Chapter 7 Savannah
SAVANNAH
I’m sitting on the couch by the fire, waiting while Clay makes us drinks.
His cabin is warm and cozy—all honey-colored wood and brown leather—with large windows looking out over the snow-dusted forest. Thick rugs line the wood floors, timber beams crisscrossing overhead like the framework of a ship.
It’s perfect.
There are still a few hours to go before the party, but I came to see Clay early so we’d have plenty of time to talk. Knowing Grandma and her friends, we’re probably going to be bombarded with questions, and I want us to be ready for them.
I check my phone as I wait for Clay. I texted Josie before I left my apartment, telling her everything. She hasn’t replied yet, but as I set my phone back down on the coffee table, it suddenly explodes with notifications, chiming one after the other.
WHAT.
Are you sure about this??
Fake relationships never stay fake!
You read enough romance to know this, Sav!
You’re basically signing up to be Clay’s wife forever, you know that right?
Lumberjacks don’t settle for “boyfriend/girlfriend” for long
P.S. I found out Lumbersnack’s real name this morning
He’s called Brewer. So hot.
P.P.S. Congrats on your upcoming marriage and babies!
Clay comes in a moment later carrying two steaming mugs—black coffee for him, hot chocolate for me. I quickly lock my phone, my mind still buzzing with Josie’s texts. I love her to pieces, but she’s definitely overreacting right now.
Of course I’m not signing up to be Clay’s wife!
I force myself to focus as he sets our drinks on the coffee table, along with a couple of plates and some cutlery. He cuts us each a slice of cherry pie, saving me the biggest piece.
“Thank you,” I say, our fingers brushing as he hands me the plate, sending a spark of electricity through my chest.
Crap. I wish my body would behave around this man.
Somehow, Clay looks even more gorgeous than yesterday.
He seems to take up all the space in the cabin, his broad shoulders spanning half the room.
The flannel shirt he’s wearing matches his eyes, making them look more strikingly blue than ever.
He looks a little disheveled—hair mussed, brows heavy like he hasn’t slept—but it only adds to his attractiveness.
He looks more rugged, more wild, and even more dangerous for my heart.
“So,” he says, sitting down beside me. “You said you wanted to talk?”
It takes a second for me to respond. This is a pretty big couch, but Clay makes it look like it belongs in a doll’s house. He takes up two seats, his muscular thigh pressing against mine as I take a shaky sip of hot chocolate.
“Yeah, I thought it would make things more convincing if we got to know each other a little better. Maybe we can share a few details about ourselves?”
“Sure. Makes sense.”
“I can start, if you want,” I tell him.
Clay nods. I set my hot chocolate on the coffee table and busy myself with a forkful of cherry pie, buying a few extra seconds to collect my thoughts.
I’m trying to appear calm, but nerves are bubbling inside me.
I’m not built for pretending—I save all that for my romance stories.
In real life, I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my emotions have a way of showing themselves whether I like it or not.
Crap.
We haven’t even started our fake date yet, and I’m already overwhelmed.
Every glance at Clay makes heat crawl up my cheeks, my stomach twisting with every brush of contact.
Heck, I guess it’ll make our relationship look more convincing…
but I don’t trust myself to separate what’s real from what’s not.
One wrong look from him, and I might end up believing the lie we’re trying to spin.
“Savannah?” My name falls from Clay’s lips like a question, his growly voice making the back of my neck prickle.
“Sorry.” I try to shake off my thoughts. “Anyway…the basics. I was born and raised in Crave County. Grew up in Winterdale, then moved to Cherry Hollow as a teen. My parents travel a lot—they’re in Florida for the winter. Uh…I’m twenty-two, and my birthday is March 12th. I’m an only child…”
I reel off the facts, keeping my gaze on the fire, but I can feel Clay’s eyes on me, and it’s making it hard to keep my train of thought.
“I…uh…I have a best friend called Josie. And I work at Midnight Tales, the bookstore in town. I spent a couple of years at college in Arizona, majoring in creative writing, but dropped out a few months ago. Turns out I don’t love being told what to write, but I still do it as a hobby—”
“What do you write?” Clay asks.
He feels closer than before. I can see his face in my peripheral vision, the silver streaks in his beard glinting in the firelight. If I turn to look at him, our noses will almost be touching.
“I write sweet romance.”
A beat of silence. “What makes it sweet?”
I swallow hard. “Sweet means it’s closed-door. There’s no sex.”
The word charges the air between us. I’m staring at the fire so hard my eyes hurt. Clay shifts beside me, his leg brushing mine, and I feel like my skin is about to burn off.
“You don’t like writing sex scenes, sugar?”
My heart jolts when he calls me sugar again, and I wish I could control the temperature of my cheeks. They turn pink at the slightest emotion, and right now, they feel like they’re redder than a stop sign.
“I’m just not very good at writing it…” I taper off, my voice barely a whisper. I need to change the subject before I melt into a puddle on Clay’s couch.
“Anyway, those are the basics,” I say, trying to sound calmer than I feel. “What about you?”
“I’m forty-five.” He makes a noise in his throat. “Age gap might raise some eyebrows.”
“It doesn’t matter. There are more than twenty years between Thorne and Aria, and everyone is super happy for them.”
Clay grunts. “I guess.”
“What else?”
“Ex-military. Army. Enlisted when I was eighteen.”
