8. Youre Not Leaving
Chapter eight
You're Not Leaving
Jack
Istep back and let Claire cross the threshold like she's an unexpected package I didn't order but somehow still have to sign for.
Dusty immediately trots forward, tail wagging like Claire is his favorite person in the world.
I shoot him a look. “Don't even.”
He ignores me and starts sniffing Claire's boots like he's conducting a full security screening.
Claire stands just inside the doorway, clutching her flashlight like it could double as a weapon if I become particularly unbearable.
Which, I suppose, is fair.
Kind of.
Maybe not.
I close the door against the wind and slide the deadbolt into place out of habit. When I turn back, I look at Claire expectantly, waiting for some kind of explanation.
Less than half an hour ago, she was insisting she was fine and cutting me off before I could even finish offering to help.
Now she's standing in my entryway.
Without a word, she toes off her boots and glances around the living room.
Apparently, she's staying.
A throw blanket is slung over the back of the couch, and a stack of mail sits on the side table where I've been meaning to sort it for the past two weeks.
Above the mantel is a framed photo of my parents and me that I stopped noticing years ago simply because it's been there long enough to become part of the room.
Claire's gaze lingers on it.
Only for a second.
Still, something tightens in my chest before I can stop it.
She looks away quickly, like she wasn't studying the picture at all.
I clear my throat.
“Do you want something to drink?”
Claire blinks at me. “You're offering me a drink?”
“Yes.”
I'm already regretting it.
She studies my face like she's trying to determine whether this is a trick.
“Is it poisoned?”
“No.” My glare returns on instinct. “I was raised to offer visitors something to drink. So I'm offering.”
“Water's fine. Thanks.”
She says it like she's doing me a favor by accepting hydration.
I head toward the kitchen, mostly because it gives me something to do besides stand in the entryway wondering how Claire Monroe ended up inside my house.
Dusty follows us.
Of course he does.
Traitor.
I fill a glass with water and set it on the counter, officially fulfilling my responsibility as a host.
“There.”
Claire picks it up. “Thanks.”
I nod, and she takes a sip before adding, “And thanks for letting me in.”
I shrug. “I take it your power's still out?”
“And yours is…” She glances around, her brow furrowing. “…not.”
“We're on different service lines. We're good here.”
Her attention shifts past me to the kitchen table, where I've gathered everything I might need if the storm gets worse. Lanterns, flashlights, rope, towels, and two radios are spread across the surface.
The corner of her mouth twitches.
I immediately don't like that.
“For someone who's good on a different service line,” she says, amusement creeping into her voice, “you sure are prepared.”
“It's storm season.”
“This is the first storm.”
“And?”
“They're usually not deserving of…” She gestures toward the table. “All that.”
I glance at the supplies. Admittedly, seeing everything piled together makes it look like I'm preparing for something considerably worse than a seasonal storm.
Not that I'm going to tell her that.
“It's called being prepared.”
“It looks like you're expecting the town to wash out to sea.”
“I call it not being stupid.”
Claire smiles into her glass.
I pretend not to notice.
“Your neighborly charm is truly top-notch.”
I ignore her and grab my rain jacket from the hook near the back door. I shove my arms into it, mostly because I need something to do.
Preferably outside.
Away from Claire Monroe standing in my kitchen and smiling at me.
Her eyebrows lift. “Where are you going?”
“Outside.”
She turns toward the window. “It's raining sideways.”
“I noticed.”
I crack open the back door.
The wind immediately tries to rip the door from my hand while cold rain slaps me across the face. I wrestle it shut and turn around to find Claire watching me with one eyebrow raised.
I don't need her to say a word. Her expression does the job for her.
I keep my face carefully neutral.
“Which is why I'm securing everything now. Before it gets worse.”
Claire takes another sip of water and sets the glass carefully on the counter.
“You came to my house to secure my porch swing and fix my quote-unquote hazardous stairs.”
“They were hazardous.”
“But you haven't secured your own house?”
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
There are several possible answers to that question.
None of them are particularly helpful.
Claire shifts her weight and waits.
I'm not giving her one.
Dusty, meanwhile, has stationed himself at her feet like a loyal guard dog. His tail thumps against the floor every time she moves.
Claire looks down at him, and her entire expression softens.
She bends to scratch behind his ear.
I don't like how easily he accepts her affection.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Dusty ignores me, far too busy enjoying the attention.
