Chapter 4

[Clay]

“You called in sick.” Stone enters my room without a knock or additional warning.

The murmuring of voices had carried to my bedroom, and I’d intently listened to decipher all that was said between Mavis and Stone. I’d caught the gist of things, as their lowered voices drifted along the window-lined hallway to the slightly ajar door of my bedroom. What a wimp, tripping over my own feet, and knowing Mavis rescued me from laying on the floor of my living room. God knows how long I could have laid there before I might have gotten up.

“You never call in sick,” Stone adds, bringing my full attention to him.

Staring up at the ceiling as I lie on my back, I blink. “Because someone has to run the Seed & Soil.”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve worked at our family-owned business. The farmer’s fleet and animal feed store had been our mother’s vision combining her two great loves: nature and animals. Upon her death, our father cracked and took the Seed & Soil with him in the downfall. I hadn’t gone to college like my most immediate brothers older and younger than me—Stone and Judd—opting out of more years in school and sticking close to what I saw as our family legacy.

While our father shattered the company, like a piece of pottery tossed to the ground, I was there when he died to pick up the shards and reassemble the precious business bit by bit. We still supply farm seed, but we’ve shifted more to landscaping and garden services. While continuing our animal feed selection, we’ve included more house-pet food and supplies. A few years ago, we added a general merchandise store with a collection of all things decorative related to home and garden, emphasis on the garden theme. I was proud of what I’d rebuilt. The family was equally thrilled as dividends from the business were split between all six of my siblings each quarter. I had the additional income of being the chief executive officer of the company and head manager, which basically meant I was married to my job.

I loved it but I didn’t have a life outside it. And like Stone said, I never called in sick. I couldn’t remember the last true vacation I’d taken other than weekends away that revolved around trade shows.

“I’m sick,” I snap at Stone, as if I’ve committed a crime when deep down this is my body telling me I pushed too hard. I’d ignored the tickle in my throat, which turned into a chest-clenching cough accompanied by a lingering headache. Then I stood in the rain for who knows how long trying to work on that damn truck, which reminds me I need to have Perry tow it when it had been his fault I’d been out on a run for a part in the first place.

Actually, the decision had been mine. I should have told Perry I’d send someone the next day, but Perry Foster was one of my best friends, beside my brother, Stone. We did favors for each other all the time without question, and I hadn’t been considering my health when I decided I’d be the one to handle his need.

I’d been thinking of Glady then.

With Mavis in my home, in my space, there was no room for thoughts of anyone else, least of all Glady.

“And Mavis Grant is here,” Stone states as if reading my thoughts.

“Mavis Holland,” I correct, reminding us both that she’s a married woman.

Stone is a man of observation and, one night, he’d caught my gaze tracking Mavis as she moved about Milton’s Roadhouse, the local bar and grill in town. He’d warned me she was a married woman, as if I needed the reminder, but there was something about Mavis that drew my attention.

Damsel in distress syndrome , my brother Knox once told me.

I was a rescuer. My siblings lost count of the number of stray animals I’d brought home until my dad said he’d break the neck of a lone cat one night. The gleam in his cold, vacant eyes since my mother’s death told me his drunken ass might do it even if I didn’t want to believe he meant it. The man had many faults, but animal cruelty wasn’t one of them. He saved his dark, dangerous side for his kids.

“Don’t think she’s married anymore,” Stone states, arching one thick brow. His expression suggests he knows something.

“Don’t think I’m interested.” The words were harsh, roughened by the scratch in my throat, and in total contrast to the way my pulse kicks up at this news, making me a liar. Just as quick as my blood flow surges upward, I crash, reminding myself I don’t have time to be interested in Mavis even if I have admired her from afar for years.

Not to mention, Stone was only making an assumption about Mavis’s marital status, not stating a fact.

“Sounds like she’s been taking care of you.”

I scoff. “I don’t need taking care of.” Smirking, I give him my best fake, gleaming smile to reinforce my comment. I’ve been a one-man show for forty-three years because I take care of others. The family business. My employees. The women who pass through my life. Stray animals. Plants.

