Something about Clay barefoot in his own home makes my heart squeeze.
“You found it,” he says.
I smile, stepping inside. The interior matches the exterior: sparse, functional, masculine. There’s a leather couch, a big TV, and no throw pillows. A bookshelf packed with books, thrillers and history, some recipe books. The kitchen is open to the living room, and whatever’s cooking smells incredible.
“Is that garlic bread?”
“Homemade.”
“I might cry.”
His mouth twitches. “Save the tears for the bolognese.”
I follow him into the kitchen and watch him move. He's efficient and completely at ease. This is a man who knows his way around a stove. He hands me a glass of red wine without asking if I want one.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Sit. Watch. Try not to distract me.”
“I'm distracting?”
He looks at me over his shoulder. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. “Extremely.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I sit on a barstool at the counter and sip my wine, watching him finish the pasta. His muscular forearms flex as he tosses the noodles; I'm staring and I don't care.
“Your house is very...” I search for the right word.
“Empty?”
“I was going to say minimalist.”
“It's empty.” He plates the spaghetti with practiced hands. “I don't spend much time here. The clubhouse, the shop, wherever I'm needed. This is just where I sleep.”
“That's sad.”
He sets a plate in front of me. “Is it?”
“Home should be more than a place to sleep. It should be... warm. Safe. Full of things that make you happy.”
He sits across from me, watching my face. “And what makes you happy, cupcake?”
“Books and podcasts. Twinkle lights sparkling while I crochet. My cranky three-legged dog.” I twirl pasta on my fork. “Good food. Good company." I meet his eyes. “This.”
A muscle leaps in his jaw and for a moment, he doesn't say anything.
Then: “It’s ready. Eat your dinner.”
The bolognese is perfect. We don't talk about the event. He asks about my family, and I tell him about my successful siblings, and my parents who love me but don't understand me. He talks about Colt, his twin brother, and Knox, the youngest, who's off in Snowflake Falls doing something mysterious he won't elaborate on.
“Your turn," I say. “What makes you happy?”
He considers the question. “My club. My brothers. Knowing the people I care about are safe.”
“That's very protective of you.”
“That's who I am.”
I reach across the table and touch his hand. “I like who you are.”