“He's friendly,” Claire says as she continues scratching behind his ear.
“He's a dog.”
She looks up at me. “A friendly dog.”
I glare at her, which only makes her smile.
Yeah. I definitely need to go outside.
“I need to check the shutters,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “Make sure nothing out there turns into a missile.”
“I'll help.”
The answer comes so quickly that I almost laugh.
Claire sets down her glass.
“Let me get my shoes.”
“No.”
She stops.
Her eyes narrow. “Why not?”
Because I've already checked the shutters.
And the side gate.
And most of the yard.
What I actually need is five minutes outside to figure out how I'm supposed to behave with Claire Monroe standing in my kitchen like this is a normal thing that happens.
I obviously can't tell her that.
“Because you're my guest,” I say instead. “Sit. Stay warm.”
Claire crosses her arms.
“I'm not a dog.”
My gaze shifts to Dusty.
His tail starts wagging harder, like he's thrilled to finally be included in the conversation.
Claire follows my gaze.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You didn't have to.”
Before I can respond, the lights flicker overhead.
Once.
Then again.
I reach for the lantern, switch it on, and set it on the counter.
Claire looks at the lantern.
Then at me.
“You were waiting for that to happen, weren't you?”
“I was prepared.”
“Of course you were.”
The lights steady again, but the lantern remains on.
Claire looks toward the dark windows.
“If your electricity is going to go out too, maybe I should just borrow that lantern and go home.”
“It's raining sideways.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine.
I raise an eyebrow.
Her own words.
Claire looks toward the kitchen window again, staring out at the darkness beyond the glass. Her shoulders are tense, and she has that same expression I've noticed several times now.
Like she's listening for something.
Or waiting for something.
I don't know what.
And even if I wanted to ask—which I don't—she probably wouldn't tell me anyway.
“I have towels,” she says.
But she doesn't move toward her boots.
I take a slow breath.
“Just stay here. Please.”
Claire looks at me.
“Enjoy the electricity and keep Dusty company.” I nod toward the dog still sitting faithfully beside her. “He doesn't like storms.”
Dusty looks up at me.
Claire looks down at Dusty.
Then back at me.
I have a feeling neither one of them believes me.
Claire makes some sort of grunting noise as she takes a seat at the kitchen table.
I choose to interpret that as an agreement to stay.
Before either of us can reconsider the arrangement, I crack open the back door and slip outside.
I immediately regret every decision that has led me here.
The world has turned into moving gray. Wind tears across the yard in hard gusts, and rain comes down in sheets, soaking through the shoulders of my jacket within seconds.
Using the outdoors as an excuse to get a short reprieve from Claire's presence may have been a tactical error.
If I get pneumonia from this, I'm blaming her.
I check the back shutters first, tightening a latch that barely needs tightening. On my way toward the side gate, I shove a planter closer to the house, then stop when the gate rattles in another gust.
It could wait until the storm passes.
I fix it anyway.
Mostly because as long as I'm out here doing something, I don't have to think about the fact that Claire Monroe is sitting at my kitchen table with my dog like this is a normal occurrence.
The weather gets worse quickly enough that even I have to admit defeat. By the time I make it back inside, water is dripping from my jacket, and I'm fairly certain the wind has taken my decision to go outside as a personal challenge.
Claire is still sitting at the kitchen table in front of my collection of storm supplies, but her attention is entirely focused on Dusty.
The traitor is sitting in front of her with an expression of pure bliss while she massages his ears.
I scowl.
It's even more irritating when she doesn't notice.
“There's an annoyingly persistent dripping sound coming from the living room,” she says, still focused on Dusty. “In case you hadn't noticed.”
I go still and listen.
There it is.
A steady drip coming from somewhere beyond the kitchen.
I follow the sound into the living room and find a thin line of water creeping along the inside edge of the front window.
My jaw tightens.
“Fan-freaking-tastic.”
Claire appears behind me and stops when she sees the water.
“Is that coming inside?”
I turn and give her a look.
“Sorry.” She gestures toward the small puddle beginning to form on the floor. “It's just that for someone so prepared for storms and obsessed with neighborhood hazards, I assumed you would've weatherproofed your own house.”
“Clearly, this just happened.”
I have absolutely no idea if that's true.
I head back to the kitchen, grab several towels from the stack on the table, and return to the living room.
Claire hasn't moved.
She has the distinct look of someone who wants to help but isn't sure whether offering will result in me biting her head off.