“You’re extra ornery today.” Stone’s broad shoulders lower, questioning my condition.

“I’m sick,” I remind him when that shouldn’t irritate me. I’m not the one to be easily irritated in our family—I leave that honor to my younger brothers Sebastian or Ford—but lately there’s something I can’t quite define, a restlessness inside, an unease that feels out of reach to settle. Maybe it’s all just another symptom of my illness.

Or maybe I just need to get laid.

Stone meets my eyes a second before looking away, focus aimed toward the window. The same glass panels lining the length of my hallway encompass one wall of my bedroom. I crave natural sunlight and not feeling caged in. The floor to ceiling windows were expensive and a pain to install but worth every penny and profanity cursed once the renovation on this old house was completed nearly a decade ago.

I scrub a hand down my face and roll to my side. I’m only wearing a pair of boxer briefs beneath the duvet, and I stare at my brother, knowing whatever is going on with me isn’t his fault. We worked hard to keep our family together. Stone had been away at college for four years and had not been a witness to how bad things were getting. How much of a dick our dad had turned into. Not able to find the solution to his heartache in the bottom of a bottle, and yet unable to give up what only contributed to his demise. But Stone never failed to check in daily on the family.

“Is she staying?” Stone asks, turning his head back toward me. His expression is one of concern. My family jokes I have a pattern. That damsel in distress thing. However, once the calamity is rectified, I’m free, whether by her choice or mine is never certain.

“I don’t even know what she’s doing here,” I say quieter.

“Sounds like she rescued you from the side of the road. Why didn’t you call me?”

“My phone died.” I thought I had it plugged into the charger in the truck, but apparently, I didn’t have the plug fully in the outlet. When I realized the damn thing hadn’t charged, it was too late. The truck stalled. The storm happened. And I tried to rescue myself.

Like I always do.

+ + +

After a few more minutes of interrogation about flu symptoms and a suggestion to rest, Stone leaves. A light, fitful sleep allows me to sense movement within my normally empty home. Hearing the murmur of voices and the lilting laughter of a woman and a child when my place is typically silent.

Ceramic bowls clatter. Water runs. The hum of the television trickles to my room.

Then Mavis appears at my bedroom door, my body sensing her presence before I open my eyes. She comes closer, a strong floral scent giving her away but not overpowering me. Through my congested nose, it’s a wonder I can smell her at all.

“Clay? Honey?” Her voice is quiet, as if she doesn’t wish to disturb me even though her intention is to wake me.

My eyes shoot open at hearing the endearment and the tenderness in her voice. She offers me a strained smile. One that doesn’t light up those dark eyes but keeps them shuttered. Did Stone say something to her?

She sets a dinner plate with a bowl on it on the nightstand. “I was hoping you could maybe eat something. I made some chicken soup and brought some crackers. You’re taking a lot of medications and need something in your stomach to soak it up.”

What I really want is a shower and to change my underwear, but I don’t mention it.

She swallows and drops her gaze. “Once you eat, I’ll feel better leaving.”

Leaving? Where is she going?

My gaze drops to her left hand, the one once graced by a giant diamond. Is she really divorced? Or is she simply not wearing her ring?

She isn’t wearing my T-shirt anymore either but her own clothes. Dark jeans. A flannel shirt, open in the front and exposing a fitted tee underneath. A pair of cabin socks cover her feet. She looks comfortable, casual, and right , standing in my room beside my bed.

“Where are you going?” My voice is still crackling, and scratchy like sandpaper. My chest constricts at the thought of her leaving my house.

She shrugs, stepping back and wringing her hands together. “I have a motel room rented outside of town. We were headed there when I found you.”

“At midnight?” My brows lift. I recall the time being late, the mountain highway dark as black silk, and recklessly dangerous in the storm.

“We got a late start from Florida.”

“Is that where you’ve been?”

She nods, then points at the soup. “You should eat.”

Avoidance, I recognize thee .

