Chapter 14
[Mavis]
When I finally approach Dutton, he’s smiling and relaxed, swinging his feet beneath the table which mirrors Winnie Sylver’s movement, while painting his miniature pumpkin hot pink. My position leaves me close enough to Clay that I can watch him check on the girls staffing the decorating contest before he turns toward me and takes a step that has me believing he’s coming to where I stand.
Only he’s intercepted by a beautiful blonde.
“Glady?” Surprise laces his voice while his gaze leaps up and over her shoulder to me.
Quickly, I divert my eyes, concentrating on Dutton, but I can’t help but overhear the conversation behind me between Clay and a friend .
“Hey, Clay.” Her voice is sugary sweet.
“What are you doing here?” The question isn’t accusatory, but simply stated out of curiosity.
“It’s a festival, silly.” Pause. “Plus, I haven’t seen you in weeks. Thought I’d come check on you.”
Clay clears his throat. “But you never come to the Seed & Soil.” His voice tightens only a pinch.
I imagine her lips pouting when she drags out, “I missed you. And you were so sick when I last saw you.”
Sick? Had Clay been out with this Glady person when his truck broke down? He told me he was picking up a mechanical part for a friend.
How well I know these kinds of lies, and I want to kick myself.
“Dutton, honey. Mama needs to use the bathroom.”
He looks up at me with deep, dark eyes, staring at me like I’ve suggested something completely unnatural. While watching me, I tip my head, implying he needs to follow. I’m not leaving my six-year-old alone amid this festival.
“We can come right back,” I assure him. Mama just needs a minute to mentally scold herself .
“He can stay with us,” Ford offers. He’s taller than his brother. His hair is jet-black compared to the silver weave in Clay’s. He’s also edgier than his older brother, but the resemblance is still remarkable.
We haven’t spoken in the few minutes I’ve been standing here, as he’s concentrating on helping his youngest paint her pumpkin to look like a duck.
I smile at Ford and glance back at Dutton, widening my eyes in a silent command. Come with me .
Dutton doesn’t move. Instead, he drops his gaze and continues painting, defying my request. But I need to move away from the conversation behind my back. The one with a woman still cooing over Clay and him engaging her in conversation when I’ve been staying in his home for three weeks. And this is the first I’ve learned of a woman in his life.
“Dutton.” I clench my teeth while holding back any hostile tone.
“I’m good here,” he states.
My gaze flips up to Ford, concern hitting me hard that he can see I’m not a candidate for mother of the year.
“Honestly. He’s welcome to stay. I’ll keep my eyes on him. We aren’t moving from this spot.”
I could play off the bathroom lie I told. I don’t really need to go, but now I feel trapped into walking away for a few minutes.
“If you’re sure?”
“Go.” Ford grins.
I hesitate before saying, “Thank you. I’ll be quick.” But the last thing I want to do is be fast, so I take my time to find the indoor facility down a hallway near the back of the main building. I’m grateful there isn’t a line and do my business when I didn’t think I had any to do.
Afterward, I run my hands under warm water to calm myself, refusing to look in the mirror to compare myself to a stunning blonde who’d gravitated toward Clay. I’m better than the comparison game, and I’ve come a long way in recognizing my self-worth. But Clay’s omission still stings. The truth has taken me by surprise and rattled me. Of course, Clay has a woman-friend even if he told me no one has ever been to his house.
The moment is more of a trigger from Wesley and his behavior. Lies and deceit . I’m only minutely relieved that I’m not the shaky mess I would have been shattered if Clay had been Wesley. If Clay were mine . With Wesley, I never knew fact from fiction. My inquiries into where he’d been, what he’d been doing, or who he’d been with would lead to insults or injury. I could never predict when my ex would be reactive. Never knew what was truth versus what was a placating tale.
My infidelity suspicions with Wesley didn’t happen until the final year or so we were together. When something in him flipped, like the toss of sunny side eggs to over easy. Life was no longer bright and cheery. I’d been painfully aware things between Wesley and me had been dimming for years, and I became brutally cognizant of how foggy my eyesight had once been when looking at a man like Wesley.
When I exhale deeply, I double check my tightly wound hair before exiting the restroom. My head is held high, but my mind is still a bit muddled. Clay doesn’t owe me explanations, but finding out he has a woman in his life seems like something I should have learned by now. Amid all I’d shared of myself with him, he could have told me he had someone waiting for him.
Not paying attention, I’m jarred by the assertive and forceful bump into my shoulder from a large man passing a little too close to me for the restroom. The startling movement is aggressive enough that I spin and stumble into the wall lining the narrow passage.
“Mavis.”