I feel a flicker of respect for Clay as my gaze slides discreetly to his prosthetic leg. I wonder if he lost it in the military. I don’t want to pry, but luckily, he seems to sense the question I’m holding back.
“Lost my leg in Afghanistan seven years ago,” he says bluntly. “IED exploded on the side of the road.”
My heart clenches. I can’t even imagine how traumatic that must have been.
“I’m so sorry, Clay.” I finally meet his gaze. “That must have been terrifying.”
He nods curtly, jaw tight. “It’s been a long road.” He reaches down to tap his prosthetic. “I get by okay on this thing.”
“I hope I didn’t damage it yesterday.” A familiar rush of guilt sits heavy in my throat when I remember how I knocked Clay’s leg off.
“No damage. It’s built to be strong.”
I feel his arm brush mine, and I have to resist the urge to melt against him, letting my head fall on his giant shoulder.
He feels so huge and powerful beside me; the air seems to ripple with it, making the room feel claustrophobic.
I might be short, but I’ve always been a big girl—thick and heavy—and it still feels like this man could lift me up over his head with one hand and not even break a sweat.
It should probably feel intimidating…so why is desire pulsing between my thighs?
Why is every instinct telling me to climb on Clay’s lap and kiss his scowling mouth?
“So, what about your family?” I ask a little breathlessly.
“Just got Brewer, my younger brother. His cabin’s not far.”
My stomach jolts with recognition when I remember Josie’s text about Lumbersnack. She said his name was Brewer. Surely there can’t be many Brewers in a small town like this.
“Does your brother ever go to the diner in town by any chance?”
Clay’s brow creases. “All the time. Why?”
“No reason,” I say, itching to tell Josie about this development. “My friend works there, and I think she might have mentioned him once or twice.”
Understatement of the century.
“Anyway,” I say, quickly changing the subject, “have you always lived on Cherry Mountain?”
“Used to live down in town.” Clay gulps his coffee. “Moved up here when I left the military, right after I lost my leg. Brewer joined me a couple of years later.”
I absorb all this new information with a quiet thrill. It’s exciting to know more about Clay. Something tells me this man doesn’t offer up details about his life very often, so hearing about it feels like he’s letting me in on a secret.
I ask a little about his job as a lumberjack before we move onto more specific details: favorite movies, books, music, food.
It probably won’t come up at the party, but it seems like a good excuse to learn about Clay.
By the time we’re done talking, I feel like I could write a Wikipedia article on this man, and I run over it all in my mind with a fluttering heart.
Hates: Crowds. People staring at his leg. Small talk. Smartphones. Fancy coffee. Auto-tune. People who leave plastic crap in the woods.
Loves: Old westerns. Classic rock. 80s country. Rare steak. His grandma’s chili recipe. Neat whiskey. Local beer. John Steinbeck novels. Early mornings. The smell of pine sap. Black coffee. Cherry pie from Buttercup Bakery.
That last one seems to be the only thing we agree on. Otherwise, my list couldn’t be more different from Clay’s.
Hates: Drama. Rude customers. Sad movies. Slow internet. Burnt coffee. Feeling embarrassed.
Loves: 90s Rom-coms. Acoustic pop. Romance novels. Hot chocolate with cream. Pink lemonade. Chocolate chip cookies. Birthday cake (any day of the year). Gilmore Girls. Bridgerton. Sunny days. Scented candles. The Terminator.
“That last one was pretty left field,” Clay mutters once we’re in his giant truck, driving down the mountain.
“It’s a great movie. The second one is even better.”
He lets out an amused huff that sounds almost like a laugh. Then he shakes his head and adds, “Still can’t believe you like your steak well done.”
“You really need to let that go.”
Clay grunts non-committally. “Should be a criminal offense.”
“Well I can’t believe you don’t eat birthday cake on your birthday,” I say. “It’s literally the best part.”
“If you say so, sugar.”
My teasing response dies on my lips, butterflies erupting inside me. Nothing ties my tongue faster than Clay calling me sugar in his grumbly voice, and I spend the rest of the drive down Cherry Mountain trying to remember how to breathe.
“Can you run over the story again for me?” I ask, nerves fluttering in my gut as we get closer to the center of town.
“You know it just fine.”
“Please. I’m so scared I’ll forget in the heat of the moment.”
Clay clears his throat, then recounts the story we agreed on before we left.
“We met at the grocery store last month. Both reached for the same bottle of maple syrup. Our first date was a picnic at Sugar Creek. Kept it quiet because of the age gap.”
I take a deep breath. “And the accident?”
“We went to the hardware store together ‘cause I needed a drill,” Clay says mechanically. “You had to reverse out of a tight space in the parking lot. I got out, stood behind the car to help guide you and make sure nothing got dinged. You reversed too fast. The car skidded on a patch of ice and hit me. I wasn’t hurt. Went to the hospital just to be safe.”
I nod, biting my lip. I really hope people will believe the whole reversing in the parking lot thing.
Concocting a fake story for Clay’s hospital visit seemed like a good idea, just in case people push for details about what happened or why my insurance is paying for it.
I have no idea how much Sheila has told everyone.
“They’ll buy it, Savannah,” Clay says, like he can tell what I’m thinking. “We’ll be fine.”
I wish I had his confidence, but I’m a crappy liar with a habit of blushing every time I’m nervous. Heck, we’re not even at the party yet, and I already feel like I’m in way over my head. I’m convinced they’ll all see right through me: Grandma, Aria, the whole town.
This is definitely a crazy idea.