11. Chapter 11 – Clay
L ucy’s sweet gesture, bringing me dinner, broke my vow not to propose again. Even I didn’t know if I was joking after that first offer of marriage. If I ever was joking. And that thought scared me.
Because I wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for more.
What started as a way to wind her up, see those dark eyes flash, had become something else entirely. A test of where we were headed.
I could wait—maybe forever—but every moment with her left me feeling like I was sliding, bit by bit, down a steep hill. As inevitable as gravity. As scary as tumbling, out of control. Toward my doom, or my salvation? Either way, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
But some nights, I wondered how long I could hold out hope without knowing if she’d ever meet me halfway.
When I finally made it home, I stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot spray stung, awakening each nerve as it sluiced down my back. The heat felt good after hours setting up and breaking down our operations center. Between the wind and temperature drop after sunset, I was stiff with cold.
Lucy disappeared after dinner without saying goodbye, making me wonder if I’d scared her away with my latest proposal.
She usually brushed them off with a snarky comment, which I appreciated.
Teasing her was safe when I knew she’d turn me down.
Now that we were moving toward something more than the occasional few minutes of mockery, I had to wonder why I kept asking.
It meant something that she cared enough to drive all the way to the park after her long day. For a prickly woman who presented a hard heart to the world, it was a marshmallow move.
Exhausted but still too keyed up to sleep, I grabbed my phone.
Clay: Thanks again for tonight.
Propped against my headboard, I turned on my TV, losing myself in late-night television to avoid watching for the reply bubbles like a sad sack. My phone dinged. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face, making it feel like it would crack.
Lucy: It was fun to see you in action.
Clay: You haven’t seen anything yet, Lucifer.
Lucy: I enjoy romantic walks to the taco truck.
I blinked, sure I’d read that wrong.
Clay: Pick you up at six tomorrow?
Lucy: You bring the tequila, I’ll bring the bad decisions?
Her asking me to dinner was definitely worth celebrating, even if tequila and I weren’t friends.
Clay: Pretty sure I’m gonna like whatever you have in mind.
Lucy: You say that now…
Clay: I say that always.
Lucy: Sap.
I could imagine her, cuddled up on her couch, frowning down at her phone. Teasing her in person was more fun, but at least I knew she was thinking about me.
Clay: You like it.
My phone lay silent. It wasn’t like Lucy to let me have the last word. I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe I’d won our non-argument. I’d probably wake up tomorrow and find a cutting late-night text. But for now? I’d cherish the win.
The corners of my lips curled on instinct.
She was warming to me. My prickly Lucifer wasn’t used to affection from me yet. But we’d get there.
*** Lucy ***
Clay’s text taunted me. I did like it. I liked him . There was no denying that. Not if I was honest with myself.
How I’d gone from mild irritation to dating him was a mystery.
Oh, wait. He was hot. And sweet. And a competent, adult male.
Rare as hell in the dating world. Of course I was attracted to him.
But it was more than that. He knew just how to get to me.
I didn’t even need tequila to make bad decisions around him.
And he wasn’t Christopher.
By the time dinner rolled around the next day, I’d finished the chandelier and started a new project, a mermaid commissioned for the city manager’s anniversary. I rushed through my shower after work, taking extra time with my makeup.
Clay arrived exactly at six. He stood on my porch, damp hair curling beneath his ballcap, dressed in fresh jeans and a dark green hoodie. “Lucifer, you look stunning.”
“Sure, Robertson.” I gestured down to my black jeans and sweatshirt. “It’s island chic all the way.”
“Perfect for walking to the taco truck. Shall we?” He extended an elbow, and I linked my arm with his, pausing to lock my door before we set off for the tiny eatery near the ferry dock.
The crisp fall night blessed us with gentle winds. Leaves crackled beneath our feet. Clay nodded to everyone who passed us, offering a friendly smile.
“Do you want to eat in town or carry it back to your place?” Clay asked after we ordered at the food truck window.
I eyed his long hair. “Let’s take it home. I was thinking I’d give you a haircut after dinner.”
His eyes flashed with something I couldn’t name. Hopefully not fear.
“I’d appreciate that.” He ruffled the ends that stuck from beneath his hat. “It’s that or a hair band. I keep hoping I’ll get a day off and catch the ferry to a barber in Anacortes, but it hasn’t happened.”
I lifted my shoulder like it would be nothing to touch him. Run my fingers through his hair. “The role of hippie artist is already taken: by me.”
“Honey, I promise I’m not in the running. I’ve seen your work. It’s amazing.”
“You have? When?”
“I caught a show at Chaz’s gallery when I first moved to the island last year. He had a few pieces from you. Each one was more beautiful than the last.”
The compliment made me shift from foot to foot, avoiding his gaze. But that was the old Lucy. I dragged my eyes to his, getting caught up in the gentle sincerity there.
“Thanks. Speaking of the gallery, we need to drop off our canvases with Chaz for framing and placement. He’s going to need a few weeks before the show to finish them.”
“We can use my truck and transfer everything tomorrow if that works for you.”
“Sure.”
Mario called out our order, and we thanked him. Clay tucked our bag under one arm and extended a hand for me. “Ready?”
Slowly, I offered my palm. His hand was rough and warm, tightening around mine as we walked back to my place. I hadn’t expected to feel so at ease in Clay’s company. But cutting his hair? That wasn’t just a favor. That was trust. And I wasn’t sure which one of us it’d unravel first.