Holding my shoulder, I twist, certain I heard my name, but the darkly dressed man continues speedily toward the men’s room without a second glance at me or an apology. With his back to me, his tall form moves away as if we didn’t just collide, and he didn’t say my name. Maybe he simply called me ma’am . But a fragrance lingers behind him, like the exhaust behind a moving vehicle. That scent . Worn leather, cigarettes, and cheap cologne is all too familiar to me.
I’m frozen in place, like a picture nailed to the wall behind me.
“Mavis?” My name is spoken from somewhere to my left but all I hear is a garbled sound, like someone trying to speak through water.
When a hand comes to my elbow, I tug it so sharply away from the unexpected grasp I knock it into the wall at my back. Pain radiates up my left arm, matching the sharp twinge lingering in my right shoulder. I can’t seem to catch my breath. An imaginary vise is squeezing my chest, constricting my airway. My nose is clogged with the recognizable stench, and I gag on the reminiscence of such a fragrance.
“Butterfly?” Clay stands before me, hands in the air in surrender, eyes wide with concern. He quiets his voice. “You okay?”
“Clay.” The anxiety clogging my throat makes his name come out as a croak. My ears ring from the rush of my blood pumping. My pulse races.
“Butterfly.” He slowly exhales, almost purposefully exaggerating the breath. “Focus on me. Look at me. Talk to me.”
His wide icy-blue eyes. His sun-kissed skin. His white scruff.
A deep inhale from him.
Sweat beads along my forehead and trickles down my spine. Clay is not my enemy .
Following his lead, I copy his exhale.
“Clay,” I gag on relief and do the unexpected. I leap for him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding onto him like he’s a buoy in deep water.
I inhale his earthy scent, the fragrance a cleansing smell and calming balm.
Just as quickly, I release him and step back, colliding with the wall once more.
“Dutton.” I need to get to him. I need to get my son.
“He’s safe with Ford.” Clay remains stone still, shocked by the sudden embrace and retreat. His hands raise again, keeping his distance, like he’s talking to a caged animal. “Let’s get you some air. Some space.”
Slowly, I roll my head against the wall behind me, staring in the direction of the men’s room. Did I imagine that man? Why isn’t someone coming out of the bathroom? Is something wrong with me?
“Dutton,” I whisper again, lifting a trembling hand to my upper lip and swiping at the dampened skin.
Clay pulls his phone from his back pocket, presses a contact, and speaks. “Hey. I’m taking Mavis to my office for a second. Need to show her something. Can you keep an eye on Dutton another minute for us?”
Clay scowls at whatever reply his brother gives him, but his eyes meet mine when he says, “It’s not like that.”
We aren’t like that is what ‘that’ implies, and I’m drawn back to my initial upset, learning Clay has a girlfriend.
I press off the wall and brush a shaking hand around one bun on the top of my head. My hair suddenly feels pulled too tight, and I want to remove both twists. I glance over my shoulder one more time. Clay looks in the same direction before offering me a pinched stare and clicks off his phone.
“Let’s get you away from the crowd for a minute.” He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”
His request is more like a suggestion. He’s asking me to trust him, and I want to, I really do. As the panic inside me slowly subsides, washing down my body like a too-cold shower, I begin to shiver. However, deciding my mind has played a trick on me and I’m making a scene, I place my hand in Clay’s, finding it warm and comforting.
With his fingers curled securely around mine, he leads me to a door behind the cash wrap station, and we head up a flight of metal stairs. We don’t speak until we enter his office which has a surprising view of the entire property and the festival. Clay releases my hand and walks to a small fridge to remove a bottle of water.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, uncertain why I overreacted to either the woman in his life or the man in the hallway.
“Something tells me this isn’t about Glady.”
“It’s not my business who you—”
“We’re friends.” He stops a foot from me, pausing to open the bottle of water before holding it out to me. “Here, drink this.”
“Thank you.” My voice quivers, my hand trembles as I take the cool container from him and sip.
“What happened down there?” He tips his head toward the door.
I shrug, not nearly as nonplussed as when I’ll say, “Someone bumped into me.” I pinch my brows. “Or so I thought.” I glance in the direction of the stairwell.
“Are you hurt?” Suddenly, Clay is before me, filling my space and forcing me to focus on him. With his hands on my shoulders, he visually inspects me.
“It was nothing. Just passing too close to each other in the hall.” However, the bump felt more purposeful, intentional. And how do I explain the man speaking my name? I deflect. “But since you mentioned Glady. Why didn’t you tell me you have a girlfriend?”
“Because I don’t.” Clay drops his hands from my shoulders.
“But you omitted you have a woman in your life.”
“Because she’s just . . . a friend.”
Right? And now I know more than I need to know about their situation.
