Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
MAX
Logan's house smells like roasting meat and chaos.
Kids run screaming through the living room while Erica shouts something about washing hands before dinner. Dan Whitmore stands in the corner nursing a beer, looking about as comfortable as I feel. Miguel has his arm wrapped around Sarah, whispering something that makes her laugh and swat his chest.
This is my weekly torture. Sunday dinner with the veteran community Logan has built in Grizzly Ridge.
I used to skip these gatherings. Stayed holed up in my shop, convinced I didn't need anyone. Then Logan showed up at my door one night, didn't say a word, just sat with me until the shaking stopped. The next Sunday, he dragged me here whether I liked it or not.
Now it's habit. Uncomfortable, awkward habit.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, Claire is here.
She's standing by the fireplace, a glass of wine in her hand, laughing at something Erica said. The sound cuts through the noise of the crowded room and lodges somewhere beneath my ribs.
I haven't seen her laugh before. Not since she was a kid, anyway. Back then, her laugh was high and bright, full of the uncomplicated joy that belongs to children who don't yet know how cruel the world can be.
This laugh is different. Deeper. Richer. A woman's laugh.
She's wearing a soft green dress that skims her curves and stops just above her knees. Her hair is down tonight, a halo of dark coils framing her face. Silver rings glint on her fingers as she gestures while she talks.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
And I have no right to notice.
"You're staring."
Logan appears beside me, two bottles of beer in his hands. He passes one over without comment.
"I'm not staring."
"You've been standing in this doorway for ten minutes watching her like she's a bomb about to detonate."
I take a long pull of beer. "She shouldn't be here."
"Sarah invited her." Logan shrugs. "You know how Sarah is. She adopts strays."
"Claire's not a stray."
"No?" He raises an eyebrow. "Woman shows up alone in a strange town, no plan, no connections except you. Sounds like a stray to me."
I don't have a response to that. Because he's right. Claire drove two thousand miles to find me, and I still don't fully understand why.
She said her world fell apart. But she hasn't told me how.
I haven't asked.
Because asking means getting closer. Means caring. Means feeling responsible for someone who should never have come looking for me in the first place.
"Her father was my best friend," I say quietly.
Logan goes still beside me. We've known each other since BUD/S, survived Hell Week in the same boat crew, built the kind of bond that only comes from shared suffering. But I've never talked about Marcus. Not once in all the years we've known each other.
"The one who died?"
"Yeah."
Logan is quiet for a long moment. Then he takes a sip of his beer, eyes still on Claire across the room.
"She's not a kid, Max."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because the way you're looking at her isn't the way a man looks at his best friend's little girl."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "Drop it, Logan."
"I'm just saying. Whatever guilt you're carrying about Marcus, don't let it stop you from seeing what's right in front of you."
Before I can respond, Claire looks up.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room.
The noise fades. The chaos dims. For one stretched second, it's just us, locked in a gaze that feels too heavy to hold.
Then Lucy Creed slams into my legs at full speed, and the moment shatters.
"Uncle Max!" The five year old grins up at me, all wild dark curls and her father's gray eyes. "Daddy said you were hiding. Are you hiding?"
I crouch down to her level. "I don't hide, little one."
"Mommy says you do." She tilts her head with the devastating honesty of childhood. "She says you hide from your feelings because you're scared."
Behind me, Logan chokes on his beer.
"Is that so?" I keep my voice level. "And what do you think?"
Lucy considers this seriously. "I think you should stop hiding. It's boring."
"Noted."
She beams at me, then darts off to terrorize someone else. I straighten up to find Logan grinning.
"Out of the mouths of babes," he says.
"Your wife needs to stop psychoanalyzing me to your daughter."
"Good luck with that."
Dinner is called before I can escape. The massive table in Logan's dining room barely fits everyone. I end up wedged between Dan and Miguel, directly across from Claire.
Of course.
She meets my eyes briefly before looking away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Has she been thinking about yesterday? About the way I practically threw her out of my apartment?
About the way I looked at her before I caught myself?
