9. Clara
Chapter nine
Clara
I push brew on my single-serve coffee maker, inhaling the scent of caffeine. This machine was one of the first items unpacked because I wasn’t about to miss my morning cup of coffee. I stir in two vanilla creamer singles and take a sip. My brain appreciates the liquid energy, but my taste buds are missing the fancier machine at my apartment that makes mochas.
This will have to do, especially considering how little sleep I got last night. I thought I might have a hard time falling asleep in a new place, particularly being all alone. But that wasn’t the problem.
Handyman Clark was the problem.
I barely spoke to the man, but somehow every detail of my fifteen minutes in his presence seared themselves into core memories. Even though half of those minutes were spent with a door between us.
It’s not just that he’s good-looking, though he certainly has all sorts of handsome features going for him. The full but perfectly trimmed beard. The bits of sandy brown hair poking out from under his baseball cap. The broad shoulders and tall stature that made even a taller-than-average woman like me feel short. It was too dark for me to get a good view of his eye color under the rim of his baseball hat. My imagination had a heyday filling in the blank with various shades last night.
But what really kept my mind racing was the deep timbre of his voice checking in with me through the door. Asking permission to break it down. Ensuring my safety by making sure I backed away first. Having the presence of mind to check that I was clothed prior to shoving the door open.
The firm chest muscles my hands inadvertently pressed against when he toppled into me may have also contributed to the insomnia.
I did not spend extra time in front of the mirror fixing my curls and applying light makeup in anticipation of Clark coming back over this morning. That was time spent in the name of having a productive day unpacking. Dress for success, you know.
Shoving a handful of Cocoa Puffs straight from the box into my mouth, I survey my new home in the morning light. I’m torn between the need to unpack and the itch to sit in the sunroom and write.
The foreign sound of the doorbell jolts me, coffee sloshing out of my cup and dripping down my arm. “Ouch!” I yelp, then quickly drop to my knees behind the kitchen counter, out of sight from the front windows. My watch reads 8:47 a.m. Apparently, Clark is the early type.
“Just a minute!” I yell as I reach a hand up to feel around the counter till I find a towel. I wipe off the coffee from my arm and the floor before standing again. Pull it together, Clara , I chide myself, rolling my shoulders back. Just play it cool.
When I open the door, all semblance of coolness flies right out as the crisp air flies in. Clark stands in front of me in faded jeans and a long-sleeve, hunter-green Henley shirt, toolbox in one hand and a hardware store bag in the other. Sans baseball cap, the morning sun provides me a perfect view of hazel eyes. Dark green rims with flecks of gold surround his pupils. The best work of my imagination last night hadn’t come close to this green-gold perfection.
My own eyes widen, and my brain draws a blank on all the useful English phrases like “hello” or “good morning” or “come in.” I simply smile up at him instead.
“I’m sorry I’m a little early,” he eventually says. “I’m kinda a morning person, and I was eager to see—I mean, I wanted to go ahead and get that door fixed for you right away.”
“Oh gosh, it’s totally fine. Please come in,” I reply, stepping to the side so he can duck in through the door. “Can I get you some water or coffee or . . . dry cereal?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Clark responds, setting his tool box on the floor and following me to the edge of the kitchen counter. “I assumed you weren’t attached to the existing 1980s doorknob style, but I wasn’t sure what type of finish you’d prefer. I brought a few options.” He sets three doorknobs on the counter: one brushed bronze, one nickel, and one matte black.
“That was thoughtful,” I respond as I step next to him and study the choices. “I confess I haven’t had time to think through hardware finish decisions for the entire cabin yet. Would have been the first thing I knocked off the list last night if the door hadn’t conspired against my to-dos.”
Clark chuckles. The sound sends happy shivers down my spine as I glance up at the crinkles around his eyes.
My eyes gravitate toward the matte black doorknob, so I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. “I think this is the one. The black seems to fit a rustic-but-cozy cabin vibe.”
“I agree; that was my top choice,” Clark responds.
I smirk up at him and quirk my eyebrow. “You would have said that about whichever one I picked, huh?” I tease, one hand on my hip.
