Forbidden (Southern Comfort) Read Online Free PDF Page A

on her mother’s face, Tate hurried to explain.  “Dr. Copeland happened by when I was applying my sunscreen.  He was kind enough to offer to assist me in rubbing some on my back.”
    Despite his discomfitu re, Clay had to smile at that little bit of whitewashing.
    “Oh.  So you’ve just met,” Maggie surmised.  “Are you from around here, Dr. Copeland?”  The spark in her eyes burned brighter.
    “Clay.  And no, I live in Virginia.”
    “Oh.”  The subtext of that single syllable reeked of frustrated maternal machinations. 
    “I think we’ve taken up enough of Clay’s time,” Tate said as she started to rise, and using her hand to block the sun from her eyes, turned to address him.  “Thank you again for your… assistance.”
    Clay smirked at the blatant dismissal, but figured all things considered, it was for the best.  “No problem.”  His shaded eyes drilled into hers one moment longer than was strictly polite, before turning toward her mother. 
    “Mrs. Hennessy, it was a pleasure.  And Max.”  Somewhat reluctantly, he stuck out his hand again, but then jerked it away at the last second.  “Oh.  Too slow.  You’ll have to practice that with your mama.”  
    The boy laughed and Clay barely repressed a flinch as he lifted his hand in farewell.                         
     
    CHAPTER THREE
    CLAY pulled on a white T-shirt over his freshly showered torso, wincing slightly as the fabric settled onto his shoulders.  He’d overdone it a little today, staying out just long enough to make himself uncomfortable.  After he and the lovely Tate Hennessey had parted company, sun awareness hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Ironic, really, considering that had been a predominant part of their conversation.
    As for ironic, how about the fact that he’d driven eight hours through the night to escape the recurring image of the dark-haired little boy he’d failed to save, only to have another one thrown virtually into his lap. 
    The psychological gods were obviously having a good laugh at his expense.
    Winding a belt around his waist, he decided to put off analyzing the situation and his reaction to it for a couple more days.
    After all, he was Clay Copeland, beach bum, and he was here to have a good time.
    “Are you ready?” Justin inquired after a cursory rap on the bedroom door, dark hair glistening from his shower. 
    “As I’ll ever be.”  Clay stuffed his wallet into his back pocket. 
    They headed toward a bar in nearby Charleston that Justin swore had the best happy hour in town.  Pinks and vivid oranges had just begun to paint the sky with the colors of the approaching sunset, and as they fought their way through the tourist-laden streets, he cranked down his window to allow the heavy smell of history to permeate his senses.  It was tough to remain melancholy about his own trials when surrounded by the indisputable evidence that no matter what he had or hadn’t accomplished, time continued to march on.
    Murphy’s Irish Pub was nestled between an old-fashioned pharmacy and a private historic home cum bed and breakfast establishment, and Justin explained the arrangement was strategic: the folks at the bed and breakfast recommended Murphy’s for dinner and liquid refreshments; the staff at Murphy’s recommended the pharmacy for analgesics to ward off the next morning’s hangover, and the pharmacist recommended that inebriated patrons book a night at the bed and breakfast to sleep it off. 
    The atmosphere inside the pub was festive, an interesting mix of traditional Irish camaraderie and southern hospitality.  High tables clustered thick as barnacles along the scarred and stained wooden floor, which bore the marks of almost two hundred years of patrons.  A n angular staircase led to the dining room which occupied the historic building’s second floor. 
    In one corner, a live band kept the crowd entertained with some rather bawdy Celtic music,