Chapter 5 Clara
M Y ALARM BLARES AND I open my eyes in a bed that’s too soft, on a street that’s too quiet, with a headache that’s too loud.
Truly, I have nobody to blame but myself. And also Jack. Mostly Jack. I laughed until my stomach hurt and won at pool for the first time in years . He had the audacity to be charming and gorgeous and a very encouraging drinking partner.
As a tall girl at five foot nine, I’m a sucker for a man who makes me feel small when he’s next to me.
Jack certainly ticks that box. Jack ticks a lot of my boxes actually.
Broad shoulders that relaxed more and more every time he laughed.
Dark brown hair fighting between messy and curly that he’d drag his hand through every so often so I had no choice but to stare at his huge biceps.
We didn’t talk about work, intentional on my part and another tick for him, but he doesn’t look like he works in an office.
His build is solid, earned. I’d guess he works in construction or something.
But there’s a softness to him, as contradictory as that sounds. The way he’d apologize every time his cell phone interrupted us. A dimple that appeared beneath the dusting of stubble along his jaw when he smiled. How he went home to get his dog because he didn’t want him to get lonely.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so drawn to someone. I can’t remember the last time I felt disappointed that someone didn’t kiss me at the end of the night.
Pushing all thoughts of Jack aside, I peel myself out of bed, forgo my ten-step skin-care routine, and scrape my hair into a sleek ponytail that I hope says serious businesswoman rather than woman in crisis .
I throw on a black knitted dress, my most weather-appropriate heeled boots, and my wool coat.
It’s as casual as I can be while in work clothes, and I hope my outfit says I’m definitely not here to crush your charming local community spirit for corporate gain .
Maggie, the B it’s a high-quality card bound in leather, with an impressive breakfast selection.
Just as I’m trying to find the courage to start talking to Jack about the doll, Flo appears at the table, shooing the approaching waitress off and snatching the notebook and pen out of her hands.
“What can I get you two?” she asks brightly. I smile up at her sweetly, the surprise written all over Jack’s face confirming for me that her waiting tables is not a regular occurrence, and she is blatantly attempting to snoop on our conversation.
We both order French toast and more coffee, but Flo doesn’t move; instead she pulls a chair from a neighboring table and sits herself in the middle of the conversation, which feels less like a meeting and more like the world’s most awkward continuation of last night.
“So,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the table, “what exactly is it that brings you to our humble little Fraser Falls, Clara…”
“Davenport.” I fill in the obvious blank Flo left.
Flo’s eyes sharpen. “Of Davenport toys?”