“Wesley was the king of omission,” I state, taking another sip of water from the bottle in my hand.
“Fuck.” Clay turns his head, twisting his lips. “I didn’t omit.” His head swings back to face me. “There’s nothing to admit . Glady and I are friends.” His emphasis clarifies their status. Friends with benefits.
“It’s not my business—”
“And I haven’t seen her in weeks,” he interjects, waving between us. “Since you moved in.”
“Well, we can go.” I snap, still rattled by what happened in the hallway plus discovering a woman in Clay’s life. “I never meant to stop you living your life.”
“You aren’t stopping me from living,” he grinds out, irritation in his tone. Upset, not that I’ve discovered Glady, but from what I’ve just said.
“And I don’t know how long it had been before stopping by her place weeks ago.” Clay continues as if wanting to continue his thought before I interrupted him. “When nothing happened between us.”
“Because you were sick,” I remind him, reminding us both of his condition the night we connected on the side of the road. Then, I scoff. “You don’t owe me—”
“But I want you to know.” His words are softly spoken but no less intense than telling me he hasn’t stopped living. He steps forward, filling the distance that existed between us. His eyes blaze, like he’s communicating without speaking. His hands clench at his sides, as if he’s restraining himself from touching me again, when all he might want is to grab me, maybe gently shake me to enforce his thoughts. Tension mingles with passion and emotion emanating off him, sealing the sliver of space between us.
Taking a deep breath, I hold my ground. I have a choice.
Maybe he is telling me the truth. Maybe he hasn’t been with someone in a while. Maybe he wants me as much as I want him.
“Now, tell me what happened downstairs. Something or someone spooked you.” He exhales heavily again, swiping a hand down his face as if he can strip the tension off him. “Fuck Wesley. Tell me what to do so I don’t frighten you.”
“You don’t scare me,” I counter.
“But downstairs you looked ready to dart. You also looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
“It was nothing,” I state again, hoping to convince myself. The man wasn’t Wesley, or anyone else from my past. Just a man, and maybe even not that as no one came back out of the bathroom while we stood in the hallway. I might have imagined the entire interaction. I definitely overreacted.
“I think too many things collided in my head. Thoughts about you and . . .” I don’t speak her name.
Clay tilts his head, a sexy smirk curling his mouth. The fists at his sides relax into flexed fingers. His shoulders lower a little. “Were you jealous?” Then he reads something in my face and his expression falls, straightens. His eyes fill with surprise. “You were jealous.”
“I was not,” I defend, and take another drink of water to dispel the lie on my tongue.
Clay is suddenly so close I can feel the warmth of his flannel from being outside in the fall sunshine.
“What if I tell you I was always jealous of Wesley.” His eyes are bright, sincerity in every word. “Jealous that he got to look at you and be with you. Touch you and hold you. Even when I shouldn’t have thought those things, shouldn’t have wanted them for myself, I was always jealous of him.”
I shake my head. He can’t mean it. No one should ever be envious of Wesley. But Clay’s admission is more about me. He wanted to look at me and be with me. He wanted to touch me and hold me. And the thought of this kind, generous, accepting, and fun-loving man wanting those things with me has my eyes filling once more with a new level of tears. Tears for all that I’ve missed out on and all I want. All I’ve ever desired in a man.
“We weren’t like that.” Wesley was hardly affectionate and never patient.
“What are my limits?”
Confusion strikes. “What do you mean?”
“How do I approach you? How do I get close to you?”
If he stood any closer, we’d be wearing each other’s clothing, but what he’s really asking hits me hard. Understanding blossoms like a spring flower. Clay wants to touch me, but he’s afraid he’ll frighten me away.
“I need to be in control,” I tell him, finding strength in my voice while the rest of me trembles with a new set of nerves. Unfiltered desire. “Be in charge.”
“No element of surprise?” Clay asks like he honestly wants to know how to make me comfortable. “Got it. What else?”
“I don’t know.” How do I explain that I’m not certain I can be intimate with someone else without knowing what will happen. Expectation. I don’t trust intimacy because I fell for the lies of it before. I believed in Wesley’s soft touch before it became harsh words and broken promises. Then pinches and slaps. And eventually, an attempt on my life.
Clay’s eyes remain on mine. “What if I gave you the power?”
“What do you mean?” I ask again, as my heart rate accelerates. My insides heat.
“Tell me what you want. What you need. Take it from me.”
“Clay, I don’t know what you—”
“Yes, you do.” His voice is sharper, but steady as his eyes darken. A layer of promise glides through them. A sense of protection. I’m safe with him. I can make all the decisions between us. I can do nothing, or I can make demands.
