The Bachelor's Dare

After lunch, Claire settled into the recliner, cracked open her journal and began to write.

Only fifteen people left. The doctor’s gone, and so is one of the elderly couples, who opted to drive to Florida. The third mom left, to give little Jimmy a dose of TLC. If this keeps up, I’ll win in no time. Danny, though, is glued to the chair and the TV. Millie, Lester, Art and Gracie are playing the world’s longest card game. Tawny started a miniriot when she polished her nails and the fumes became toxic. The security guard, Milo, is snoring on the couch. Renee and John are reading, the others are talking quietly. Roger and Jessica are on the other end of the couch, looking quite unhappy for newlyweds. And Mark…

Claire stopped writing and closed the book. Mark… Well, he wasn’t acting like the Mark she knew. He’d been a peacemaker, stepping in when tempers started to flare, proposing ideas to settle everything from bathroom time to washing dishes. He was diplomatic and charming enough that everyone listened. If she hadn’t known him and his reputation for breaking hearts already, Claire would have probably found that…attractive. Either way, a relationship didn’t figure into her future, so she dropped the thought of Mark like a hot coal.

It was after ten now in California. Claire dug her cell phone out of her suitcase and headed into the only private place within the RV—the bathroom. The reception was terrible, even with her antenna up, so she climbed inside the corner shower and stretched it toward the skylight. Marginally better.

The call took several seconds to connect. Finally, a ring. Then another. By the fourth ring, Claire was worried. Finally, on the fifth, a gravelly voice picked up. “Hello?”

“Dad? You okay?”

“Yeah, I was just wrestling with the nurse.”

Claire laughed. “Who won?”

“I think I did, but she’s already challenged me to a re-match.” He paused to cough. The racking sounds were surely painful for him, but they also stabbed at Claire’s chest, too. She wished to God she had a better plan. “Sorry, honey.”

“You taking care of yourself?”

“As best I can.” Another series of coughs hit him, this one blessedly shorter. “I wish I could see you.”

Claire leaned her head against the cool tile wall of the shower. “Me, too, Dad.”

David Sawyer was still just a voice to her. She had yet to hug her father, see how tall he was compared to her, see if his pinky finger had that same odd crook hers did. She’d only found her father four months ago, and already the demon called cancer was stealing him away.

He started coughing again and one of his visiting nurses, Jeannie, took the phone. “Hi, Claire.” Over the last few weeks, these women, who maintained the physical link Claire didn’t have, had become close friends, a tangible rope between herself and the father she was still getting to know.

“How is he?”

She heard Jeannie cup her hand over the phone. “As well as can be expected. The doctor said…” she hesitated, clearly wishing she could deliver this news in person, in one of those quiet rooms where relatives could grieve in privacy. “The surgery didn’t quite get it all. He’ll be starting chemotherapy in two weeks, as soon as he’s recovered from the surgery. He can’t go anywhere until it’s done, but he should be feeling better soon.”

The chemo, Claire knew, was no guarantee of anything. From the way her father sounded, it might not be the final cure he needed. “I’ll be there soon.”

If she didn’t have possession of the RV by the time her father started chemo, she’d just grab a plane and figure out the rest of her life later. Her move, her new start—all of it would have to wait.

“They got most of it with the surgery and radiation, you know. It’s still at stage two. With chemo—”

Claire’s sigh finished the sentence. “I know.”

“We’re taking good care of him,” Jeannie said. “He’s not in a hospital, he’s home. There’s a lot of good news.”

“I know. I appreciate all you’re doing.” In the background, Claire heard her father’s coughs abate.

Weaker now, he came back on the phone. “Guess that’s my cue to hang up. Talking wears me out.”

Claire’s hand gripped the phone tighter, as if she could hold him through the wireless connection. God, how she wanted to be there, to help him through this. “I know, Dad. Just take care of yourself. I’ll be there soon.”

“Are we…” he paused between words, searching for breath, “still going to…take that…vacation?”

Claire bit her lip. “Absolutely, Dad.” She closed her eyes and hung on to the phone long after they’d said goodbye. A tear slipped down her face. Then another, until the stress and worry released itself in a sob. She who never cried, who could wither a cocky man with a glance, who had been the last to leave the beauty shop when the tornado five years ago came roaring through—she who had never cried as much in her life as she had in the last four months.

“Claire? You okay?” Mark had come into the bathroom and she hadn’t even noticed. She must have forgotten to lock the door. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer, and I heard you—”

She swiped away her tears and turned to face him, all Claire again. Well, herself taken down a notch. No matter how hard she tried lately, the spirited person she normally was had taken a back seat to someone a little more subdued, worried and unsure of her decisions.

