Chapter 8

[Clay]

Holy fuck. Just holy fuckity fuck.

What a mothertrucking — I grunt. As if the silent words I’m trying to restrain are a punch to my gut.

This poor woman. This beautiful, strong survivor sitting on my couch, staring sheepishly at me like she’d done something wrong when her life had been a living hell.

Wesley Holland, if that even is his name, was a dick of immense magnitude. The fucking bastard is trotting all over this country, staking claims to innocent women, making babies, and building homes on bottomless pits of promises.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” The words are weak in comparison to how I feel. My future sister-in-law had gone through something similar but still not half as bad as what had happened to Mavis. Men can just be worthless pieces of—

I exhale and swipe my hand down my face again. Then I finish off my beer. I might need another to cool the volcanic acid bubbling inside me.

If I ever saw Wesley Holland— If he dared to return to this town—

“So now what?” I ask, a thousand times calmer than I feel.

“I took a loan from my parents to pay off the debts.” Mavis shakes her head. Her eyes still glisten. “I don’t even know if half the contractors were legitimate, but I had invoices and receipts.”

“Give me their names. Contacts. Anything. I’ll check them out.” I have extensive connections within the surrounding area, and I’ll know within days if someone Holland hired took advantage of Mavis. Or if the person has an association with the thief. Because that’s what Wesley is. He stole this woman’s soft heart and used it against her.

“I was stupid to trust him.” Her voice lowers.

“Don’t do that,” I snap, then take a calming breath. “Do not take the blame for his . . . his . . . his asshole-ness. He’s a crook. A liar and a thief . A con artist.”

“Well, I was conned,” she states, her head lifting. Her voice rises. Guilt is written on her stunning face. She feels guilty for falling for him, but I refuse to let her accept fault. Maybe she’d been duped. Maybe she believed in false words, but that didn’t give him permission to insult her or her child. To lay his hands on her or that kid.

Hastily, I press myself up off the couch to pace. I want to throw my bottle against the brick fireplace. I want to shatter something, but I don’t want to scare her. She’s had enough violence in her life.

He drugged her. Did he plan to burn them alive in that house?

Had he hoped the fire would take them out along with the property?

A home in her name which meant she’d have nothing once it was ashes, as if they never existed in his life.

How could a man be so cruel? Even my own father hadn’t been that conniving, that hateful . He’d turned into a mean-ass drunk, who went too far with my younger siblings, but I believe he had regret. I believe he’d lost himself and didn’t know how to swim out of the bottle he’d chosen to drown in.

And I never, ever take the blame for my father’s behavior.

And Mavis should not fault herself for another man’s evil ways.

Suddenly, I push the coffee table out of the way and lower to my knees before her, clasping her hands in mine and lifting them to my mouth. My lips linger against the knuckles. An incessant need to touch her takes over me. A need to press my lips to her skin, and inhale her intoxicating scent into my lungs, reaffirming she’s alive.

I flip her hands, opening them to see her palms, and place another kiss against each of them. She’s a fucking warrior of epic proportions and I want her to know that I worship her strength and resilience.

“I’m so sorry for all that happened to you, beautiful.” I shake my head, shattered by her past.

The entire night’s confession was so much more than I thought she’d share, as if the moment she began, she couldn’t hold back. The truth spilled forth like a river of relief. What was left now was a muddy, dried riverbed, one thirsty to be refreshed.

Mavis had a look in her eyes I recognized. One I couldn’t quite explain but empathized with, knowing that something would restore her confidence. Revive her spirit.

Damsel in distress, be damned.

I think of the care she gave me when I was sick. Making me dinner, hopeful I’d be home. We would have eaten together like a family.

She doesn’t appear all that stressed out to me.

She’s a survivor, like me.

+ + +

Unfortunately, try as I might, I don’t make it back to my place for dinner as I’d anticipated each morning. There was always one more order to check on. One more project. One more this or that.

A gnawing twist churned my stomach every time I thought of Mavis waiting on me. I wanted to get home to her and Dutton. I really did.

But by the third night of missed dinners, Mavis wasn’t waiting. The house was dark. Mavis locked inside my guest bedroom with Dutton. Her car in my drive was the only hint she was still present.

I stood outside her bedroom door, fist raised, prepared to knock, but what could I say to her? An apology for another missed meal felt fruitless. She didn’t owe me anything so why was she putting forth the effort? And I didn’t owe her an explanation, so why was I going to apologize?

