Chapter 23 Clara
TWENTY-THREE
CLARA
Getting ready took ten minutes and an embarrassing amount of overthinking.
I just stood in front of my suitcase and asked myself what version of me I wanted to be tonight.
The temporary roommate slinking around a neglected house in yesterday’s pajamas? Nah.
The girl who’d gotten left at the altar in front of nearly everyone she knew? Hell no.
I wanted to be the woman who walked into a room and expected it to like her. I missed that version of myself and wasn’t quite sure where I’d left her.
After a deep breath, I pulled on my favorite jeans—the ones that actually fit, hugging my hips without cutting off circulation—black boots with a little heel, and a thin knit top that dipped just enough at the neckline to feel feminine and flirty.
My hair went down, waves finger-combed into something that looked intentionally tousled instead of slept on.
A swipe of mascara. Lip gloss. Tiny hoops in my ears.
It wasn’t too flashy, but a reminder to myself that I was still in here.
The house was quiet as I came down the stairs. It was the kind of winter evening hush that made every creak under my boots sound louder. Light spilled from the living room, warm against the dark.
Wes was on the floor in front of the couch, bent forward, his arms stretching toward his toes.
His prosthetic leaned against the coffee table.
He wore a pair of dark athletic shorts and a faded T-shirt that clung to his back, damp at the collar from a shower.
The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he shifted his weight, the broad line of his back cutting clean against the soft, lived-in couch behind him.
His hair was still a little wet, pushed back, a few pieces refusing to stay put.
He looked . . . settled. Focused. Like a man checking his range and not avoiding it.
For a second I just watched him—one hand on the banister, heart doing that stupid lift-and-drop thing in my chest. The stump where his leg used to be was bare, the skin pale and marked, and there was a slice of a second where my throat tightened for him.
Then his hands slid farther out, spine lengthening, the long line of his arms drawing my eye, and pity didn’t stand a chance against the sheer, unfair reality of Wes Vaughn’s body.
He glanced up at the sound of my foot on the last stair.
The stretch froze. His gaze dragged over me once, slow and unguarded, from boots to jeans to the low neckline of my top. Something dark and hot flickered in his eyes before he slammed the door on it.
“Going somewhere, Duchess?” His voice came out rough, a shade hoarser than usual as he turned his focus back to his stretch.
I pretended my stomach didn’t flip at the nickname. “Kit invited me out,” I said, walking toward the kitchen for the illusion of purpose. “We’re going to the Lantern tonight. Drinks, dancing, bad decisions. You should come.”
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a real smile. “Yeah, no,” he said flatly. “I don’t dance anymore.”
My face twisted as I turned back toward him. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just reached for the liner and started rolling it up, his fingers efficient and practiced. His jaw worked as he lifted the prosthetic and lined it up, balancing with one hand on the couch.
He shot me a look as he clicked it into place. “Take a wild guess.”
My eyes dropped, uninvited, to his leg. To the way he concentrated on making sure the fit was right, the way his shoulders tensed like he was expecting it to fail him at any second.
“I meant,” I said softly, “is it that you can’t . . . or that you don’t want to find out you still can?”
His head tipped, surprise flashing across his face before he covered it with a scoff. “Clara, come on. Nobody wants their toes annihilated by the guy with the metal leg. I trip, I go down, I take out half the dance floor.”
“You didn’t trip sledding,” I pointed out. “You didn’t fall. You just screamed like a little girl and then made out with me in a snowdrift.”
His mouth tightened as his eyes flashed to mine. “Gliding on your ass down a hill is not the same as dancing.”
“Technically, you were on a sled, not your ass,” I said with a shrug. “And your balance was fine.”
He shifted his weight onto the prosthetic, testing it, expression closing off. “A crowded bar is a lot,” he said. “Noise, people, floors I don’t trust. I’ll pass.”
The sting pricked quick and sharp—ridiculous, given that I’d invited him mostly on impulse—but it was there anyway. “I didn’t say you had to go compete on Dancing with the Stars, Wes,” I said lightly. “Just that you could come drink beer and bob your head like a normal person.”
His eyes slid away, toward the TV that wasn’t on. “I don’t . . . do that anymore.”
The hopelessness in those few words did something ugly and painful to my insides.
“Okay,” I said, more firmly than I felt. I took a few steps back toward him, closing some of the distance. “New proposal.”
He eyed me warily. “Those are rarely good.”
