Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAX
Two weeks.
Two weeks of waking up with Claire in my arms. Two weeks of learning the sounds she makes when she comes, the way she steals the covers at night, the habit she has of humming while she makes breakfast. Two weeks of happiness so sharp it scares me.
I should have known it couldn't last.
The bell above my shop door jingles, and I look up from my forge expecting to see Claire. She went to Hilda's for groceries an hour ago, promising to bring back supplies for the dinner she insists on cooking tonight.
Instead, I see a man I've never met.
He's tall. Well dressed in a way that screams money and entitlement. Gray suit, expensive watch, shoes that have no business on the dusty streets of Grizzly Ridge. His hair is silver at the temples, his face hard with the kind of self righteousness I've seen before.
In drill sergeants. In politicians. In men who believe they know what's best for everyone around them.
"Can I help you?" I set down my hammer but don't move from behind the forge. The heat radiates between us like a barrier.
"I'm looking for my stepdaughter." His voice is cold. Controlled. "I believe you know where she is."
Stepdaughter.
Gerald.
Claire's told me about him. About the way he controlled her mother.
About the pressure to marry Derek, the perfect youth pastor who turned out to be anything but.
About the suffocating expectations and the guilt trips and the years of being told she wasn't good enough unless she was exactly what he wanted her to be.
"Who's asking?"
"Gerald Mitchell." He steps further into the shop, his eyes cataloging everything. The tools. The sculptures. The stairs leading to my apartment. "Claire's mother is worried sick. She left without a word, stopped answering her phone. We've been looking for her for weeks."
"Maybe she doesn't want to be found."
His jaw tightens. "She's confused. Going through a difficult time after her engagement ended. She needs to come home where her family can take care of her."
"Seems to me she's doing just fine taking care of herself."
Something flickers in his eyes. Anger, barely contained beneath that polished exterior.
"I know who you are," he says. "Maxwell Reaves. Navy SEAL, medically discharged. You served with her father."
"That's right."
"I also know you've been sending money to Catherine for years. Anonymous donations to Claire's college fund." He takes another step forward. "Very generous of you. Very... calculated."
The implication is clear. Ugly. It takes everything I have not to cross the distance between us and put my fist through his face.
"You should leave."
"Not without Claire."
"She's not a child. She can make her own decisions."
"Can she?" His smile is thin and cruel. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like a vulnerable young woman ran straight into the arms of a man twice her age who's been grooming her since childhood."
The word grooming hits me like a bullet to the chest.
Because isn't that what I've been afraid of all along? That I somehow manipulated this situation. That Claire's feelings for me are based on grief and childhood memories rather than anything real.
"That's not what this is."
"No? Then what is it?" Gerald moves closer, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. "You watched her grow up. Attended her birthday parties. Sent money like you were waiting for her to turn eighteen. And now here she is, in your bed, barely legal and completely dependent on you."
"She's twenty three."
"She's a child compared to you." His voice drops. "What would Marcus think? His best friend, sleeping with his daughter?"
The name is a knife between my ribs.
I've asked myself that question a thousand times over the past two weeks. Lying awake at night with Claire curled against me, I've wondered if Marcus would hate me for this. If the promise I made to protect his daughter has been twisted into something unforgivable.
Gerald sees the doubt on my face. His smile widens.
"You know I'm right. You know this is wrong. Whatever you think you feel for her, it's not real. It's guilt and obligation dressed up as love."
"You don't know anything about what I feel."
"I know enough." He pulls a card from his pocket and sets it on my workbench. "Catherine and I are staying at the Mountain Haven Inn. When you're ready to do the right thing, you know where to find us."
He turns and walks out without another word.
I stand frozen for a long moment. The heat of the forge does nothing to chase away the cold spreading through my chest.
Grooming. The word echoes in my head. Calculated. Waiting for her to turn eighteen.
Is that how it looks from the outside? Is that what people think when they see us together?
Is that what Claire will think when the infatuation wears off and she realizes what she's done?