He laughs again, and the happy shivers get out of hand. “No, I promise. I recently changed all the hardware in my house to matte black. It’s a solid choice,” he says, taking the doorknob from my hand. His fingers brush ever-so-slightly against mine, and I swear warmth slowly oozes its way from my fingers down my arm. Like when you take a drink of hot coffee on a cold morning and feel the heat travel down your esophagus.
Clark stiffens at the touch. Maybe I’m not the only one experiencing this attraction that is absurdly disproportionate to the amount of information we know about each other. He clears his throat again and reaches inside the bag to retrieve the matching hinges. “I’ll, uh, get to work on this.”
“I can help!” I chirp brightly, leading the way to the bathroom. “Thank you again for coming out last night and back today. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.”
My version of “helping” is pretty much sitting against the edge of the tub as Clark removes the existing hinges from the door frame. He pulls up his sleeves slightly in the process, and I notice tattoos on his left forearm that appear to continue up the full length of his arm. I tilt my head to better decipher the inky pattern. My best guess is tree roots, but I can’t make out the exact design. A new mystery for my overactive imagination to mull over tonight.
“So, you just moved in yesterday?” Clark asks as he begins installing the new hinges.
“Yep,” I respond, handing him the next screw he needs. I’m helping , not grasping for an excuse to brush my fingers against his again. “But I won’t be living here full time. I live in Kansas City—well, in the suburbs on the Kansas side. But this cabin is going to be my place to get away and work in the quiet.”
“Oh, really?” Clark says, standing up and turning to me. His hazel eyes darken momentarily with a look akin to disappointment. “What work do you do?”
“Ah, umm, I’m a writer,” I say uncertainly. “I mean, I’m a copywriter and editor. I work for a company in KC that creates content for clients around the nation.”
Clark’s eyes narrow slightly. “Why would you need a quiet cabin to do that? Do you not work in an office?”
“Yes, there’s an office—I have an office,” I stutter. I guess there’s no way around an admission at this point. “I hope to be a writer writer. Hence the cabin in the woods.”
“Gotcha. Yeah, this place is certainly more inspiring than an office desk,” Clark responds before moving to the detached door to fasten the corresponding hinge pieces. I watch silently, not sure how much more to share about my dreams. Something about Clark’s thoughtful demeanor makes me want to tell him everything , but that’s ridiculous.
He stands the door upright. “Could you hold this steady while I install the new doorknob?”
“Of course!” I jump up, happy to be truly useful. I concentrate on holding the door the steadiest that Clark has ever seen a door held—right up until I’m distracted by the flex and pull of the muscles in his forearm as he works. He stops suddenly and grabs the door to stop it from leaning, glancing up at me. I startle at being caught staring at him.
Easy there, Clara. You’re acting like a total fool, I mentally sigh. But I notice a slight upturn of Clark’s lips before he turns his attention back to the doorknob.
“So, how long have you lived here in town?” I ask, careful not to slack on my door-steadying job again.
“My whole life. Grew up here. I’m not sure I could hack the big-city life like you do.” Clark replies, standing back to his full height.
“Oh, trust me, the suburbs are not exactly big-city life,” I self-effacingly respond. Clark raises an eyebrow and looks around as though seeing beyond the walls to the town.
I giggle. “I suppose in comparison to here, it’s a big city. But I’m excited to have a break from the hustle.”
Clark nods thoughtfully. “Well, you’ll certainly find some peace here. At least, I sure hope you do.” We stare at each other for a beat before he drops his gaze. “I’m going to hang the door on the hinges now and then make sure the door jamb is lined up correctly, okay?”
“Yes, right, that’s how I would do it too,” I say with a nod, as though I’ve replaced hundreds of doors in my life. The corners of Clark’s lips fight a smile, but he doesn’t point out how obviously untrue my insinuation is.
I appreciate the shift of muscles in Clark’s back as he lifts the door onto the hinges. It’s not like I’m going out of my way to notice. But what choice do I have when those muscles are right there in front of me?
“Moment of truth,” Clark says, moving to close the door.
“Wait!” I call out, putting my hand out to stop him. We both glance down to where my hand clasps his biceps. “Um, maybe one of us should be on the other side of the door before you close it, just in case?”
He tilts his head. “Let’s take our chances.” Clark doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he pushes the door closed. I find myself irrationally hoping Clark is horrible at this handyman gig and the door is still broken.
“Would you like to do the honors?” he asks, gesturing to the doorknob and taking a step backward.
