“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. JohnSteinbeck 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.
