Page 39 of Sterling Clay

We haven’t spoken in the few minutes I’ve been standing here, as he’s concentrating on helping his youngest paint her pumpkin to look like a duck.

I smile at Ford and glance back at Dutton, widening my eyes in a silent command. Come with me.

Dutton doesn’t move. Instead, he drops his gaze and continues painting, defying my request. But I need to move away from the conversation behind my back. The one with a woman still cooing over Clay and him engaging her in conversation when I’ve been staying in his home for three weeks. And this is the first I’ve learned of a woman in his life.

“Dutton.” I clench my teeth while holding back any hostile tone.

“I’m good here,” he states.

My gaze flips up to Ford, concern hitting me hard that he can see I’m not a candidate for mother of the year.

“Honestly. He’s welcome to stay. I’ll keep my eyes on him. We aren’t moving from this spot.”

I could play off the bathroom lie I told. I don’t really need to go, but now I feel trapped into walking away for a few minutes.

“If you’re sure?”

“Go.” Ford grins.

I hesitate before saying, “Thank you. I’ll be quick.” But the last thing I want to do is be fast, so I take my time to find the indoor facility down a hallway near the back of the main building. I’m grateful there isn’t a line and do my business when I didn’t think I had any to do.

Afterward, I run my hands under warm water to calm myself, refusing to look in the mirror to compare myself to a stunning blonde who’d gravitated toward Clay. I’m better than the comparison game, and I’ve come a long way in recognizing my self-worth. But Clay’s omission still stings. The truth has taken me by surprise and rattled me. Of course, Clay has a woman-friend even if he told me no one has ever been to his house.

The moment is more of a trigger from Wesley and his behavior. Lies and deceit. I’m only minutely relieved that I’m not the shaky mess I would have been shattered if Clay had been Wesley. If Clay were mine. With Wesley, I never knew fact from fiction. My inquiries into where he’d been, what he’d been doing, or who he’d been with would lead to insults or injury. I could never predict when my ex would be reactive. Never knew what was truth versus what was a placating tale.

My infidelity suspicions with Wesley didn’t happen until the final year or so we were together. When something in him flipped, like the toss of sunny side eggs to over easy. Life was no longer bright and cheery. I’d been painfully aware things between Wesley and me had been dimming for years, and I became brutally cognizant of how foggy my eyesight had once been when looking at a man like Wesley.

When I exhale deeply, I double check my tightly wound hair before exiting the restroom. My head is held high, but my mind is still a bit muddled. Clay doesn’t owe me explanations, but finding out he has a woman in his life seems like something I should have learned by now. Amid all I’d shared of myself with him, he could have told me he had someone waiting for him.

Not paying attention, I’m jarred by the assertive and forceful bump into my shoulder from a large man passing a little too close to me for the restroom. The startling movement is aggressive enough that I spin and stumble into the wall lining the narrow passage.

“Mavis.”

Holding my shoulder, I twist, certain I heard my name, but the darkly dressed man continues speedily toward the men’s room without a second glance at me or an apology. With his back to me, his tall form moves away as if we didn’t just collide, and he didn’t say my name. Maybe he simply called me ma’am. But a fragrance lingers behind him, like the exhaust behind a moving vehicle. That scent. Worn leather, cigarettes, and cheap cologne is all too familiar to me.

I’m frozen in place, like a picture nailed to the wall behind me.

“Mavis?” My name is spoken from somewhere to my left but all I hear is a garbled sound, like someone trying to speak through water.

When a hand comes to my elbow, I tug it so sharply away from the unexpected grasp I knock it into the wall at my back. Pain radiates up my left arm, matching the sharp twinge lingering in my right shoulder. I can’t seem to catch my breath. An imaginary vise is squeezing my chest, constricting my airway. My nose is clogged with the recognizable stench, and I gag on the reminiscence of such a fragrance.

“Butterfly?” Clay stands before me, hands in the air in surrender, eyes wide with concern. He quiets his voice. “You okay?”

“Clay.” The anxiety clogging my throat makes his name come out as a croak. My ears ring from the rush of my blood pumping. My pulse races.

“Butterfly.” He slowly exhales, almost purposefully exaggerating the breath. “Focus on me. Look at me. Talk to me.”

His wide icy-blue eyes. His sun-kissed skin. His white scruff.

A deep inhale from him.

Sweat beads along my forehead and trickles down my spine. Clay is not my enemy.

Following his lead, I copy his exhale.

“Clay,” I gag on relief and do the unexpected. I leap for him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding onto him like he’s a buoy in deep water.

I inhale his earthy scent, the fragrance a cleansing smell and calming balm.