Still, guilt chewed at my insides. This is why I didn’t have a woman in my life. A family outside of my siblings and their offspring. Long ago I determined I was destined to be alone.

But I wanted more. Man, did I want more.

Deciding against a knock, a risk of disturbing Mavis and Dutton, I turn toward my room. Two nights in a row Mavis left a plate covered in the microwave, ready for me to reheat. Tonight, there wasn’t even a leftover.

For some reason, the absence irked me when it had been my own damn fault. I should have called Mavis. Better yet, I should have been here. I have managers and assistants, and employees in different departments who could handle what I couldn’t get to, and I was always feeling I had something to get to . My excuse was that I didn’t have anywhere else to be or anyone waiting on me.

But Mavis was here, and I was blowing an opportunity to get to know her better. We’d hardly crossed paths since that deep confession the other evening. I didn’t know what she did with her day. I didn’t know if she was having trouble with her insurance. I was letting a virtual stranger live here and I needed to know more about her.

Because I had a feeling about Mavis. An over-all good vibe about her character. Mavis made some wrong turns in her life, but who hadn’t?

After a quick shower to wash off the day, I slip on loose fitting pajama pants and head for the kitchen, wanting a beer to cap off my foul mood. The wind howls outside the windows. Another storm is brewing.

Within seconds, rain lashes at the panes. The glass covered with thick rivers so opaque I can’t see outside them.

A rumble of thunder booms.

A flash of lightning snaps.

Then a scream. And the lights go out.

I set down my beer without thinking about the action and race for my guest room. Thankfully, Mavis hadn’t locked the door and I push it open with enough force it swings inward and slams against the wall.

A muffled cry occurs. Mavis sits upright on the bed, both arms wrapped around Dutton like she can pull him into her chest. The position is all I can make out of the two of them in the pitch blackness.

“What happened?” I call out just as another bolt of lightning illuminates the room.

A whimper sounds.

“Dutton is afraid of storms.” Mavis’s voice carries to me, and I cautiously enter the room that contains a queen-sized bed and a dresser, and not a lot of additional floor space.

“I’m not much better.” Her voice is small, quiet, but brave enough for her son.

Another clap of thunder happens. The storm is right above us.

“I’m approaching the bed,” I warn her, so I don’t further frighten her. Running my hand along the edge, I use the next flash of lightning to guide me onto the mattress.

Dutton is deeply tucked into Mavis, her arms protective like the mother bear she is. Something inside me snaps, and I slide my arm around her shoulders, tugging her toward me, Dutton between us.

Another crack of thunder. Dutton trembles so strongly that the vibration quivers against me.

“Hey, Dutton,” I coo. “We’ve made an Oreo cookie out of you. A sandwich between your mama and me.”

He doesn’t respond but I sense Mavis shift.

“And you know what they say about an Oreo cookie.” I pause for an answer, hoping to distract the kid but he doesn’t respond. “The filling is the best part. Which means you’re the best part of this cookie.”

Without a thought, I lean forward and press a kiss to the top of his head. He smells fruity, like strawberries maybe.

Still no response from him, but Mavis relaxes beneath my arm. I wrap my other arm around them both cocooning them in and feeling comforted myself. I don’t dislike storms. I rather admire them at times and appreciate the necessity of them. Right now, I’m thankful for this one.

Grateful that it’s allowing me to sit on this bed and cradle Mavis and her kid.

I’ve never quite felt like this before. My need to protect in contrast with another person who is doing the protecting. Because there’s one thing I’m certain of, Mavis wouldn’t let a hair on Dutton’s head be harmed. Calling her mama bear fits, as he is her cub.

I’m just wondering if they might have room for a papa bear somewhere.

The thought is ridiculous, and I tip back my head, closing my eyes since there’s nothing else to do but wait out the storm. Slowly, Dutton slumps between us, falling back asleep as the thunder moves on and the lightning subsides. The rain is more of a steady shower, thudding on my roof in a rhythmic patter that has me nodding off as well.

With Mavis still tucked beneath my arms, holding her child while I hold her, I slip into a dream where they are mine.

+ + +

In the morning, a loud annoying ringtone rouses me. My head lolls forward. My neck cracks from the awkward angle I slept in all night. At some point, Dutton burrowed back into his pillow. Mavis rests beside him but I remained upright, vigilant while asleep.

