38. Josephine #2
His expression shifts, guilty enough that I laugh. “She may have mentioned women enjoy gestures.”
“Gestures?”
“Her word. I was going to bring snacks, but she said that sounded as if I was luring a raccoon.”
“She has a point.”
“I would’ve brought good snacks.”
I take the flowers from him, brushing my fingers over the soft petals. “For the record, I like both.”
“Flowers and snacks?”
“Thoughtful gestures and food.”
His smile gentles. “Noted.”
I put the flowers in water while he waits in the doorway, watching me move around my kitchen with a look that makes my pulse skip once. When I turn back, he’s looking at the vase as if he’s memorizing the sight of them there.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “I just like seeing them in your place.”
The comment lands harder than any polished line ever could.
We drive through Buckhorn with the windows down, the evening air warm against my skin. Main Street is still busy enough for people to notice us, which they absolutely do.
Virgil Tucker pauses outside the feed store and gives Clay a look that contains an entire conversation.
Clay lifts two fingers from the steering wheel. “Evening, Virgil.”
Virgil grunts. “Don’t drive too fast. Precious cargo.”
My face burns instantly.
Clay, unfortunately, looks delighted. “Precious cargo,” he repeats once we’ve passed.
“Do not start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say he’s right.”
The words steal some of my embarrassment.
I look out the window, pretending to study the bakery as we pass. “You can’t say things like that while I’m trying to be annoyed with you.”
“That seems inconvenient for you.”
“It is.”
He chuckles and turns onto the road leading out of town. “I’ll try to be less charming.”
“Please don’t strain yourself.”
“I’d hate to overdo it with my fragile condition.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Being tragically wounded?”
“You’re healing.”
“I still have emotional bruising.”
“You rode bulls for a living.”
“And now I’m being bullied by a veterinarian in a blue dress. Life takes strange turns.”
I laugh, and his smile widens as if he’s been waiting for that exact sound.
The date starts at a little roadside place just outside town, the kind of restaurant that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but smells incredible the second we step through the door.
Clay gives his name to the woman at the counter, and she leads us to a table near the back, tucked beneath a window with a view of the fields beyond.
I pause when I see the small vase of flowers already waiting there.
Clay looks suddenly fascinated by the menu.
I sit slowly. “You planned this.”
“A little.”
“You called ahead?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I know how phones work.”
“That’s still under review.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “I’m being wounded again.”
“You’ll recover.”
The waitress appears before he can answer, a cheerful woman named Bonnie who greets Clay as if she’s known him since he was shorter than the table.
“Look at you,” she says, setting down two waters. "Last time I saw you, you were bleeding through a shirt and insisting you were fine."
Clay gives her his best grin. “I can do both.”
Bonnie points at him. “Not with that leg, you can’t.”
I hide my smile behind my water glass.
Clay notices. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Deeply.”
Bonnie turns to me. “You make sure he behaves. His mama’s had enough trouble out of him.”
“I’m learning that’s a community project.”
“Oh, honey, it’s been for years.” She pats my shoulder before walking away. “I’ll give you a minute.”
Clay watches her go with a sigh. “I brought you here because the food’s good, not because I wanted character assassination with bread rolls.”
“You brought me to a place where everyone knows you. That was a risky choice.”
“I was hoping they’d talk me up.”
“Bonnie mentioned rodeo problems within thirty seconds.”
“That’s affectionate slander.”
“It sounded well earned.”
He leans back, studying me across the table. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am.”
“Good.” His smile loses some of its teasing. “I wanted you to.”
The sincerity hangs there long enough that neither of us rushes to cover it with a joke.
For a while, we look over the menu. Clay recommends nearly every item on the menu, which turns out to be spectacularly unhelpful.
Then he admits he mostly used to come here after rodeos because the portions were huge and nobody judged him for ordering two dinners.
I choose chicken with mashed potatoes because it sounds safe, comforting, and unlikely to anger the twins.
Clay orders steak and, after a thoughtful pause, an extra side of fries “for the table,” though we both know exactly who they’re for.
When Bonnie leaves with our order, Clay rests his forearms on the table.
“So,” he says, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That phrase has caused concern before.”
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
His grin flickers, but he doesn’t retreat into joking the way he might have once. “I mean it. About the babies.”
My hands still around my water glass. “I figured.”
“I don’t know much,” he says. “Actually, that’s generous. I know almost nothing. But I’ve been asking Boone, Dallas, and Nash questions.”
“That must have been interesting.”
“Boone told me fatherhood is mostly apologizing and trying again.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“Dallas told me responsibility isn’t a punishment. And Nash said it’s all about love.”
He smiles, then reaches for his water. “After all that expert counsel, I realized I should probably ask the person carrying them what she needs.”
My smile eases as I look down at the table.
For most of this pregnancy, the question has been what I need to do. What I need to plan. What I need to handle. Hearing Clay ask what I need leaves me staring at the tabletop longer than necessary.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
“That’s allowed.”
“I’m used to having answers.”
“I’ve noticed.”
My gaze lifts.
His mouth curves. “You have a list-making face.”
I try not to smile and fail. “That is a ridiculous thing to say.”
“It’s also true.”
Bonnie arrives with our food before I can argue, which is probably for the best. The plates are generous enough that even Clay looks impressed, and for several minutes the conversation pauses while we eat.
The food is better than expected. Or maybe I’m hungrier than I realized.
Clay notices, of course.
“Look at that,” he says. “A full meal.”
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.”
“An unreliable source.”
He slides the plate closer to me. “Have as much as you want.”
The gesture is small, but I notice it. He’s been doing that all evening. Paying attention without announcing it, making sure I have water, choosing a seat where I wouldn’t be jostled, walking slowly without making me feel slowed down.
He'd spent the entire evening paying attention to details most people would've missed. The pie is only the latest example.
By the time we leave, the sky has deepened into purple, and the first stars are beginning to appear. Clay helps me into the truck, then drives back toward Buckhorn, but instead of turning into town, he takes the road toward the lake.