Chapter 5 April
APRIL
The walk back to Clark’s apartment was slower than usual—partially because the dogs were tired, but mostly because they kept stopping to sniff things with the intensity of crime scene investigators.
To be fair, I didn’t coax them along because I was not looking forward to having to clean them up and return his hoodie.
When we finally made it back to the Old Mill Building, I was already mentally preparing for bath time. Moose alone could qualify for a drive-through car wash. I hosed the three of them down outside to get the worst of it off before we headed inside.
Now, in the middle of unlocking Clark’s door—juggling three leashes, my now-empty coffee cup, and my keys—the stairwell door opens behind me.
“Need some help there?”
I spin around, and there he is.
Clark Culpepper, in all his post-practice glory.
His shaggy dark hair is still damp from the shower, tousled in a way that suggests he ran his fingers through it a few times and called it good.
He’s wearing his standard outfit—Knights hoodie, well-worn jeans that fit him unfairly well, and that fresh evergreen scent that always makes me think of hiking trails and Christmas trees and home.
His eyes—sharp and focused during games but wonderfully soft right now—land on me. My heart gets its second workout of the day.
I instantly realize we’re matching, er, coordinated. His sweatshirt is red and mine is black, but the Knights’ emblem is identical. I didn’t ask if I could wear it and squinch my face.
Looking down, I say, “Oh, uh, sorry. I hope it’s okay. It was cooler out than I expected.”
The corner of his mouth lifts with a smile. “What’s mine is yours.”
If only that were true.
The dogs continue to serenade us and the rest of the building. I make a clicking noise for them to calm down as I tear off his hoodie to make it clear that I wasn’t wearing it because it felt like a hug. But my hands are full. He extends his arms to help.
“I’ve got it,” I manage, even though I don’t.
He steps closer, taking the coffee cup from my hand and reaching for the keys.
“Looks like someone had fun today.”
“We went to the outdoor rink behind the Barn. It’s muddy.”
“I can see that.” He grins as he looks at his dogs and opens the door. “Hey, guys. Did you give April trouble?”
Usually, this is when I unclip their leashes, but still attached, all three dogs surge in confused circles to enter the house where they know treats wait, while also greeting their dog dad.
Suddenly I’m being pulled off balance. I try to compensate, but Scout zigs when I expect him to zag, and my foot catches on Moose’s leash.
I’m going down.
But then Clark’s arm wraps around my waist, steadying me against his chest. We’re close—close enough that I can see the little scar on his chin. Close enough to see the flecks of amber in his green eyes. Close enough that my brain melts down and forgets how to function.
“Careful,” he murmurs, and his low voice makes my stomach flutter.
It’s nothing. Just a flutter. A harmless, recurring flutter … caused by buffalo rather than butterflies. No big deal.
The dogs, oblivious to the moment they’re ruining/creating, continue to tangle their leashes around our legs. Clark chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, and carefully starts extricating us from the web of nylon cord and dog.
“Let’s get inside before we create a traffic hazard.”
He unclips their leashes and ushers everyone in. After lapping up a gallon of water, the dogs immediately scatter to their favorite spots—Moose to the couch, Scout to the window, and Buster to his bed near the kitchen.
“I should get them cleaned up better,” I say, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “They’re tracking mud everywhere.”
“In a minute.” Clark, alarmed, looks at my arm. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down and see a shallow scratch running along my forearm. I must have caught it on something during the great leash tangle. “Oh. It’s nothing.”
“It’s something. Come here.”
He guides me to the kitchen sink with a hand on my lower back—a casual touch that he probably doesn’t think twice about, but that sends lightning bolts racing up my spine.
He runs my arm under cool water, his fingers gentle, while he reaches for the first aid kit I insisted he keep in the cabinet along with all of his supplements.
“Did you take your vitamins today?”
He chuckles. “Sure did and I tried that new protein powder you said had better quality ingredients than the other one. You’re always looking out for me.”
And this is where Jess, Ella, and Whit would have something to say about me being smitten.
“You take better care of me than I take care of myself,” Clark says, carefully cleaning the scratch.
“Someone has to. You’d forget to eat if I didn’t remind you.”
“Says the woman with the diet of a toddler.”
I pout. “Goldfish and apple slices are nutritious.”
“Don’t forget the juice boxes.”
“They’re portable,” I retort to his teasing.
“Just admit that I’m a better cook and I’ll make you dinner tonight.”
We both know this is a fact since the extent of my cooking abilities ends at reading the directions on the back of a can of SpaghettiOs.
This is also where I should remind him that he has a date tonight, but I’m not that good of a friend. I have my limits!
He applies antibiotic ointment, his touch feather-light. He exhales through his nose and gazes up at me with puppy dog eyes. “You’re good to me, April.”
I feel all warm and squishy and squirmy inside. “We’re friends. That’s what friends do.”
Something unreadable flickers across his face or maybe I imagine it.
We’re both quiet, so maybe he remembered that he’ll take a gorgeous and tall woman who has the potential to become more than a friend out to dinner … and what happens after that, I’ve never asked. All I know is he’s never taken anyone on a second date.
He puts a bandage on my arm and steps back. “Dr. Culpepper says take two cookies and call me in the morning.”
Just then, I hear a yelp from behind his bedroom door.
“Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “When you were coming back, I’d forgotten something in my car and then in the hall, I almost forgot … well, come see.”
“You’d forget your head if it weren’t attached.”
“Har har.”
But it’s true, Clark is a bit flaky.
He leads me toward his bedroom and I pause at the threshold, never having crossed it before. He keeps the door shut, just like we do on the topic of our respective dating lives—not that I have one.
I’ve been in this apartment hundreds of times over the past year. I know where he keeps the dog food (pantry, on the left). I know his keys are (supposed to be) on the hook in the hall. I know the couch has a permanent April-shaped indent on the middle cushion.
The buffalo in my stomach wake up all lazy-like. Yes, ladies, I’m also wondering why he wants to show me something in his room.
I’ve imagined it as a love lair, a man cave, a den with stinky socks on the floor—all of the above.
However, I cannot fathom what he wants to show me in there.