Page 244 of Josephine and Clay

I point my fork at him. “Do not become smug about nutrition.”

“I’m not smug. I’m proud.”

“That’s worse.”

“I can be both.”

“You usually are.”

He laughs and shakes his head, and the sound makes the evening feel even easier.

As we eat, the conversation wanders. He tells me about growing up with three older brothers who treated every chore as a competition. I tell him about vet school, about the professor who made me redo a practical exam because I corrected him in front of the class, and Clay looks scandalized on my behalf.

“He deserved it,” he says.

“He was technically right about the procedure.”

“But wrong about you.”

I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth.

Clay says it so simply, as if there’s no question.

I set the fork down. “You didn’t know me then.”

“I know you now.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I know enough to figure anyone who underestimated you was probably an idiot.”

There isn't a trace of teasing in it.

I look away before he can see too much on my face.

“Careful, McCoy,” I say lightly. “That almost sounded sweet.”

“Almost?”

“You were close.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Please don’t overpractice. I’d hate for you to become unbearable.”

He leans forward slightly. “Too late?”

“Long past.”

His grin returns, and for a few minutes, the heaviness lifts again.

After dinner, Clay insists on dessert despite my claim that I couldn’t possibly eat more. He orders pie with two forks, then has the nerve to look triumphant when I take the first bite and immediately reach for another.

“You were saying?” he asks.

“I said I couldn’t possibly eat more. I was misinformed.”

“By yourself.”