Chapter 19
Alec
The bell over the door rings when I step into Got Wood?. Clementine is behind the counter, untying her green apron. She hangs it on a peg, hair falling around her face like it knows gravity works differently on her.
“Thanks for picking me up again,” she says. “Gran needed the car for her quilting club.”
“I needed more nails.” I set the box down on the counter. A lie. I’ve got enough nails to build a church. But excuses come easy when they look like her.
She rings me up, then closes the register with a hip bump, leaning casually against the counter.
My eyes follow the curve of her waist, the way her tight pink long-sleeve stretches as she leans forward, just enough to ride up over the top of her jeans.
I’m not supposed to be thinking about her like this, but the slight arch of her back makes it impossible to look away.
Her eyes flick to my wrist, oblivious to the pull she has over me. “So, how much time did you give me?”
“What?”
“On your watch. Don’t tell me it doesn’t say, Pick up Clementine Lennox, five p.m.” She drops her voice into a mechanical monotone.
I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you so good at that?”
“The voicemail you are trying to reach has not been set up,” she continues in the exact bored voice of every customer service robot I’ve ever wanted to strangle. She grins. “Mom taught me all the good party tricks. So? How much?”
“Twenty minutes.”
She gasps like I just insulted her bloodline. “That’s it? Your partner is only worth twenty minutes?” She presses a hand to her chest. “Guess we’d better hurry.”
She comes around the counter to join me. There’s a faint streak of sawdust across her sleeve, and I have to flex my fingers to stop myself from reaching for her and wiping it off.
“Where are we going?”
“Dinner. I know for a fact you’ve only been eating that alien sludge of yours.” She strides toward the narrow hall that connects the shop to Daisy’s Diner.
“The fridge came in yesterday,” I remind her, but it’s pointless since I haven’t bought anything to fill it.
“Yes, but you still have three thousand yellow goop packets left, which means you’re not going to buy groceries until you absolutely have to.
” She glances back, eyes bright. Damn her.
“Come on, we’ll strategize. Eavesdrop on competitors.
Poison their drinks. Slip laxatives into their water bottles. ”
I choke. “What?”
“Ballet school horror stories.” She shrugs. “Laxatives were the nice version.”
“Remind me to never cross a ballerina.”
“Then you should say yes to dinner.”
I should say no. It would be easier. Cleaner. But Clementine tilts her head, curls spilling forward, lips pulled into a grin that is half challenge and half promise. Suddenly, “no” isn’t an option.
“Strategy’s scheduled for Saturday.”
“Well,” she says, brushing past me, “consider us ahead of schedule.”
“That defeats the point of a schedule.”
“You said you were going to ease up on all the rigidness.” She stops inches from me, batting her lashes, blue eyes sparkling. A loose thread clings to the collar of her shirt, and I press my palms together to stop myself from tugging at it. “You know what? Give me your notebook.”
I blink. “What? Why?”
“Because.” She digs into her tote and pulls out a pen so violently bright red it could serve as a flare gun. “If I’m dragging you into chaos, your notebook should reflect it.”
“No one writes in my book.”
She smirks before snagging my notebook out of my back pocket, fingers brushing where they shouldn’t. The audacity.
“Relax, Hastings. It’s paper, not your last will and testament.”
Every muscle in me wants to snatch it back.
I stand there, rigid, while she flips to the ribbon-marked page.
It’s vulnerable to see my notebook open in front of her.
With a wicked grin, she braces the leather cover against my collarbone like I’m her personal writing desk and starts to scrawl.
Her handwriting loops and curls, careless and alive, nothing like my black-ink grids.
“There.” She caps the pen with a smug snap.
On the page: Dinner with Clementine at Daisy’s Diner. Followed by a heart.
It hits me in the ribs like a hammer.
“That’s vandalism.”
“It’s accuracy.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“It’s adorable,” she corrects, leaning in until a curl brushes my collar. My eyes snag on a freckle near her jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, I wonder if it would taste sweet or salty. “Admit it, you like it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
I snap the notebook shut and pocket it like I’m locking away something dangerous. “Doodles don’t belong in lists.”
“Lists beg for doodles. It’s like a rule.”
“What other rules do you have?”
“Grocery lists always end with chocolate. Packing lists always start with underwear. And my to-do lists always include something I already did, just so I can check it off.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s human.”
