Page 11 of Sterling Clay

“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.

Chapter 5

[Mavis]

Something deep inside me tells me I’m safe here. Clay seems genuine enough in his offer for us to remain a few days, and I really don’t want to take Dutton to a musty, old motel. Plus, Clay needs more rest and recovery time, and I want to help him in return for his generosity.

He didn’t immediately kick us out.

After helping Clay back to his bedroom and setting him up with a bed tray I’d found tucked in his kitchen, I leave him to his soup. I move Dutton and my things into the guest room we will share, and feed Dutton, then set him up in front of the television, as a means of distraction.

Returning to Clay’s bedroom, I find the meal tray on the floor beside the bed and Clay resting on his side, phone in his hand.

“You should sleep,” I remind him, handing him another dose of fever-reducing pills. Men are babies when it comes to illness, and I’ve found doling out their medication when they’re sick is best.

Plus, I’m a mom and a nurse. Funny how I hadn’t planned on being the first one when it happened.

Clay takes the pills, downs an entire glass of water, and settles back on his pillows. “Thank you.”

I nod, bending to retrieve the food tray, but when I stand upright, Clay is watching me.

“I mean it, Mavis. Thank you for being here.” He holds out his hand and I want to take it. I want to believe in the sincerity on his face. The warmth in those occasionally icy eyes. The softening around his mouth, flashing me with more dimples. But I don’t trust myself.

Kindness could be my undoing, and I don’t need to be undone now that I’ve finally pulled the tatters of myself back together.

Still, I offer him a timid smile and nod. “You’re welcome.” Holding his gaze, our eyes locked together, a thin bead of sweat trickles down my neck. His large palm remains extended but I’m holding the tray like a shield when I want to drop it and take his offering. I want to know how his rough-looking hand might feel in mine. Would he be gentle? Would his kindness seep through his touch? Or would those large hands turn into fists?

Instantly, I shake the thought. This is Clay Sylver. He’d never act in such a manner.

“Get some rest,” I whisper, forcing more of a smile before turning away from him and exiting his bedroom.

Hours later, Dutton has taken his nightly bath and settles into the queen-sized bed in Clay’s guest room. We read a chapter from the book we’ve been sharing nightly together. He loves to read, which I’m thankful for. He loves to draw and dance. Play outdoors and take adventures. And he loves anything princess related.

My ex hated that about my son. He swore I was babying Dutton, catering to a whim, making the boy soft. With old-fashioned ideals and machismo off the charts, my ex didn’t understand that Dutton was constantly evolving. He needed to discover who he is, and indulging in a phase of princess worship or finding a preference for typically female-defined activities did not make him a girl or gay or any other construct my ex wanted to place on a child.