As the ringtone blares, Mavis sits upright, does a double take at my position, and then scrambles over both Dutton and me to reach her phone on the nightstand beside me. When she pauses to pick up the device, and turn off what I assume is an alarm, she straddles my outstretched legs.

“You’re a lovely sight to see first thing, butterfly,” I tease. Her jet-black hair sticks up on one side of her head. Her eyes are soft. Her mouth lush.

Her head lifts, eyes wide, brows deeply pinched. “Why would you call me that?”

I shrug, uncertain, but the name seems fitting.

Sleepily, she assesses her position over me. Those dark eyes do a quick scan of my bare chest and her legs split over my lap before she scrambles in a way that causes her to lean awkwardly off the bed and nearly tumble to the floor. Her foot lands on the hard wood and she wobbles. I catch her hip to steady her.

“You stayed?” Her question is one of surprise and my answer surprises me.

“I stayed.” I didn’t want them frightened again during the night. Nothing will get to them with me here. Which means I need to be more present.

“About dinner—”

Her raised hand cuts me off and I take a second to assess what she’s wearing. She stole my shirt again. The thigh length tee exposes her legs, and my gaze drops to her light-pink polished toes. She’s a vision in my T-shirt. Her nipples erect, evidence of no bra. I want to explore what else she has underneath the shirt, but when Dutton stirs beside me the desire drops.

“I need to get dressed.”

“Where are you going?” The question comes out without a care to the accusation within it.

“I have an appointment with the insurance company today.”

I straighten on the bed. My lower back is killing me from having slept at an upright angle. My neck is certain to have a crick in it. I glance down at the zonked out kid beside me. “What about Dutton?”

“Meredith Mulligen is going to watch him for me.”

“Meredith Mulligen?” Everyone in this town knows Meredith’s secret. The one not quite so well kept about the seventy-year-old woman selling sex toys out of the second-floor apartment over her yarn shop, The She Shed. Years ago, the shop had an additional -e and -p in the title, making it The Sheep Shed, a place specializing in yarn and knitting supplies. When Meredith took over the shop, she used her living space on the upper level to supplement her daytime business. With the -e and -p fallen from the original sign, she left the spaces empty. Called the absence, character . She’s a character.

As Mavis nods, while checking her phone for the time, I ask, “Are you certain that’s wise?”

I have nothing against sweet Meredith, who lost her husband young and has been preaching to the women of this community, behind closed doors of course, that self-pleasure is the preferred pleasure. I’d like to disagree. While I don’t mind my hand on occasion, I prefer the touch of a woman on me. Her hands. Her mouth. Her inviting, open thighs.

But then again, Meredith isn’t talking about men pleasuring themselves. She’s all about female empowerment.

“Dutton adores her.”

I glance down at him again, wearing a pink pajama set, recalling what Mavis told me the other night. He prefers feminine things. While I’d like to think the world is changing, open-minded and progressive, I’m reminded daily how archaic, even stepping-backward society remains, and this little guy might have a tough road ahead of him. What he needs to know is he isn’t alone.

Looking back up at Mavis, I want her to know neither Dutton nor his mom are alone. I’m here for them.

“She’s like the grandmother he doesn’t have here.” Mavis wrinkles her nose in a way that suggests she doesn’t like the comparison, but she sets down her phone and glances up at me. “I need to get ready.”

With her penetrating eyes on me, time stands still a second. I don’t move even though I’m thinking that’s what she subtly implies. Get out .

“I just need another day or two and then Dutton and I will be out of your hair.” Her gaze lands on my lips and drops to my jaw covered in a mix of silver and gray, and thicker each morning.

“You aren’t in my hair,” I argue, keeping my focus on her. Her puffy lips. Her high cheekbones. “And I already told you, you don’t need to leave.”

Watching Mavis, I realize her hard stare isn’t a threat to leave. She’s drinking me in, letting those piercing dark eyes skim along my collarbone like a soft caress and along my tattooed arms. Her sleepy gaze travels to my chest next, lingering over my pecs and the patch of hair between them before taking her time to scan lower and lower to another trail of hair that leads to the waistband of my pajama bottoms.

She swallows hard before her eyes flick upward and land on mine. “I think it’s for the best.”

“Why?” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand right before her, ignoring that her perusal of me is affecting my body. Her floral scent invades my nose. Her breasts are mere inches from my chest. My hands twitch, wanting to touch her face and bring her mouth to mine.

