Chapter 7
You Could Call Me Baby Again
Leni
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I keep repeating the phrase over and over in my head while I take the world’s hottest shower.
I think Clay was going to kiss me down there.
There’s a part of me that wanted him to.
The other part of me could feel the icy fingers of panic starting to grab hold.
Logically, I know Clay would rather pluck his own eyes out than hurt me, but logic doesn’t always win in the moment, does it?
The way he had me backed up against the counter, cornered…
I don’t like feeling like I’m trapped. Like I can’t get out. Every single relationship I’ve had in my adult life has been with men who are soft. Less athletic, more bookish. The ones who prefer manicures to working with their hands. The ones who I could defend myself against if I had to.
When my skin is red and hot to the touch, I finally get out of the shower. I’m not sure how long I've been in there, but I’m impressed with my little water heater. What a good investment.
Avoiding the elephant in the room, I plant myself on the floor, looking through nail polish colors.
Maybe if I act like he’s not here, he’ll take the hint and go…
anywhere but where I have to look at him.
Because right now, I’m not sure I could look at him without either cringing, crying, or jumping his bones.
As messed up as our history is, I still can’t help but desire him.
Clay was my first and only love. I’m no longer angry at him for what happened.
He scared me, and I took off. I know he had a dream.
I didn’t ask what it was, but I know that’s what set him off.
It wasn’t me being there; it was him being afraid he would hurt me.
I’m angry because life served me a shit sandwich that day, and I am not the same Leni because of it. I’m not the Leni he fell in love with. I’m no longer the girl who once chased after him. Everything changed that night. Not just our relationship, but everything. Maybe he doesn’t know it, but I do.
Several more minutes go by before there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“Leni?” His deep voice comes muffled through the wood.
I revert back to being a toddler and stay silent as a mouse.
“Baby? I know you’re having a moment in there, but I’m starving, and whatever you have in the slow cooker smells like it’s going to change my life. So, maybe, you could come downstairs and we can eat and…talk.”
Baby, I mouth the word. Holy shit, did Clayton Traeger just baby me? Fuck me. It’s worse than I thought. There is no coming back from this. Why is he doing this to me?
“I’m going to need a sign of life in there.”
“Yeah,” I squeak, clearing my throat to bring my voice back to its normal vocal range. “Yeah, fine, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I squawk, glad he can’t actually see my face right now.
“I—I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear.”
Tears prick my eyes, the air whooshing out of my lungs.
I hate that I keep hurting him when I flinch away.
I want to say I’m not afraid of him, but I think there might be a little part of me that’s afraid it’s a possibility.
My brothers have tempers. I’ve seen angry men, but I had never seen that kind of rage before.
Never been so close to the damage it can do.
The last time I saw him, he destroyed a hotel room.
My heart knows he would never hurt me, but my brain hasn’t gotten the memo.
“I know,” I whisper it first, clearing my throat so I can repeat it loud enough for him to hear.
“Okay, take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I sit a moment longer, waiting until I hear his footsteps receding before I stand and look at myself in the mirror. “Get it together, Leni. It’s Clay. Just get down there and serve him supper.”
I start to leave, then turn back to the mirror, pointing at myself for good measure. “In case you get any ideas, Clayton Traeger does not want you. You are serving Quesabirrias for supper, hoe. Not yourself.”
Since my little meltdown and emergency shower, Clay has righted the furniture in the living room and taken off his uniform shirt, leaving him in a white tank top, Wranglers, and socks.
The tank top clings to the muscles in his chest, with bulging biceps on full display.
His shoulders are broad, his body tapering down to a slim waist. I wonder what he’s hiding under that cotton fabric.
I look, but only for a second. Long enough to feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment all over again.
Why does he have to be so good-looking? Couldn’t he have slacked off some?
Gotten fat, or grown grey hair? This is…
it’s too much. I’m about to turn back up the stairs when my gaze snags on his, and he seems to relax.
As if he was sitting there holding his breath, worried about me and if I would come down.
It makes me pause and pull my big girl panties on.
I can do this. It’s just dinner. I’ll only be here for a few days.
It doesn’t have to be awkward unless I make it awkward.