Erica passes platters of food while conversations overlap and tangle.
Claire fields questions from every direction with grace, deflecting anything too personal with a smile and a redirect.
She's good at it. Too good. Like someone who's spent her whole life learning to give people what they want while hiding everything real.
"So Claire," Sarah leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "What do you do back in Virginia?"
"I was a kindergarten teacher." Claire's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I resigned a few weeks ago."
"Needed a change of scenery?"
"Something like that."
Sarah opens her mouth to push further, but Miguel puts a hand on her arm. She subsides with a pout.
"What about you, Max?" Erica asks. "How's the new commission coming?"
I grunt. "Slow."
"He's been working on an eagle for three weeks," Logan supplies. "It's going to be incredible when he stops second guessing himself."
"I don't second guess myself."
"You've started over four times."
"That's called process."
Claire is watching me with an expression I can't read. Interest, maybe. Curiosity.
"You make sculptures?" she asks.
"Metal work. Nothing fancy."
"He's being modest," Erica cuts in. "His pieces are stunning. There's one in the community center that everyone talks about. A mother bear with her cubs."
Claire's eyes widen slightly. "I'd love to see your work sometime."
The request is innocent enough. But something about the way she says it, soft and sincere, makes my chest tighten.
"The shop's always open," I hear myself say. "During the day, anyway."
What the fuck am I doing?
I spent all night convincing myself to keep distance between us. To help her from afar, the way I've been doing for ten years. Send her back to Virginia with some cash and maybe some phone numbers for people who can actually help her rebuild her life.
Instead, I'm inviting her into my space. My sanctuary. The only place where I feel anything close to peace.
After dinner, people scatter. Kids get rounded up for the drive home. Leftovers get parceled out. I help Logan clear the table, grateful for something to do with my hands.
"I'll drive Claire back to the inn," Sarah announces, grabbing her coat.
"I can walk," Claire says. "It's not far."
"It's dark out. And cold."
"I'll take her."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Everyone turns to look at me. Claire's lips part in surprise.
"I need the air anyway," I add gruffly. "Come on."
I don't wait for her response. Just grab my jacket and head for the door, trusting her to follow.
She does.
The night is crisp and clear, stars scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds. Our breath mists in the cold air as we walk, the crunch of gravel beneath our feet the only sound.
"You didn't have to do this," Claire says quietly.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
Because I couldn't stand the thought of anyone else being alone with you. Because watching you laugh with Erica made something twist in my gut. Because I'm a selfish bastard who can't seem to stay away.
"Because we need to talk," I say instead.
She stops walking. I take two more steps before turning to face her.
In the moonlight, she looks ethereal. Dark skin luminous, eyes deep and endless. The cold has put color in her cheeks and turned her breath to silver clouds.
"Talk about what?"
"About why you're really here." I close the distance between us, close enough to see the flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. "About what you're running from. About what you expect me to do about it."
"I'm not expecting anything, Max."
"Bullshit."
Her chin lifts. That stubborn gesture I'm already learning to recognize. "Excuse me?"
"You didn't drive two thousand miles for nothing. You came looking for something. Someone." I hold her gaze. "So tell me, Claire. What do you want from me?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to name.
She takes a breath. Steps closer.
Close enough that I can smell her. Vanilla and something warm beneath it. Close enough that if I leaned in, our lips would touch.
"I want you to stop running," she whispers. "From me. From whatever happened that made you disappear for ten years." Her eyes search mine. "I want you to see me, Max. Not my father's daughter. Not the thirteen year old from the funeral. Me."
My hands are shaking. I curl them into fists at my sides.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
She's so close. So warm. Every instinct I have screams at me to close the distance. To take her mouth and swallow that challenge whole.
Instead, I force myself back.
"The inn is two blocks east." My voice is raw, wrecked. "I'll watch until you're inside."
Hurt flashes across her face. Then it hardens into determination.
"This isn't over, Max."
She walks away without looking back.
And I stand there in the cold, watching her go, knowing she's right.