Page 13 of Sterling Clay

Silence passes between us before he asks, “Were you wearing one of my shirts earlier?”

I chew my lower lip, warmth creeping across my cheeks. The other night, I’d taken advantage of a clean, warm shirt because I hadn’t thought to bring my own nightwear into the bathroom with me when the desire to shower occurred.

“Did you shower in here?” His gaze wanders to the open door of his bathroom as if reading my thoughts.

I chew my lip harder, uncertain how to explain that I’d taken liberties when I should have asked permission.

A wide, bright smile curls amid the heavier-than-normal scruff around his mouth. “Damn,” he whispers. “I missed it.”

Uncertain for a second if he’s toying with me, or teasing, my lower belly flutters at the thought he might be flirting with me.

Don’t be foolish, Mavis.

“And you in my tee.” Clay hums. “Can I tell you how much I liked seeing you in it?”

The T-shirt was nothing special, and for a moment, I simply stare at him, wondering what he’s doing. Men like Clay Sylver don’t flirt with women like me. Broken ones. One trying to pick up her own pieces.

Still, relief washes over me. He isn’t angry that I used his shirt. He is not upset that I helped myself to a shower.

I chuckle as the truth hits me. He’s definitely teasing me like he’d joke and wink at the elderly ladies in town, making them feel a little desirable with his innocent banter.

“Clayton Sylver, I think that fever is muddling your brain.”

He laughs before a coughing fit chokes off the happy sound. Rushing to his side, I’m hesitant to help him, uncertain if he’d want my hands on him as a form of comfort. Unable to relieve his cough, I hate feeling so helpless.

When the chest-clenching subsides, Clay takes the glass of water I offer him and drinks. Setting it back on the stand himself, he glances up at me towering over him like a mother hen.

He lifts his hand as if he wants to take mine again. I glance down at how he reaches forward and then retreats. Earlier, I’d overreacted. He wasn’t going to hurt me. He simply wanted my attention. Still, I’d gone into fight mode. Dutton’s attempt to come between us brought out my mama bear claws. Dutton was the only thing that mattered. His safety. His protection.

“Did you sleep in my bed the other night, mama bear?” The term stiffens my shoulders. Had he heard Dutton and I exchange such a thing? Or can he simply read me?

“I—” Helping myself to his bed was more . . . intimate . . . than borrowing a shirt and sneaking in a shower. Before I can try to explain my reasoning, which was shaky at best, Clay speaks.

“I might have liked that, too.” He winks and my face flames.

He is flirting with me. Or maybe this is just carefree banter. It’s been so long I don’t know how to tell the difference.

“I’ll be staying with Dutton tonight.”

Clay digs his teeth into his lower lip while his eyes focus on mine, like he’s fighting the pull to let his gaze roam down my body. An appraising scan meant to scorch my skin. He’s drinking me in with only a stare, and I want to be swallowed whole. I want to be touched in a way I don’t feel threatened, and Clay wouldn’t harm me. He’d be good for my soul, while bad for my heart.

I could love a man like him but that is a dangerous thought. I trust fast and fall hard, and I promised myself I’d do better. I’d steel myself against charm and good looks and falseness. Besides my life is too complicated for someone to love me in return, and I don’t want to put anyone in a position where they feel led on. It wouldn’t be fair. I’m free of Wesley, wherever he might be, but I’m still not in the right head space to open up to someone new. I might never be.

Because one thing I’d need is control. Of my future, my decisions, my sexuality. And I have yet to meet a man who is willing to let me be domineering in the bedroom and an equal outside of it.

“Good night, Clay.”

“Night, mama bear.”

Chapter 6

[Clay]

I might have come on a little too strong, especially since being sick in bed isn’t the most attractive position to be in. Thankfully, I didn’t scare Mavis off, and she stayed the remainder of the week. I needed the time to fully recover from the horrible flu I’d had. I still felt a little shaky, even weak at moments, but I couldn’t stay in bed another day. I was coming out of my skin and filled with concern for the Seed & Soil. I had to get back to work.

Dressed in my typical Seed & Soil button up, sleeves rolled to my elbows, and wearing a pair of faded jeans, I enter my kitchen where Mavis stands motionless near the stove. Those dark eyes are wide, doe-like, and watching me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she teases, but concern etches the angles of her cheek. She’s hard in some places, soft in others. Delicate like a butterfly’s wing while granite at the same time.