The bell jingles again. This time it is Claire, arms full of grocery bags, smile bright enough to light up the whole shop.
"I got everything we need for lasagna. Maggie gave me her secret recipe, but you have to promise not to tell anyone because apparently she's been guarding it for thirty years and..." She trails off, her smile fading. "Max? What's wrong?"
I can't look at her. Can't see Marcus's eyes staring back at me while Gerald's words poison everything we've built.
"Your stepfather was here."
The bags hit the floor. Vegetables roll across the concrete.
"Gerald is here? In Grizzly Ridge?"
"Staying at the inn with your mother."
"No." She shakes her head like she can deny it into nonexistence. "No, they can't be here. How did they find me?"
"I don't know." I finally force myself to look at her. She's pale, trembling, fear written across every feature. "He wants you to go home, Claire."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Maybe you should."
The words taste like ash in my mouth. But I can't stop them. Can't stop the doubt that's been building since Gerald walked through my door.
Claire stares at me. "What?"
"Maybe he's right. Maybe this was a mistake."
"Max." She crosses to me, reaches for my hands. I step back before she can touch me. "Max, what did he say to you?"
"Nothing I haven't thought myself." I grab a rag from my workbench, wipe my hands just to have something to do. "He called me a groomer. Said I was calculated. That I've been waiting for you to grow up so I could..."
I can't finish the sentence.
"That's insane." Her voice shakes with anger. "He's manipulating you. That's what he does. He finds your weaknesses and exploits them."
"Is he wrong, though?" I force myself to meet her eyes. "I've known you since you were a baby, Claire. I watched you grow up. I sent money for years, kept tabs on your life. And then you show up here and within days we're in bed together. How does that look to anyone on the outside?"
"I don't care how it looks."
"You should." My voice comes out harsher than I intend. "You should care what people think about you. About us."
"People like Gerald? He doesn't get to have an opinion about my life. Not after everything he's done."
"And your mother? She's here too. She came all this way to find you."
Something flickers across Claire's face. Pain. Longing. The complicated tangle of loving someone who constantly disappoints you.
"My mother hasn't stood up for me in ten years. She let Gerald control everything. My education, my relationships, my future. She watched Derek propose to me with a ring Gerald helped pick out, and she didn't say a word when I told her I wasn't sure I loved him."
"She's still your mother."
"And you're still the man I crossed the country to find.
" She steps closer, and this time I don't back away.
"Max, I didn't come here because of childhood memories or some fantasy about who you used to be.
I came here because you were the only person who ever made me feel safe.
The only person who didn't try to fix me or change me or turn me into something I'm not. "
"I'm not that person anymore. I'm broken, Claire. Fucked up in ways you can't even imagine."
"Then let me imagine them." She takes my face in her hands, forces me to look at her. "Let me see all of it. The broken parts, the fucked up parts, all of it. I'm not going anywhere."
God, I want to believe her.
But Gerald's words keep echoing in my head. Grooming. Calculated. What would Marcus think?
"I need some time," I hear myself say.
Her hands drop. "Time?"
"To think. To figure out what the right thing is here."
"The right thing is us, Max. The right thing is what we've been building together."
"Is it?" I turn away, stare at the half finished eagle on my workbench. "Or is it just what we want? What I want?"
Silence.
When she speaks again, her voice is small. "Are you pushing me away?"
"I'm trying to do what's best for you."
"What's best for me is being with you."
"How can you be sure?" I spin back around. "How can you know this isn't just trauma response? You ran from a broken engagement, from a controlling stepfather, from a mother who never protected you. Maybe I'm just the next safe place. Another hiding spot until you figure out what you really want."
The hurt on her face is unbearable.
"Is that what you think I'm doing? Hiding?"
"I don't know what to think anymore."
She stares at me for a long moment. I watch the tears gather in her eyes, watch her fight them back with the same stubborn strength I've come to adore.
"Then I'll make it easy for you." Her voice breaks on the last word. "Call me when you figure it out."
She walks out without looking back.
And I let her go.