blessing. There would be more flies if it wasn’t so darn cold.
A box of large black trash bags under the sink caught his eye. He pulled one out, shook it open, and started tossing half-eaten take-out cartons in. When he’d filled it to where it could stand on its own knee-high, he took a break.
Hey, she had a granite countertop! This place was actually kind of eclectic and interesting under her piles.
Turner looked in the fridge long enough to see a bottle of white wine in the door. He grabbed the bottle and slammed the fridge door quickly before any of the science experiments escaped.
A glass was a little harder. He saw that she had a dishwasher, but it only contained baseball hats. How interesting. The cupboard was bare except for a group of ceramic bears.
Oh, and much to his surprise, one thick white china mug with Garfield on it, declaring “I hate Mondays.” That would do. There was just enough space on the top of the dish heap to run the water into the cup and clean it. No dish towels to be seen, and no paper towels. He just shook it dry and unscrewed the wine bottle. A mug of bad wine would have to do.
Paris shoved back the tubes and jars of makeup and face junk so she could sit on the edge of the counter and look at the red bump on her nose close up. It looked like a zit—a zit! All this stress was bad for her skin. She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of acne cream. She’d zap the little devil back into submission.
She put a blob of the stuff on her nose, then hopped down to brush her teeth with her battery-operated Sylvester the Cat toothbrush. Paris looked in the mirror again and smiled with a foamy toothy smile at her reflection. Turnerwas going to get the full reality-based Paris here. Let’s see how long he lasted with that.
No Chinese herb known to man or woman had been able to tame the raging beast that overtook her during days 25 to 28. She put the Incredible Hulk to shame. Most months she tried hard not to appear in public that week just in case she snapped, lost the last of her wire-thin self-control, and murdered someone in cold blood for cutting in front of her for a cab.
This month her boobs were nasty sore—way worse than usual. She must have been a bad man in her last life and they’d made her a woman to get even for it in this life. Karma. That was it. PMS was just not fun.
She’d see how fast Turner Pruitt turned tail and ran back to Vegas after a few days of the horror of PMS. He really should know what an indecent sort she actually was. No manners, no patience, she was just not cut out to be one of those wives that made dinner and ironed shirts and put out whenever the guy was in the mood. Nope, she was not wife material. And neither was she cut out to be a mother to some snot-nose, whiney child with twenty-four-hour needs. She was too selfish and mean.
Paris looked in the mirror again and saw that she was crying. A few tears had escaped her green eyes and streaked their way down her cheeks. She was completely freaking out.
Damn it! Turner Pruit was not going to stir up the past for her and remind her of the pain she’d so carefully buried. She just didn’t care to dig it all up. He’d just get all preachy on her anyhow.
She might have to explain why she’d decided to keep him with her instead of letting him stay at Anton’s, and that would mean talking about it all again. Turner could be so pushy about trying to fix things. He couldn’t seem to accept that some things just couldn’t be fixed.
She shifted her head to the side a bit and looked at her reflection. It had come to her lately that she had begun to resemble her mother quite alarmingly. No doubt she had her mother’s dark shadow lurking inside her, and one day the shadow would emerge and take her over completely.
No child should have to live through that. And that is why she would never allow that to happen.
Paris grabbed her ratty pink terry-cloth robe off the hook, tied it
A box of large black trash bags under the sink caught his eye. He pulled one out, shook it open, and started tossing half-eaten take-out cartons in. When he’d filled it to where it could stand on its own knee-high, he took a break.
Hey, she had a granite countertop! This place was actually kind of eclectic and interesting under her piles.
Turner looked in the fridge long enough to see a bottle of white wine in the door. He grabbed the bottle and slammed the fridge door quickly before any of the science experiments escaped.
A glass was a little harder. He saw that she had a dishwasher, but it only contained baseball hats. How interesting. The cupboard was bare except for a group of ceramic bears.
Oh, and much to his surprise, one thick white china mug with Garfield on it, declaring “I hate Mondays.” That would do. There was just enough space on the top of the dish heap to run the water into the cup and clean it. No dish towels to be seen, and no paper towels. He just shook it dry and unscrewed the wine bottle. A mug of bad wine would have to do.
Paris shoved back the tubes and jars of makeup and face junk so she could sit on the edge of the counter and look at the red bump on her nose close up. It looked like a zit—a zit! All this stress was bad for her skin. She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of acne cream. She’d zap the little devil back into submission.
She put a blob of the stuff on her nose, then hopped down to brush her teeth with her battery-operated Sylvester the Cat toothbrush. Paris looked in the mirror again and smiled with a foamy toothy smile at her reflection. Turnerwas going to get the full reality-based Paris here. Let’s see how long he lasted with that.
No Chinese herb known to man or woman had been able to tame the raging beast that overtook her during days 25 to 28. She put the Incredible Hulk to shame. Most months she tried hard not to appear in public that week just in case she snapped, lost the last of her wire-thin self-control, and murdered someone in cold blood for cutting in front of her for a cab.
This month her boobs were nasty sore—way worse than usual. She must have been a bad man in her last life and they’d made her a woman to get even for it in this life. Karma. That was it. PMS was just not fun.
She’d see how fast Turner Pruitt turned tail and ran back to Vegas after a few days of the horror of PMS. He really should know what an indecent sort she actually was. No manners, no patience, she was just not cut out to be one of those wives that made dinner and ironed shirts and put out whenever the guy was in the mood. Nope, she was not wife material. And neither was she cut out to be a mother to some snot-nose, whiney child with twenty-four-hour needs. She was too selfish and mean.
Paris looked in the mirror again and saw that she was crying. A few tears had escaped her green eyes and streaked their way down her cheeks. She was completely freaking out.
Damn it! Turner Pruit was not going to stir up the past for her and remind her of the pain she’d so carefully buried. She just didn’t care to dig it all up. He’d just get all preachy on her anyhow.
She might have to explain why she’d decided to keep him with her instead of letting him stay at Anton’s, and that would mean talking about it all again. Turner could be so pushy about trying to fix things. He couldn’t seem to accept that some things just couldn’t be fixed.
She shifted her head to the side a bit and looked at her reflection. It had come to her lately that she had begun to resemble her mother quite alarmingly. No doubt she had her mother’s dark shadow lurking inside her, and one day the shadow would emerge and take her over completely.
No child should have to live through that. And that is why she would never allow that to happen.
Paris grabbed her ratty pink terry-cloth robe off the hook, tied it
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