Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Lou
I’ve missed sleeping next to someone so much that when I wake up with my head on Clay’s chest, I don’t move, content to drift off to the steady beat of his heart.
In the in-between of consciousness and sleep, incandescent happiness settles over me.
Because of him.
A small smile works its way onto my lips, and—oh no. I’ve drooled on his bare chest.
Shit.
Has he noticed? I keep my breathing even and my eyes closed, pretending I’m still asleep, while I strain for any clue that he’s awake.
Nothing.
But then I feel it. The slow, gentle sift of fingers in my hair. So soft it wouldn’t have woken me up, which means he could’ve been playing with my hair for a while.
Noooooooo. There’s no way to pretend I’m not clinging like a limpet to his side and drooling on his smooth pec while he plays with my hair.
We’re going to have to face whatever this is, and I’m not ready.
He drops the strand, his hand cupping my shoulder, but instead of pulling me closer, he carefully rolls us, untangling our legs and leaving me lying on my back.
“How about breakfast?” he asks as he gets out of bed.
Or we can pretend this is normal.
He doesn’t even mention the drool as he rubs at the wet patch I left on his chest on his way over to the little kitchen.
I run a hand over my hair, but it doesn’t feel too messy. My head, though—the bourbon is sloshing around inside it, along with snatches of conversation from last night.
He told me more than I would’ve thought him capable of. I asked him to hold me.
Goddammit.
“Louisa?” Clay is standing in front of the open mini-fridge, looking at me over his shoulder. I follow the gentle curve of his spine down to the joggers hanging low on his narrow hips. He looks better than breakfast. It would be so easy to fall under him.
My walls are down. After last night, I don’t know how to put them back up. He could waltz right in and steal my heart, and I wouldn’t stop him.
But he doesn’t. There’s something rigid in his usually relaxed posture. Like he’s standing on a landmine, and maybe he is. Maybe I’m the landmine.
“I’ll eat anything,” I say, turning away and rubbing my eyes.
We eat granola-topped yogurt in silence at the card table, and it’s…awkward.
“I’m going to sweat off the bourbon in the sauna,” I say after. “If you want to come.”
He looks like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. I expect him to decline, but he nods.
The walk to the sauna is just as awkward as breakfast. He tries to bring up the drink specials I’d mentioned ages ago, but since I had no actual plans, I have nothing to say. I try to ask him a question about his life in Vegas. His answer is short and doesn’t invite further conversation.
It doesn’t get better once we’re naked.
He sits on the lower bench, leans against the wall, and closes his eyes. Sweat beads on his forehead and rolls down his neck. It’s probably the combination of a hangover and the steam, but his expression is one of anguish that’s hard to look at. I end up closing my eyes, too.
A sweaty hook-up might give us something else to feel weird about, but he keeps his towel wrapped around his waist and ignores me. So we sit in silence, peeled and raw and not knowing what to do about it.
It doesn’t get better once the bar opens, either.
We are the epitome of two people trying to walk around each other, always moving in the same direction, only to back off and try again.
I try to fall back to a carefree, flirty facade, but none of my attempts land, and when Clay finally lobs some sass back at me, I’m too shell-shocked to recognize he’s joking until after the vibe sinks into discomfort.
It’s almost a relief when he walks me to the camper after closing time. That relief is tempered by a rather sour disappointment when I step inside and he turns to go back to the bar.
I want him to step over my broken-ass walls.
Even if I can’t have forever, even if he won’t tell me about the money under the bed.
Maybe for two people like us, trust takes more time than we have.
But I can’t ignore this feeling. I don’t want to ignore it.
If I push him away to protect my heart, will it hurt less when he walks away?
Probably not, but knowing heartbreak is on the horizon might make it easier for me to land back on my feet.
At least he won’t screw me over when it comes to Gallo’s. I think he was serious about leaving the bar to me. Hell, maybe he’ll pay me for my secrecy like he suggested. I wouldn’t say no.
By morning, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll take the first step and take responsibility for my heart. It’s his to break anyway.
But Clay isn’t at the bar when I walk in. He doesn’t answer when I knock on the apartment door, and when I check outside, his car is gone.
If he left without saying goodbye—
My hands are shaking as I pull out my phone and drop into the office chair. How can I ask him where he is without sounding insecure?
Hey, there’s a problem with the dishwasher. Where are you?