“We’re just taking up your space—”

“Take my space,” I interject.

“And wasting your time.”

“Waste my time.” Then I tilt my head, realizing how that might have sounded. “How? How are you taking my time or my space?”

She shrugs, lowering her gaze. “It just doesn’t feel right, us being here.”

Unable to resist the urge to touch her, I cup her shoulders to gain her attention. “Tell me how to make it feel right.” Because I don’t want her fluttering away now that she’s back.

While I can admit that permanence isn’t something I foresee in my future, work being the only constant in my life, my gut tells me not to let Mavis go. At the same time my gut speaks, I hear warning bells, telling me not to jump into savior mode. Don’t make her a damsel in distress when she’s clearly explained how she’s on her own path of survival and restoration. Which makes Mavis refreshing, puzzling even, and someone I’d like to explore more, get to know better. Be present for her.

“I’ll be home for dinner.”

Mavis closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Please don’t give me false promises. It’s a trigger for me.”

“Trigger?”

Her eyes snap open, ignoring the word. “You don’t need to be here or not be here. It’s your house. You deserve to come home and not find us squatting here. Or stay away because that’s your routine.”

Routine? My life has become a little too repetitive.

“Plus, I don’t want to cramp your style. Staying here you haven’t brought anyone home with you because I’m here with my kid.”

My brows rise at that argument and I softly chuckle. Mavis glances around me at Dutton and I turn my head to check on him as well before peering back at her.

“First, of all, you aren’t squatting.” I squeeze her shoulders to emphasize my words. “And secondly, I’ve never brought another woman to my home.”

Her eyes widen.

“I want you here,” I state, quieter, softer, vulnerable in the admission. For reasons I can’t fully explain I don’t want her to leave.

“But why? You don’t come around when we are here, and after all I told you the other night, I figured you’d want us gone.”

“Gone?” I choke, stroking over her shoulders. “You just came back. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

Her brows arch, one lifting higher than the other, questioning me and my adamant admission. Then, she shakes her head again, like an afterthought occurs. She takes a step back, slowly slipping out from underneath my hands. “I need to get ready for my meeting.”

She turns for her suitcase, which isn’t unpacked but open on the floor in the corner. She isn’t making herself at home like I’ve asked. She’s living like she’s on the run, and I don’t want her running.

“Is today the day I go to Miss Meredith’s?” Dutton groggily asks.

“Sure is, little bear,” she calls out, standing once she’s found what she wants within her bag. “I need to shower quick and then I’ll get us breakfast.”

“I can do breakfast,” I offer.

“Do you know how to make oatmeal with the right amount of cinnamon and some milk?” Dutton asks, his voice morning rough while he doesn’t appear fazed that I’m in their room this early.

“I know my way around a microwave and a bowl of oatmeal, buddy,” I counter, placing my hands on my hips to tease him while he assesses me, taking in the hip hugging pajama bottoms that I typically don’t wear to sleep in. My hair might be a fright like Mavis’s because of the way I slept.

Softly, Dutton smiles. The first real smile I’ve seen on the kid.

“Then let’s go.” He scrambles forward, crawling until he reaches the end of the bed, then swings his legs off it and stands ramrod straight, lifting his arms in the air like a practiced gymnast.

“How’d I do on the dismount?” Dutton asks, although I’m not certain if he’s talking to me or Mavis.

“A perfect ten,” she says at the same time I say, “Eight point seven-five-five.”

Dutton glares at me, holding his position a second before lowering his arms with a slap to his thighs. “I’ll work on that.”

“You do that,” I remark.

With that, he gives me a nod and exits the room.

“You could have given him a better score,” Mavis chastises, scowling at me. Even with a frown, she’s still stunning. Somehow her expression only makes her edgier, bolder, fiercer. Her desire to fight only sparks my need to rescue.

“Not doing him any favors by making him think everything he does is perfect,” I state, and instantly regret my answer. My mind flits back to Mavis’s ex and the abuse poor Dutton must have experienced at the hands of his father. Mavis’s encouragement might have initially sounded over-the-top, but it makes sense. She’s his sole support system and number one cheerleader, and she’s trying to erase every mean or disparaging word Dutton has endured.

Scratching at the back of my head, I apologize. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Mavis’s mouth pops open. Then claps shut. She shakes her head once more and then brushes past me and out the door.

And I’m left wondering if I can ever make things right with this woman.