly, "I'm sure you're very good at what you do, listening and consoling and saving lost souls. But I'm not shopping for any of that, so you might as well save your services for someone who wants them. I don't, okay?"
Matthew studied the rigid line of her body, from her neck, down her spine to her slightly spread legs. Everything about her declared resistance, While the counselor in him said to offer a final word of empathy, then back off, his masculine instincts sent a conflicting message.
He leaned into the provocative murmur of those instincts. It lured him to move closer to her,
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