Page 23 of Sterling Clay

“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.”