I breathlessly step past him, that first-sip-of-coffee warmth spreading from my head to my toes even without any physical contact. I reach out and turn the handle. The door pops open just like it’s meant to. Darn.
“Amazing!” I say aloud, smiling over my shoulder at Clark. I step out into the hallway as he gathers up the old hardware and his toolbox. As he follows me out to the living room, I ask, “How much do I owe you for coming out? Do you take payment via Venmo?”
He appears caught off guard. “Oh, you don’t owe me anything—it really wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was a big deal to me,” I answer, and I swear his breath catches the same way mine does. “I mean, I’m grateful for the help. At least let me pay you for the new hardware.”
Clark holds up his hands and responds, “Seriously, no need. Consider it a welcome-to-your-new-second-home gift.”
I laugh, which brings the slightest of smiles to his face again. “In some ways, this cabin is nicer than my apartment back home.” Reaching for a way to stretch his time here with me, I offer, “Are you sure you don’t want coffee or anything before you go?”
The flecks of gold in his eyes catch the sunlight from the window as he studies me for a beat. “I guess I could—”
His answer is cut off by the loud ring of my phone. I jump at the sound, fumbling to pull my phone out of my leggings pocket, mumbling apologies. My mom’s smiling face lights up the screen. I tell Clark, “Just one second, it’s my mom, and she’s been sick. Let me answer really quick.”
“Hey Mom! Doing any better today?” I ask with more cheer in my voice than I feel about her interrupting this moment.
“Clara, honey, it’s not good,” my mom says. My body freezes in response.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” I ask, voice now laced with concern.
“Your father tripped down the stairs and broke his ankle. They’re taking him back to surgery shortly,” she responds with tears. “But I’m still running a fever from the flu, so the hospital won’t let me in to see him.”
“I’ll be right there, Mom. I’ll leave right now,” I say, already darting around the room to gather my shoes and purse.
“I’m so sorry, honey; I know you just made it to your cabin. I feel terrible pulling you away, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Mom, don’t feel bad. I want to be there—you and Dad will always come before the cabin. I’ll drive straight to the hospital and call you when I get there.” I awkwardly try to pull on one shoe while holding the phone with my shoulder. Clark reaches out to steady my elbow, and I glance up at him with appreciative eyes.
My mom gives me the information to the hospital and apologizes twice more before we hang up. I stand up straight and meet Clark’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry. I have to go. My dad broke his ankle and is heading into surgery, but my mom is sick and isn’t allowed to see him. I have to get home.”
Clark nods at me. “Of course. Anything I can do?”
“No, but thank you.” I give a disappointed glance around the cabin. “I guess settling in will have to wait.” Clark leads the way out the front door, and I’m about to hit the lock button on the keypad when a realization hits me.
“Wait! My baby!” I rush back inside to get my new rubber tree plant from the sunroom. Clark is still waiting on the porch when I come back outside, shifting the planter to my hip so I can lock the door.
“A plant?” Clark raises an eyebrow.
“Not just a plant—my brand-new Ficus Tineke that I’ve been wanting forever and now finally have enough sunlight to keep alive,” I tell him. “But I have no idea how long I’ll be gone, so I can’t leave her here alone. She’ll have to survive on the minimal sunlight in my apartment for a while.”
I turn back to lock the door, but the weight of the plant lifts from my hip.
“I’ll keep it for you. My house has lots of light,” Clark says.
My heart seizes with gratitude at the sight of my plant baby in his extremely masculine hands. It’s most certainly gratitude, not attraction. I mean, maybe a mix. “That’s really sweet of you,” I respond. “Um, do you know how to take care of plants?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I’ll Google it. Don’t worry about it—you go take care of your parents.”
I resist the urge to throw my arms around him in a tight embrace. Although I may be the poster child for the physical touch love language, I know not everyone appreciates it. Especially from someone they’ve only met twice. Despite whatever raging chemistry vibes hang in the air between us.
Walking out to my car and his massive truck, I apologize three more times and thank Clark four more times. I climb into my Honda and punch in the hospital address. Before pulling out of the driveway, I take one final peek in my rearview mirror at Clark’s face. A pang of disappointment shoots through me.
I guess my dreams will hang out in the periphery for a while longer.