Chapter 9

[Mavis]

Clay’s words were triggering once more, reminding me of Wesley’s constant criticism of how I parented Dutton. Also reminding me of my parents’ comparison to how Cecilia would have done things differently.

On the other hand, Clay wasn’t wrong. While I did want Dutton to think he was perfect just the way he is, I might overcompensate on the perfection-praise to make up for all he’d endured. All his losses. All his conflicts. All I’d put him through. And no one faulted me more than me, for the precarious position Dutton and I found ourselves in with Wesley.

My emotions were a mess because Clay Sylver held both Dutton and me through the night, offering comfort during a storm, and then woke looking too smug and sexy for his own good. That deep, rugged tenor. I’d have lady morning wood, if there was such a thing, from that voice alone, but then throw in a patch of hair on his chest, the tats on his arms, and the silvery scruff along his jaw. Deep sigh .

I need a cold shower but want the heat to wake me up and calm me down. I have no business getting sexually worked up over Clay. He was hospitable, if absent, and doing us a huge favor by letting us crash here for almost two weeks. But we needed to move on. I hated feeling like a charity case, and I’d learned my lesson the hard way by putting my faith in someone who had nothing to stand on but his own two feet. And even that was shaky at best after he drank too much.

But today, I wasn’t thinking about my past. This morning, I was looking forward to my future. I had an appointment with the insurance company.

Day one of regaining some financial stability.

Rapidly, I finish my shower, shifting my concern to Clay’s ability to make oatmeal. The man hasn’t prepared a meal since I’ve been present. After quickly moisturizing, braiding my hair, and dressing in a casual skirt and sweater, I near the kitchen to find Clay seated across from Dutton.

The two dive into their breakfast like a synchronized pair of oatmeal connoisseurs. To my surprise, Clay isn’t on his phone, which Wesley would have been, had he been present, and Dutton isn’t on his tablet. Instead, the two are talking about Halloween.

“And you want to be a what?” Clay asks, confused by what Dutton first mentioned.

“I want to be a Power Princess. The pink one.”

Clay pauses, his spoon suspended over his oatmeal. “And what exactly does that costume look like?” Distracting himself, he shovels up a large scoop of his warm breakfast while waiting for Dutton’s answer.

“She wears a pink morph suit with a silver belt and a sparkling tiara. She also has a cool wand.” Dutton wields his spoon like the magic tool, twirling it through the air.

Proudly, I smile at Dutton who doesn’t appear to see me standing just outside the kitchen.

“Like a Power Ranger?” Clay looks up at Dutton, staring across the table at him.

“What’s a Power Ranger?”

Clay chuckles to himself before scooping up another large spoonful of oatmeal. “And what kind of powers does this princess have that makes her special?”

My shoulders relax when I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been, holding my breath over this conversation that could derail at any second. I remind myself once more that Clay isn’t Wesley.

“She can outrun her enemies and cast a spell on them. Plus, she has the power to disappear.”

“Like be invisible?” Clay’s brows lift, like he’s impressed by an animated character.

“More like she knows how to hide in all the best places. Like Mama taught me.”

Clay slowly lowers his spoon, hovering it just over his bowl and now is the time for me to make my presence known.

“How is the oatmeal?” I ask with false cheer, a ripple of anxiety rushing up my belly. I wish I had the superpower to wipe away Dutton’s memory. Chase away the ghosts and the past experiences that might haunt him forever.

Dutton shrugs. “Pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Clay counters. “You told me it was perfect.”

Dutton lowers his head, scooping up a much smaller sample than Clay’s portion. “I’d give it an eight point seven-five-five.” A sheepish grin graces Dutton’s face, his face pink from his own cheekiness.

I chuckle at Dutton’s assessment while Clay’s spoon clatters against the inside of his bowl.

Dutton flinches at the sound but Clay winks. “I guess I’ll need to work on my presentation.”

“You do that,” Dutton softly commands, his voice light, relaxed, mimicking Clay’s. His smile grows but he fights it, exploring his limits with this man offering us a safe place to stay. Dutton is extending an olive branch, a hint of his innocent six-year-old sass, and I don’t want that twig to snap. He is fragile, hesitant when it comes to men, but I’d love for Clay to be a positive role model in his life. If only for the time being.

“Alrighty. Dutton, finish up. You need to get dressed and brush your teeth. Quick. Quick.” I clap my hands emphasizing my haste, knowing he’s about to turn into a sloth when I don’t want to be late for the appointment.

“I can take him to Miss Meredith’s.”