I shake my head, but my mouth betrays me with a twitch. She sees it, of course. She always sees it.
“And besides,” she adds, twirling the pen between her fingers like it’s a knife she knows how to use, “your notebook’s too serious. I bet you’ve got lists for everything.”
“That’s the point.”
“Oh yeah? Weight, calories, miles run, number of times you’ve blinked today. I bet you even have a list for…” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Every time you’ve had sex.”
Heat climbs my neck, but I don’t look away. “This notebook doesn’t hold a list like that.”
Her lips part, surprise flickering before she recovers. “That’s tragic.”
“That’s intentional,” I counter.
“Intentional can still be tragic.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “Lists don’t just have to be about discipline. They can be about pleasure too.”
“You think pleasure can be itemized?”
“I think you’d be surprised.”
Before I can stop her, she snatches the notebook back out of my pocket, flips to a fresh page, and in bold red strokes sketches the outline of a woman with exaggerated hips, breasts, and curves. She presents it to me with a sly grin. “There. Your first entry.”
“And who’s that supposed to be?”
Her gaze drags slowly from my shoulders down, then back up. She leans close enough that I catch the faint trace of citrus on her skin. “I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just heads toward the door, hips swaying with every step.
I snap the notebook shut and tuck it into my pocket. The heart and the sketch burn against my thigh. My hand shifts lower, adjusting myself.
Fucking hell.
Clementine doesn’t look back to see if I’ll follow. She knows I will.
Clementine steps in first, and the whole place tilts toward her. The hostess gushes about her earrings. Two old men at the counter salute with their coffee mugs. From the kitchen, someone hollers about rhubarb bars.
She doesn’t try, but people notice her anyway.
When I follow her inside, the air changes.
Zak Kwan and a couple hikers I’ve noticed on the trailheads stop mid-bite, voices dropping low.
My name rolls through the room like static.
I square my shoulders and ignore it, though the truth is I’d rather be back at the lodge choking down one of those protein goop pouches Clementine likes to mock me for.
“I didn’t realize I signed up for dinner with the mayor,” I say.
“It’s called having a personality.” She tosses it over her shoulder like a dart, grinning when it lands. “Plus, you’ve been hiding in that lodge since you got here. You could…I don’t know…talk to people.”
I won’t be here for long. There is no point in meeting anyone in this damn town, but I don’t say that. I just glare at her and follow.
We weave through the tables, past a display case full of pies and cakes.
The windows are framed by plaid curtains, and the walls are lined with cookie jars and thickly painted portraits of desserts in bright colors.
This place serves pancakes at all hours and always smells faintly like syrup and bacon grease.
The hostess leads us to a corner table. I take the seat facing the window. Clementine sits across from me, looking out at the rest of the room. On the table, a pair of tiny ceramic bear salt-and-pepper shakers rest beside the laminated menus.
“You must be Alec, huh?” The hostess leans in, face smiling, burgundy hair bouncing. A crooked name tag on her apron reads Vallery.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry, Val, he doesn’t talk much.” Clem leans back, fiddling with a gold hoop earring.
“Don’t blame him, you make most of the men in this town speechless.”
I try to focus on the table, but out of the corner of my eye, I see people staring at her.
“You’re one to talk, bombshell.”
“Stop. After two kids, I’m just glad I can find time to do my makeup in the morning.”
“Which reminds me, I have an eyeshadow palette that’s not in my season—I can bring it to you tomorrow.”
“You’re a doll. Also, did you see the picture you hung up? Hasn’t moved an inch.” Val points to a cake photo hanging above the register.
“Thank Cody. He was the one who taught me how to use a hammer.” Clem laughs, and I grunt.
I taught her to use a drill to fix the baseboard in the lodge, showed her how to measure, level, hold the bit steady, and now her boss is getting all the credit.
Clem smiles at me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Well, Alec over here taught me a bit.”
“Well, regardless of who taught you, you did better than Mikey,” Val teases. “I’ve been asking him to hang that damn TV for months, and he never does.”
“Seriously?” Clem shakes her head. “I can come over tomorrow after work and help you.”
“Would you? I’d love that. I’ll pay you in Diet Cokes.”
“Oh, now I’ll definitely be there,” Clem laughs.
They speak like time doesn’t exist.
“Excuse me, can I get a beer?” I finally interrupt, or I’ll be here all night listening to them talk about who helped whom move a canoe last Thursday.