Slowly, I shift, lifting myself to sit. Mavis rushes forward, tugging my pillows to an upright position behind me and gently pressing at my shoulder so I lean into them. She pulls the covers up to my lap, folding them over and smoothing them over my thighs before she stalls, realizing what she’s doing. She stands tall again and takes a giant step away from the bed but her gaze lands on my bare chest. Her eyes widening, the dark color of her cheeks deepening. She likes what she sees, and damn, it feels good to be looked at like that, even if I am sick. I rub a hand down my sternum and over my exposed belly. Mavis follows the trail before pulling up her eyes.

She points toward the bowl. “Do you need any help?”

“I got it.” Only, as I reach for the plate, my arm feels limp, and I can hardly lift the stoneware without the bowl on it rattling. The spoon falls off the edge. “Dammit.”

Mavis quickly bends to pick it up. “I’ll get you another one.” Her voice squeaks. Her movements are rigid. Heck, her back is ramrod straight and the desire in her eyes moments ago is wiped clean. Something else replaces that pleasant appraisal. Fear.

“Mavis,” I whisper, as if speaking to a cornered cat. “It’s okay.”

She nods, like she hears me. She knows what I’m saying. But she can’t apply what I’ve said.

She’s okay. It’s only a fallen spoon.

“I’ll be right back.” Spinning on her sock-clad feet, she rushes out the door while I hold the plate awkwardly on my lap and eye the soup.

The liquid meal looks homemade with carrots and celery, large egg noodles and chunks of chicken, and I’m certain I didn’t have any of these ingredients in my cabinets or fridge. Did she leave while I was sleeping? I hadn’t heard her exit.

A coughing attack hits me, and suddenly, the plate on my lap is jostling. The soup sloshes over the edge of the bowl when I lean forward, hacking into my fist.

Mavis rushes back into the room, spoon in hand, raised like a treasured utensil, until she sees my position.

“Shit,” she whispers, taking the plate off my lap and running her hand over my bare back. Her warm palm feels amazing on my clammy skin. She doesn’t speak while my lungs constrict and my throat barks until the spasm passes and I lean into the pillows behind me, tipping my head backward.

“Did you burn yourself?” Her concern has us both looking at my lap where I’ve spilled soup all over the sheet.

I groan, suddenly desperate to curl into the mattress and disappear beneath the blankets again. Instead, I shake my head in answer.

“Do you think you could take a shower? Or a bath?” Her nose wrinkles, implying I stink. “The warm water might feel good, and while you shower, I can change the sheets.”

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to make me soup. You don’t even need to be here.”

Taken aback by my tone, Mavis steps away from the bed again. Her hands which were once fussing over my lap are clasped together again in a way I’ve already learned tells that she’s on edge.

I’ve made her anxious when she’s been nothing but kind to me.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, the apology weak and unworthy of what I’ve said, how I’ve said it. Without a care to her presence, I fling back the covers and toss my unsteady legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll shower.”

With my hands clutching the edge of the mattress, I place my feet on the floor and take a deep breath. Mavis steps forward like she’ll help me, stops as if reconsidering, and then retreats.

I can’t look at her. I’m ashamed of my behavior, of my sick position, and my lack of clothing. She shouldn’t see me like this, and she doesn’t deserve my irritation. She has done nothing wrong.

Without a glance back at her, though, I stand on shaky legs, and stumble toward the bathroom.

+ + +

I’d love to stand in the shower for the rest of my life as the steam clears my nasal passages, and the hot water flows over me like heaven. But I don’t have the strength, and within seconds, the warmth drains any energy I could muster. I quickly dry off, feeling only minutely better, then tug on a pair of black sweatpants that were hanging on the back of my bathroom door and return to my bedroom.

Where I find my bed freshly made, the plate on the nightstand is swiped clean, and the soup still steaming. All minus Mavis.

“Fuck.” I hiss, and scramble on shaky legs down the hallway.

In my living room, Mavis is zipping up a suitcase and telling her son to put a tablet in his backpack.

“I don’t want to leave,” the child sulks, seated on my couch beside his sack, holding said tablet.

“Time to go, little bear,” she says before glancing up at me from her kneeling position. She finishes zipping the case, and stands, settling the luggage on its wheels.