The suggestion has me pausing mid-clap while Dutton sits taller in his chair. His legs swing beneath the table, another tell that he’s comfortable sitting here. He isn’t waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop like I am. Like he’s had to live his life for most of his six years.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You aren’t asking, I’m offering. I typically swing by Curmudgeon Bakery before heading to the Seed & Soil. The She Shed is right down the block.”

While Clay had his reservations about Meredith’s child-care abilities, something that wasn’t his concern, I appreciated that he was uneasy, at least in theory. Meredith’s extra-curricular income-related activities were common knowledge, although the community liked to pretend it was a secret. I didn’t disapprove of her. In fact, she’d given me something to ease the tension , as she called it, knowing I was alone too often with Wesley out of town. Eventually, the Purple Pleaser became more stimulating than Wesley.

I hadn’t lived in Sterling Falls very long before I was initiated into the Sterlets, like starlets, an exclusive group of the female population in town. Under the guise of a book club, the members met twice monthly, once to discuss a book, which typically involved more wine drinking than discussion, and once to peruse Meredith’s new wares, which also involved copious amounts of wine.

I’d been honored to be included in the local tradition and secret society. Most women were welcoming and open to me joining their private group. As the club was held in Meredith’s home once a month, various locations taking the other dates, she’d been the one to invite me into this inner circle of women. However, I’d emotionally kept my distance within the group, afraid someone could read in my eyes what happened behind the closed doors in my home. Cautious that they’d see the lie I was living with Wesley. At first, I even feared they’d detect my failure as a mother. Like real moms could smell the fake ones.

Six years into Dutton’s life, I’ve grown more confident and comfortable with my role. And Meredith expressed an invitation to return to the Sterlets whenever I was ready, reminding me I deserve a night out to feel like a woman, not just a mother.

Calling Meredith was the first step of bravery I took returning here. Reaching out took courage because she knew my situation with Wesley. She’d once offered to help me move on.

It’s not that bad , I’d argue. Telling myself someone else always had it worse. My sister certainly had.

With another glance at Dutton, I softly smile. His eager face staring at me as if he asked me a question.

“Well?” One tiny brow tweaks higher than the other.

“What’s the question again?”

“Can Mr. Clay take me to Miss Meredith’s?”

“Mr. Clay?” I smirk at the man I’ve been conditioning Dutton to call Mr. Sylver.

Clay sits taller, patting the Seed & Soil T-shirt covering his chest. He gives me a smile I’m certain wins over many ladies and helps him get his way on a most occasions.

“I don’t know.” Hesitating near the table, I wring my hands.

“You can trust me.” Clay makes it sound so simple. I wanted to trust him. I didn’t want to believe all men were the enemy, but this was Dutton.

“Maybe another day,” I whisper, trying but failing to hide my cautious thoughts. Then I clear my throat.

“Okay, buddy. Quick quick .” I clap my hands again, signaling I need some speed this morning.

Dutton takes another bite of his oatmeal before sliding from his seat.

Sloth-mode detected, Clay intercedes. “I’ll race you. First one to be dressed and ready wins.”

This has Dutton’s attention. “What do I win?”

“Hmm. I’ll need to think about it.” Clay taps his chin, but the gleam in his eye suggests he already has an idea.

“And if you win?”

“I’ll watch an episode of Princess Power with you. I need to see what that’s all about. My niece Adara might love it one day.”

Dutton perks up at the promise. He rushes from the room, finding a companion for his television time a good enough excuse to hurry, which strangely makes both results a win for Dutton.

“That was sweet of you,” I say once Dutton clears the room. I start picking up his bowl of oatmeal watching as Clay doesn’t move to join in the competition.

“Leave it,” Clay mumbles around another bite of his own warm cereal before he runs his palm lightly down my forearm to circle my wrist.

At the sudden movement, I flinch, and Clay doesn’t miss my reaction. What he also doesn’t do is drop his touch. Instead, he softens his grip and runs his thumb along the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist. He gently strokes, as if willing my pulse to settle, willing me to stay still. The tenderness speaks volumes. Like he’s telling me he understands that I need time. Like maybe I could get use to his touch. Like maybe I could trust him.

“I’ll clean up in a minute.”

I’m still stunned by the offer even though I shouldn’t be. It’s not that he isn’t capable of cleaning up after himself, it’s just that I’m not used to someone else picking up after us. Even at my parents’ home, I waited on them, feeling like I needed to earn my keep as they allowed Dutton and me to stay with them for nearly a year. They’d never deny Dutton anything, but they had firm opinions about helping me. My parents were still resentful of decisions Cecilia and I had made.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Clay says.

Those soothing strokes on my wrist have worked their magic. I want to believe he’ll be here tonight, but whether he’s here or not, should not be my concern.

Today, my focus needs to be on the future for Dutton and me.

Freedom. Finally .