Chapter Two #2
He nods once, sliding his hands into his pockets.
He doesn’t step inside and doesn’t lean against the wall.
He just stands there like a wall himself while I scurry around the room, tossing stray clothes and toiletries into my duffel.
Every rustle of fabric feels louder under his silence.
Every trip from the desk to the bed makes my skin prickle.
My mom is still in my ear, her voice muffled as she goes on about Dad’s unspoken competition with the neighbor over whose yard decorations will win Christmas bragging rights.
I hold the phone away from my face, biting down on my lip to keep from snapping.
The weight of Clay’s gaze on my back makes me hyperaware of everything—every time I trip over my own shoes, how cluttered the room looks, how much of a mess I must seem to him.
And somehow, that bothers me more than it should.
“Mom, I’m sorry, I have to let you go,” I cut in before she launches into another story. “Clay just got here, and if we’re going to beat this storm, we need to leave.”
“All right, honey. Text me updates, okay? And tell Clay to drive carefully.”
“Will do.” I don’t give her the chance to add anything else. My thumb hits End, and I drop the phone into my purse with a sigh of relief.
When I glance back at Clay, he hasn’t moved.
His expression hasn’t shifted either—that tic is still there, the tiny clench of his jaw, his gaze cool and unreadable.
It makes my stomach knot. Like maybe he’s already regretting saying yes to this trip.
Like driving me home is more of a chore than a favor.
I zip the suitcase in one firm tug and wrestle it behind me, the wheels thunking against the floor. “Okay.” My voice comes out thinner than I mean for it to. “I think I’m ready.”
“You think?” His reply is quiet, but the edge in it is unmistakable.
My teeth catch on the inside of my cheek as I sweep the room, trying to see it through his eyes.
The TV clicks dark, my half-packed laundry basket slumps in the corner, makeup litters the desk, and my roommate’s scarves spill over the chair in a tangled heap.
Not exactly the picture of a responsible adult.
Clay doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
He just steps around the mess like it isn’t there, bends, and grabs the handle of my suitcase.
His hand brushes mine in the process—barely anything, but it jolts through me all the same.
I hate that after all this time, after all the silence, he can still get to me with the slightest touch.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shooting me a look as he hefts the suitcase. “You moving back home or just visiting?”
I flash him a grin—the kind I know irritates him most. “It’s Christmas, Clay. A girl needs options.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before I gasp, “Ah, crap! My dress for the Christmas gala. I can’t forget it.”
His gaze cuts to me, sharp and quick. “Grab whatever else you need. I’ll get your suitcase in the car. Meet me outside.” His clipped tone leaves me no room to argue.
He doesn’t bother with the pull handle. He just lifts the suitcase straight off the ground like it’s nothing and strides out the door without another glance.
I blow out a breath and head for the closet, pushing through the hangers until my fingers land on the soft red fabric.
My best friend and boss, Kylie, wore it once to a wedding before offering it to me when I admitted I couldn’t afford anything decent.
With finals already eating into my shifts, she waved me off, told me to just come grab it, and winked that it was guaranteed to get me noticed.
It’s an off-the-shoulder deep red velvet that hugs my body in all the right places. I told Kylie I wanted it because it was perfect for the Christmas gala. But deep down, I know the truth—I wanted it because I hoped Clay would be there.
The thought makes me mutter a curse under my breath. I drape the dress over my arm, snag my purse, and head out, my boots clicking too loud on the stairs.
The lot is dim, lit by a single streetlamp over cracked pavement. Clay stands at the back of a small sports car, its trunk barely big enough for one suitcase, let alone two.
A Maserati. Of course. Typical Clay—NHL money, expensive taste, and just enough flash to remind you he’s used to the spotlight. I’d guess it’s a rental, since we were supposed to fly out…but with him, I can’t be sure.
“I’ll hang this in the back, if that’s okay?” I hold the dress up for him to see.
His eyes flick over. One nod. That’s it. He shuts the trunk with one hand.
I lean into the back seat to hang the dress, then circle to the passenger side. The leather seat is cool against my legs, the whole car smelling faintly of his cologne—clean, woodsy, and unmistakably him.
The door closes with a soft click, shutting us in. My gaze betrays me, sliding sideways. Clay’s profile is all sharp edges in the glow of the dash, his hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked, mouth set in a line. He looks like he’s already over this trip—and over me—before we’ve even left.
“You going to put your seat belt on so we can leave?” His flat voice lands with the weight of a command.
I glance at him, irritation bubbling up fast. “Are you planning to act like this the whole drive?”
“Like what?” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay trained on the windshield, his tone unreadable, like he really doesn’t see what I’m getting at.
A dozen responses swirl through my mind.
Like an asshole. Like the last time we saw each other, you hadn’t kissed me.
Like someone who looks at me and pretends it didn’t mean anything.
But I swallow them down, pressing my lips together.
Four hours in a car with him isn’t something I want to make worse before it even begins.
I yank the seat belt across my chest and click it into place, blowing out a breath as I turn toward the window. My reflection stares back—wide eyes, cheeks still hot, and lip gloss smeared at the corner of my mouth.
Clay shifts the car into gear. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to sit still. The harder I try not to look at him, the more aware I am of the space between us. No matter how hard I try to shut him out, he’s impossible to ignore.