Me
There. Just one business partner needing the help of another.
If it turns out he’s at the grocery store, I may need to break the dishwasher, but I’m up to it.
I’m in Straeder. Can you call someone to fix it?
Clay
I frown. That town is over an hour away. What the hell is he doing there? Something a lot like jealousy curls in my stomach as I quickly type out a question.
Are you >??
Me
Seriously??
Clay
That’s not an answer, but he claims he only takes on referrals from previous clients, and I doubt any of his clients have friends in Straeder, Minnesota.
I take a deep breath. I’ll pretend Kristen doesn’t count as a client.
Joking.
Me
He doesn’t respond, which is a response in and of itself.
I drop my phone onto my desk. There’s nothing in Straeder except a bear sanctuary and a casino.
Oh.
He’s laundering money through the casino. Buy a thousand in poker chips, win or lose some, then cash out with clean money. He hasn’t been as active in laundering through the bar lately, so he’s trying to make up for lost time.
It’s going to take him years to do it this way. What a dolt.
I pick my phone back up.
The all-day buffet has these phenomenal wild berry pastries. Bring me five?
Me
I am not a food delivery app.
Clay
Yup, he’s at the casino. I can’t help my smile as I type my next message.
They also have this amazing Greek pasta salad.
Me
Ms. Gallo, I did tell you not to abuse this number.
Clay
Hmm. How best to respond to that? I haven’t even begun to abuse this number. Or I could send him a sexy pic. Or—
My phone buzzes.
Anything else I can get you while I’m out? I don’t need the distraction of you lighting up my phone every two minutes.
Clay
He doesn’t send any emojis, but I can accurately interpret his tone as dry and unamused. More than a little put out at being asked to do something domestic, like bring home some pastries.
Nope! Thank you!
Me
I add a kissy face emoji and hit send. With nothing else to do, I lock up the bar and walk down the old driveway to the sauna.
Of course, he’s terrified. The man has never been in anything even close to a relationship that didn’t involve a financial transaction. He opened himself wide last night, and now he’s panicking, creating as much distance as he can.
I’m not going to chase him like a lovesick puppy. I’ll give him one clear chance because I know he’s terrified, and if he wants to cling to those fears, then I’ll smother this thing between us.
I leave the sauna feeling relaxed and ready for whatever happens next.
Back in the camper, I put on the same dress I wore the day he went down on me.
It won’t hurt to remind him, and he’s the kind of man who’ll notice.
I swipe a deep red over my lips. I want to see it on his neck later. Other places, too.
It’s four o’clock when I stroll into the bar. We have plenty of time before we open—if things go well—but not so much that it’ll be a problem if this blows up in my face.
I find him in the office, eating one of my wild berry pastries. He looks up at me, one golden eyebrow arching as he sinks his teeth into the flaky crust.
“There had better be more of those,” I say as I enter the room.
He swallows. Licks the crumbs from his lips. “They’re pretty good.” The smile flickers as I walk directly up to him and pour myself onto his lap.
“They’re better than pretty good,” I say softly. His usual white button-up is soft under my hand. I like the feel of his hard shoulder underneath. There’s a sharpness to the way he’s cut.
“Did you miss me or something?” he asks dryly, but his hand moves over my thigh, dragging the skirt up my leg.
“What do you think?” I ask, my gaze dropping to his mouth. A little shiver runs through me at the memory of his tongue on me. Of that first wild kiss under the moonlight.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’re up to something.”
“Am I?” My hand is already tightening on his collar, my eyes already fluttering shut as I lean forward.
Something decidedly not his lips bumps against mine, and my nose fills with the scent of wild berries.
I open my eyes to find the pastry in front of my face.
Not his lips on mine. Not yet. But maybe this is a game.
I take a bite. Crumbs inevitably drop onto my cleavage, along with a dollop of wild berry filling.
“You nearly took my thumb off,” he complains, but his eyes are on the mess on my tits, so I lean over and take the last bite—and his thumb—into my mouth. He sucks in a breath when I swirl my tongue over the tip of his thumb, and his eyes darken when I lightly sink my teeth into his skin.
He yanks his thumb out of my mouth, his hand dropping to the low neckline of my dress.
He fists the fabric, pulling me close as he lowers his head.
The chair groans and rocks, but it’s the noise I make when his mouth closes over my skin, and he sucks that dollop of berry off me that’s truly embarrassing.