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 likehe 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.