“Kiss me,” I whisper, uncertain the words have even left my mouth.
Clay slices that thin layer of distance between us in a slow, measured movement that includes cupping my jaw with one hand and placing his other lightly on my hip. He leans forward and the softest brush of his lips paints mine. A whisper of a kiss.
Somehow, I’m turned on more than I ever expected to be. A rush zings up my belly and my throat dries, desperate for more than a sip of him. I’m a parched woman in a desert of stifled desire and imprisoned passion. I’ve crushed on Clay Sylver too long not to take my chance with him. I want him.
He leans away but I’m quick to capture the back of his head, halting his retreat. Our eyes lock. He’s holding back. His desire is to dive in but his strength to protect me by staying distant remains steady. Patient. Waiting.
“Kiss me like you’d kiss her.” The request comes from somewhere deep within me. A place I’ve kept under lock and key for too long. I don’t care that I’m not his friend . We don’t have a situationship. But I want to know what it would feel like if we did. How does a good man kiss a woman? How does Clay’s mouth feel?
“I’d never kiss you like I kiss someone else, butterfly. A kiss between us would be unique. Special and beautiful, like you.”
“Smooth,” I murmur.
“I’ll kiss you any way you want, but I want to remind you, you have all the power. Take more if you need it. Pull away if you don’t. Just don’t hurt me, Mavis.”
The vulnerability in his tone has me leaning forward and offering him what we both want in this moment. A connection. A comfort. When our mouths meet, I melt into him, wrapping my arm around his neck and tugging myself closer to him. His hand on my hip slips behind my back, pinning me in place against the strength of his body. Our mouths seek solace and more. Something I don’t want to define because I’ve lived without it for so long and I can’t be certain it could ever be more with Clay.
“Keep holding me,” I whisper against his mouth, relishing how he’s given me the power I want to take. Allowing me to instruct him.
“Not letting go,” he murmurs along my lips, the vibration heightening the moment. Or maybe it’s his response. He’ll follow my lead.
“Kiss me . . . slowly.”
Clay hums, drawing out his movements. Taking his time to suck at my lower lip before re-capturing both of them, savoring them, tugging at them. Possibly struggling to hold himself back while letting me claim dominance.
“Give me your tongue,” I quietly demand, still shy and unsure, but as Clay slips his tongue forward, another rush of confidence rips through me. The fire in Clay’s kiss sets off a blaze inside me.
I don’t want to take advantage of him. He’s sacrificing himself for me. Still, I can’t seem to stop. The kiss grows from the initial soft sips to eager pulls. Lost in one another, I’m no longer certain who holds the reigns, but we’re racing toward something.
My wings are emerging, stretching, breaking free from containment, like the butterfly he calls me. The transformation he claims awaits me. I’m ready to spread those wings wide and lift off . . . when a knock startles us apart.
Breaking away from one another, we stare at each other, our breaths coming quick and shallow. His eyes are bright, full of laughter and longing. We both wanted more in the moment. Unfinished business rolls between us. One kiss won’t be enough.
And I’m never going to be the same after that kiss, after that kind of control. The power to make this man as desperate for me as I suddenly am for him.
“Clay,” someone calls out before opening his office door.
I take an exaggerated step back and turn to face a person I recognize.
“Mavis.” The broad man with silver at his temples and a scar through one eyebrow doesn’t sound surprised to see me.
“Knox.” My throat clogs on his name. He’s one of the two firefighters who rescued me from the flames that took my home. The man who saved my son.
Reality douses the fire inside me. Knox is a harsh reminder of what happened to me, where I’d been and how much further I need to go to fix my life.
“Nice to see you again.” He steps forward, placing a friendly kiss to my cheek, like we’re old friends instead of acquaintances from a harrowing incident.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Knox says, a tease in his voice as he addresses his brother. “But you’re needed downstairs. The festival.” He raises that scarred brow in reminder, as if somehow Clay has forgotten the party in the yard of Sylver Seed & Soil.
For a few seconds, I certainly had, but everything crashes back to me. “Dutton.” I step toward the door, preparing to exit when my elbow is gently cupped by Clay. This time, I don’t flinch away. His eyes catch on mine, concern suddenly filling that icy-blue gaze.
“He’s good,” Knox says, interrupting the silent moment Clay and I need. “Ford has him. He took the kids to see the newly hatched chickens.”
I nod once, tightly smiling as if I know where that is, and I hadn’t just gotten caught kissing his brother. Guilt is written on both our faces.
“Thank you. I’ll go find them.” Without a glance back at Clay, I exit the office, thundering down the metal stairs. The sound matches the clanging of my heart.
I just kissed Clay Sylver.
And I liked it more than I should have.