TWENTY-THREE
CLARA
Gettingready took ten minutes and an embarrassing amount of overthinking.
I just stood in front of my suitcase and asked myself what version of me I wanted to be tonight.
The temporary roommate slinking around a neglected house in yesterday’s pajamas? Nah.
The girl who’d gotten left at the altar in front of nearly everyone she knew? Hell no.
I wanted to be the woman who walked into a room and expected it to like her. I missed that version of myself and wasn’t quite sure where I’d left her.
After a deep breath, I pulled on my favorite jeans—the ones that actually fit, hugging my hips without cutting off circulation—black boots with a little heel, and a thin knit top that dipped just enough at the neckline to feel feminine and flirty. My hair went down, waves finger-combed into something that looked intentionally tousled instead of slept on. A swipe of mascara. Lip gloss. Tiny hoops in my ears.
It wasn’t too flashy, but a reminder to myself that I was still in here.
The house was quiet as I came down the stairs. It was the kind of winter evening hush that made every creak under my boots sound louder. Light spilled from the living room, warm against the dark.
Wes was on the floor in front of the couch, bent forward, his arms stretching toward his toes. His prosthetic leaned against the coffee table. He wore a pair of dark athletic shorts and a faded T-shirt that clung to his back, damp at the collar from a shower. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he shifted his weight, the broad line of his back cutting clean against the soft, lived-in couch behind him. His hair was still a little wet, pushed back, a few pieces refusing to stay put.
He looked ... settled. Focused. Like a man checking his range and not avoiding it.
For a second I just watched him—one hand on the banister, heart doing that stupid lift-and-drop thing in my chest. The stump where his leg used to be was bare, the skin pale and marked, and there was a slice of a second where my throat tightened for him.
Then his hands slid farther out, spine lengthening, the long line of his arms drawing my eye, and pity didn’t stand a chance against the sheer, unfair reality of Wes Vaughn’s body.
He glanced up at the sound of my foot on the last stair.
The stretch froze. His gaze dragged over me once, slow and unguarded, from boots to jeans to the low neckline of my top. Something dark and hot flickered in his eyes before he slammed the door on it.
“Going somewhere, Duchess?” His voice came out rough, a shade hoarser than usual as he turned his focus back to his stretch.
I pretended my stomach didn’t flip at the nickname. “Kit invited me out,” I said, walking toward the kitchen for theillusion of purpose. “We’re going to the Lantern tonight. Drinks, dancing, bad decisions. You should come.”
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a real smile. “Yeah, no,” he said flatly. “I don’t dance anymore.”
My face twisted as I turned back toward him. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just reached for the liner and started rolling it up, his fingers efficient and practiced. His jaw worked as he lifted the prosthetic and lined it up, balancing with one hand on the couch.
He shot me a look as he clicked it into place. “Take a wild guess.”
My eyes dropped, uninvited, to his leg. To the way he concentrated on making sure the fit was right, the way his shoulders tensed like he was expecting it to fail him at any second.
“I meant,” I said softly, “is it that you can’t ... or that you don’t want to find out you still can?”
His head tipped, surprise flashing across his face before he covered it with a scoff. “Clara, come on. Nobody wants their toes annihilated by the guy with the metal leg. I trip, I go down, I take out half the dance floor.”
“You didn’t trip sledding,” I pointed out. “You didn’t fall. You just screamed like a little girl and then made out with me in a snowdrift.”
His mouth tightened as his eyes flashed to mine. “Gliding on your ass down a hill is not the same as dancing.”
“Technically, you were on a sled, not your ass,” I said with a shrug. “And your balance was fine.”
He shifted his weight onto the prosthetic, testing it, expression closing off. “A crowded bar is a lot,” he said. “Noise, people, floors I don’t trust. I’ll pass.”
The sting pricked quick and sharp—ridiculous, given that I’d invited him mostly on impulse—but it was there anyway. “Ididn’t say you had to go compete onDancing with the Stars, Wes,” I said lightly. “Just that you could come drink beer and bob your head like a normal person.”
