Page 46 of Que Será, Syrah

And yes, I’m probably overreacting. I’m easily triggered by lies and manipulation. But you know what they say—just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean there’s no one out to get you.

I’m pondering all of this—and trying to decide whether to get up, get dressed, get out of here while I can—when the bedroom door opens, and Clay appears. He’s dressed in a pair of black boxer briefs similar to the ones he was wearing last night—and nothing else. His hair is tousled, he hasn’t shaved and, all things considered, he’s even more mouthwateringly yummy looking than he was last night. He’s also bearing two steaming mugs—which ups his attractiveness level by several points.

I sniff the air hopefully. “Coffee?”

“Mm-hm,” he says, smiling as he hands me one then sits beside me. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“What sleep?” I demand mockingly. “As I recall, you kept me up most of the night.”

“Guilty as charged,” he responds as his smile shifts into something wicked. “But, as I recall, you weren’t complaining.”

“No cap,” I say, as I sip my coffee. It tastes as good as it smells, and he’s made it light and sweet, exactly the way I like it—further triggering my earlier suspicions. “Hey. How’d you know how I take my coffee?”

Clay’s eyebrows rise. “You ordered some at dinner last night. I watched you fix it.”

“And you remembered?”

“It was only last night. If I’d remembered from five years ago, that would be something. But a span of only several hours? That’s well within my capabilities.”

“Still. You must be very observant.”

Clay shrugs. “I suppose. It kinda goes with the job, you know?” He eyes me curiously for a moment then asks, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course,” I answer immediately. Then I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Okay. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Great question. I don’t know. What are we doing here?”

“Well, I was thinking breakfast, but then I realized I probably need to shop. I can offer you eggs, or avocado toast, but that’s about it.”

“No, I mean us,” I tell him. “Is this it? Are we ‘one and done’?”

His face goes blank—that kind of non-expression that’s like a closed door. “Is that what you want?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m not the one who was making excuses last night for why we shouldn’t be together. Are you saying something’s changed since then? That maybe your excuses no longer apply?”

“Yes and no,” he admits with a sigh. He takes a big gulp of coffee—which he drinks black, by the way—like my mood this morning. “First of all, they weren’t excuses, they were reasons. Valid reasons. And of course, they still apply. That part hasn’t changed.”

“So, that’s it then. We scratched the itch, found closure from five years ago, and now you’re calling it quits?"

“Can I finish?” His eyes are troubled as his gaze bores into mine. “Because no. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“What then?”

“Obviously, some other things have changed. What we did last night…well, that’s a bell we can’t un-ring, isn’t it? Not that I’d want to, even if we could.”

“Me either. But…”

“I’m not willing to go back to pretending that there’s nothing between us, or that I don’t want you. I don’t think that was working very well, anyway.”

My head is reeling. My hands are shaking so hard I have to use both of them to hold my mug. “Really? You seemed to be doing okay with it.”

“Yeah, no. I really wasn’t.”

“So then where does that

“I don’t want to wait until our situation changes, or until I’m no longer investigating you and your family. Who knows how long that might take?”

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