Meeting my eyes, she coolly says, “I replaced the food we ate with new groceries. More soup is in a container cooling on the kitchen counter. You’ll need to put it in the refrigerator in a little while. Your sheets are in the washing machine. They’ll need to be moved to the dryer in an hour.”

She lowers her head. “And I borrowed a T-shirt which was freshly washed and returned to your drawer.” As she ticks off the list of things she’s done for me, I’m ticked off with myself.

Stepping forward, which takes my remaining energy, I reach for her hand.

Mavis steps back. Her son jumps off the couch, placing himself between her and me. A pair of eyes matching his mother’s glare at me.

I hold up both my hands, palms outward, knowing exactly what I’ve done wrong. “I’m sorry.” I swallow hard, tampering down the ache in my chest that she might be afraid of me. “I’m being an a—” My gaze shifts to the kid. “A jerk. I didn’t mean to touch you without your permission. I only wanted your attention.”

Mavis eyes me warily while placing a protective hand on each of her son’s shoulders.

With a deep exhale, I add. “I want you to stay.” I could argue that I don’t know where the request came from but there’s a feeling deep down in the pit of my belly. An ache where I don’t feel quite right about her leaving.

“Don’t go.” The roughness of the words doesn’t match the tenderness I intended, the genuine desire I wish to express. I don’t want her to leave.

“I haven’t been a gracious host, but I have a guest room.” I glance down at her son. His hair is the same midnight color as hers and a bit shaggy and long. His eyes are wide and round, matching his mother’s set. He’s lanky and lean, and small. Is he wearing a shirt with a princess on it? My forehead furrows, the question is one I don’t have the energy to ask.

“You two can take that room if you don’t mind sharing the space.” I glance at my couch, willing to sleep there and give Mavis my bed, but my room would be better for my condition. I’m isolated in there.

“That’s very kind of you, but we don’t want to be in your way. I’m sure you’ll feel better in a few more days.”

“Days?” I scoff but soften the sound with what I hope is a reassuring smile.

Mavis doesn’t smile back. Her hands cover her son’s shoulders, pulling him against her. “You’ve already suffered through two days. I predict you have three more to go, with rest, before you’re on the mend.”

“Two?” I question, sounding like an owl. Did I miss a day? Mavis brought me home. I slept until late this morning. “It’s Tuesday.”

She clears her throat. “It’s Wednesday, actually.”

How did I miss an entire day? Fever fog, I guess.

Without thinking, I step toward her again. She shoves her son behind her and steps back.

I raise my hands once more and add more space between us. Pain strikes my chest like a lightning bolt. Who hurt her? Hurt them? While I have a strong inkling of who it was, I don’t want Mavis to ever think I’d act in a similar manner toward her or her son. Her suspicion, caution, reminds me of the behavior of my siblings and I around our father, and I will never emulate that behavior and hope to never give off a vibe that I might.

“Please. Don’t go.” Another bolt of anxiety strikes. If she leaves, I might lose her. The thought is rash, and I dismiss it as addled flu-brain, which coincides with the fact I’m suddenly sweating. I swipe at my brow and take a seat on the couch.

“You should really be in bed. And eat your soup.”

“Come tuck me in,” I tease, sensing she’s the one who wrapped me up when I’d dreamed my mother had. Her touch on my forehead reminded me of my mom. She’s been taking care of me, like Stone said, and I shouldn’t take advantage of her. I shouldn’t request she do more, but something unfamiliar yet soothing warms my insides and has nothing to do with my fever.

Holding my smile in place, Mavis finally interprets my jest, and chuckles. Strained, the sound is still a hint of laughter and breaks the tension between us.

“Take the guest room.”

Her eyes narrow. “But you don’t even know me.” She peeks back at her son. “Us.”

“I know you, Mavis.”

She’s a woman I’ve secretly coveted when I had no right to want her, and she’s been missing for over a year. Now, she’s back, standing in my living room, fiercely protecting her son, and I want wherever that strength comes from aimed at me.