“I’m fine. Just checking out the view from the skylight.” She glanced up and saw plain, white mall ceiling. Twin recessed lights glared back at her. “Yep. It’s a great view.”

“You look upset. Is something wrong?”

“Nope. Not a thing.” She tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and stepped out of the shower.

He stopped her before she passed him. A zing of heat went up her arm when he touched her. Must be her frazzled nerves. “Wait, don’t go out there yet.”

“Why not?”

“The TV crew is here. As soon as they showed up, three other people quit. Those two other moms took off—good thing, too, because their cell phone has been ringing nonstop with babysitters and husbands at work calling—then Milo left, saying he couldn’t get a decent nap with all the commotion. So now we’re down to twelve.”

Eleven people to go before she had the RV. Some of them, like Millie, looked like they had every intention of spending weeks here. Claire Richards did not have weeks. She needed to win and get on the road to California, before she chickened out and ended up stuck at Flo’s for the rest of her life. She needed this change, needed to embark on her own life, not the one she’d been suckered into by a guy who talked a good game.

And she needed to see her father, to spend time with him one-on-one and begin to recapture the years they’d lost. The doubts returned again to plague her mind. Could she make a new start? Did she really have it in her to chuck it all for something essentially unknown?

Either way, without the RV, making all of that happen would be near impossible. There weren’t many options.

“You might want to put on your game face before you go out there,” Mark was saying. “The reporter wants to interview everyone, find out why they’re here, what their strategy is.”

For the briefest second, she was tempted to lean against Mark, pour her troubles into his hands. To rely on someone else for once. Claire had been on her own for so long. The burden of being strong was suddenly too heavy.

He was so close. Inches from her.

Granted, it wasn’t his fault. This wasn’t exactly the bathroom at the Taj Mahal. It was only slightly bigger than the bathroom in the two-bedroom ranch where she’d grown up. But never in that bathroom, or in any other, had she been more aware of the rise and fall of a man’s chest. She shook herself back to reality. This was Mark.

“…and I’ll warn you, they’re looking for dirt,” he said. “Ups the ratings, you know.”

Claire gestured toward the shower. “I just came from there. No dirt on me.” She tried to work up a laugh, but it fell flat.

Something dark and fierce simmered in his gaze, but his voice was all light and teasing, the same Mark she’d known all her life. “Doesn’t look like you got all the important parts,” he said. He ran a finger over the curve of her shoulder and she felt the heat ratchet up ten degrees. She’d never reacted like that to Mark before. Then again, the last time they’d “played” together, they’d both been nine. “You really should get naked to take a shower properly, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” She needed some air. It wasn’t his finger teasing along the edge of her tank that had her forgetting her name and where she was and what day it was. “Well, I better get back out there.” But she didn’t move.

Mark’s face, so familiar, yet so different now that he had the angular lines and dusting of stubble of a grown man, was a breath away. “Any time you need someone to scrub your back or want to scrub mine,” he smiled and some of the heat left his gaze as he kidded with her, “I have this spot right here…” he pointed to a place on his back, “that I can’t reach by myself. If you’d care to help, the shower looks big enough for two.”

Whoa. This was going into territory where Claire refused to journey. This was Mark, she reminded herself again. She knew, from all the years she’d lived around the corner from him, that he had as much interest in monogamy as a goldfish. She was twenty-eight and no longer interested in serial dating. Besides, she wasn’t Mark’s type—she wasn’t young or buxom.

If he was making a pass at her, he had one of only two reasons in mind. He was hard up, or he was using this as some kind of strategy to win the RV. He’d weave his spell and convince her to get off. She wasn’t giving up her dream to some guy with a soft touch and a good smile. She’d done that once before, for Travis. And had ended up stuck with a lease and a pile of bills while he pursued his dreams. Never again. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She started to brush past him. “Claire—”

Claire wheeled around. “I know you, Mark. I know your pattern. A night in your bed, maybe three. The sex would be oh-so-good.” She ran a finger up his chest, her mouth exaggerating the O’s in her words. “We’d be peeling ourselves off the ceiling after we were done. And then, when you realized I actually had a brain above my breasts, you’d walk away. No,” she put a finger to her chin. “You’d run. And I’d have wasted a few days of my life with a guy who can’t see past my lingerie. I’ve been there, done that and have no intentions of being that stupid again, with you or any other man. So let me put you out of your misery and save us all grief down the road.” She pulled the tank to the right, exposing the thin strap of her bra. “This set’s blue, fringed with lace. The one I’ll wear tomorrow is black. Then maybe I’ll wear the red, or the indigo. Happy?” She slipped the shirt back. “Now, let’s get back to the competition.”