“Two minutes,” I said. “Right here. No crowd. No sticky floors. No strangers. If you hate it, I’ll shut up and go twerk on strangers at the Lantern without you.”
He huffed, like he was gearing up for a fight. “Clara—”
“Wes.” I planted myself in front of him, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to smell soap and that faint woodsy note that had been driving me insane for days. “You survived sledding. You can survive swaying in your own living room.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth before cutting away. The muscle in his jaw ticced. “This is a bad idea.”
“So were most of my decisions in the last year.” I grinned up at him and blinked innocently. “Didn’t stop me.”
Something that might have been a reluctant laugh flickered in his eyes.
I lifted a hand. “Come on. Two minutes. You can even count.”
He stared at my outstretched fingers like they were a test he hadn’t studied for. Then he sighed, low and annoyed at himself, and took one step toward me.
“Two minutes,” he said. “Then you leave me alone and go terrorize someone else.”
I bit back a giddy laugh. “Deal.”
He stepped even closer, careful, like he was approaching an edge. I reached for his left hand and guided it to my waist, right above my hip bone. His palm was warm and wide, fingers curling in reflex before he seemed to realize what he was doing and tried to loosen them.
The spark that shot through me at that little flex was ridiculous.
“Other hand,” I said, offering mine with a wiggle of my fingers.
He took it, his grip a little too firm, like he was holding on for dear life.
“Okay,” I murmured. “We’re not doing a tango. Just . . . shift. Weight to the right. Then to the left. Most guys don’t know how to do more than sway anyway.”
He snorted. “Real inspiring imagery, Duchess.”
“I’m not auditioning to be your dance coach,” I said. “I’m just trying to prove your rhythm didn’t get amputated.”
His brow arched. “You’re very confident for someone who can’t knit a straight row.”
“Harsh,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Now move your feet.”
His chest lifted on a breath. Then, slowly, he did.
We started small. Barely moving at all. His weight eased to one leg, then the other, the shift controlled and deliberate. I could feel every micro adjustment through his hand at my waist, the cautious give in his body, the way he kept his core locked, like he was still bracing for a fall.
“You’re overthinking,” I said, quietly breathing in the scent at his neck. “It’s just us, Wes. Nobody’s judging you on your form.”
His gaze flicked down, met mine. We were closer than I’d realized. Close enough to count the darker ring around his irises, the tiny scar at the edge of his eyebrow, and the faint hitch of his breath as his gaze locked onto mine.
“Easy for you to say,” he murmured. “Your leg does what it’s supposed to.”
My heart pinched. “Your leg just got you down a hill and back up again,” I said. “It’s allowed to figure shit out. Same as the rest of you.”
His mouth twitched, something soft and painful in his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders eased a fraction as he rolled his shoulders back. His hand at my waist tightened, just a little, like he’d forgotten to be careful for one second.
We swayed.
A slow, quiet back-and-forth, the house dark and silent, the winter sky pressed against the windows. His prosthetic made the tiniest difference in the rhythm, just enough that I could feel it if I paid attention, a slightly heavier step, a careful recalibration, but it didn’t make him clumsy.
It made him present.
“See?” I said, dropping my voice. “Everything still moves just fine, Vaughn.”
“You’re bossy as hell,” he muttered.
“You like it,” I shot back.
His lips curved into a real smile then—a quick, reluctant flash that gutted me.
Warmth pooled low in my stomach. The space between us shrank without either of us consciously deciding to close it. My chest brushed his with every shift. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded arc at my hip bone through my shirt, and my body lit up like he’d run a live wire against my skin.
This was too close. Too easy. Too dangerous.
Two minutes. You promised.
I let us sway for a few more heartbeats, memorizing the way he felt when he stopped fighting his own body. Then I cleared my throat and stepped back, gently sliding his hand off my waist.
“Time’s up,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as breathless as I felt. “See? Toes intact. Pride mostly intact. Rhythm confirmed.”
He looked at me like he was still counting something only he could see. Then he shook his head, scoffing lightly. “Yeah, well. Add beer and twenty bodies in a room and we’ll see how intact it stays.”
“That’s what walls are for,” I said. “You find a corner, lean, sway. No one cares. They’re too busy posting their drinks on Instagram.”
He huffed, which was as close as he got to a laugh when he didn’t want to give me one. “A crowded bar is a lot,” he said again, more quietly. “Maybe next time.”