Straightening my shoulders, I march into the kitchen.
“Fuck,” I practically moan. “You weren’t lying. That smells so good.” I may not be as good of a cook as my mom, but there are a few dishes I can crack out when I need to. That’s why I keep the ingredients for them stocked.
It’s not hard to do when there are only three recipes I’ve perfected, but whatever. “I hope you’re ready, cause my tacos will knock your socks off.”
“I fucking believe that.” He gives me a toothy grin, leaning against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the entryway.
I pause for a second, allowing myself to fully take him in.
He’s aged like a fine wine. Somehow, thirty-one-year-old Clay is even hotter than twenty-one-year-old Clay.
I want to explore every inch of his body, even though I know I never will.
Can’t blame a girl for looking, not when a man looks like that.
I feel his gaze on me, the sensation making my skin tingle.
I ignore it. I was just eye fucking him.
It’d be stupid to call him out on doing the same.
Moving towards the fridge, I start setting out my toppings.
Clay steps into the small kitchen with a bit of hesitation.
I can’t blame him. I’ve seen my mom chase the boys out of her kitchen with a rolling pin before.
He’s smart to be timid in a Kane woman’s kitchen.
“Anything I can help you with?”
You could call me baby again, my traitorous brain thinks. “Uh, yeah. You could start shredding the roast if you want.”
“Sure.” He reaches past me. And that spicy, woodsy scent wraps around me as he grabs a cutting board from where it hangs off the side of a cupboard. He sets it down next to me, then goes to get a knife from the block next to the fridge.
“No, do it over by the stove and the cooker.” I nudge the cutting board toward him, noticing the hesitation and…
is that hurt in his gaze? “I’ll be over in a second.
” I try to reassure him. “We’re going to dip the tortillas in the juice from the crockpot before we add the cheese and meat to fry them up.
Trust me, it’ll be easier to have it all in one place. ”
Clay gives me a soft smile, it’s one I’ve never seen. I’ve seen cocky Clay, and happy Clay, even flirty Clay has made an appearance, but soft Clay? That’s a new one for me. An unfortunate one, it turns out, considering the butterflies his smile unleashes inside my belly.
Between the two of us, it takes a measly ten minutes before we’re sitting at the table, Quesabirrias and ice-cold Coronas sitting before us.
“Where did you even find all of this food?” Clay waves his hand at the spread of tacos and toppings.
“The chest freezer in the basement.”
He whips his head toward me, so fast I think he might have cracked his neck in the process. He rubs a spot under his skull. “There’s a basement?”
“Of course, there’s a basement.” I roll my eyes. “Where do you think the water heater and furnace are? Not to mention, the freezer.”
He sits back like he’s trying to decide if I’m fucking with him or not. The boys would, and maybe that’s what makes this whole thing so damn funny. “I swear to God, there’s a trap door in the pantry.”
He gets up, food forgotten as he saunters to the pantry, and back. “Huh.” He sinks back down into his chair, looking genuinely puzzled.
“Some deputy you are,” I tease, picking up my first taco and moaning a bit when the flavors hit my tongue.
Clayton blinks at me, his mouth dropping open ever so slightly as he watches me tuck into the food.
“I hate to break up, whatever fantasy is happening inside that head of yours, Traeger, but I make no promises not to finish off all of these tacos if you don’t start eating.”
He shakes that headful of messy black curls, before giving me a sheepish grin and turns his attention back to his dinner. It’s been a long time since anyone has tried my cooking for the first time. I love getting people’s reactions to the foods I make.
He eats half of a taco in one bite, sinking into his chair as he groans. It takes him one more bite to finish off the rest of it, that guttural sound making another appearance as a zip of electricity heads straight between my thighs.
So that’s why he’d been staring earlier; food groans are inherently sexual, noted.
“Leni.” The way he says my name this time is downright sinful. He’s loading up his plate with four more tacos, talking between bites. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Ma, obviously.” I shrug, trying not to show how affected I am by his praise. But holy lord, am I affected. Like, head-to-toe body shivers affected. The way he’s enjoying his tacos is not helping my case either. I gulp down half my beer in one go, chugging like my life depends on it.
“Seriously, these are incredible.”