Page 2 of Clay

He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re about to stumble into some big story again. Or maybe a big guy. Dare I say… a Daddy? You’ve been back what, three months? And nothing? Not even a fling?”

“Yeah, right,” I mutter, brushing sesame seeds off my fingers onto the napkin crumpled beside my plate. “Don’t even mention the D-word. The only action I’m getting is between the pages of my notebook, and even that’s stalled out. I thought coming home would fix everything—give me space to breathe, to write. But the men here? Same old, same old. I’m not holding my breath for Prince Charming to roll into Willow Creek on a white horse.”

“Maybe a black motorcycle instead,” Chris teases, waggling his eyebrows. “You need some inspiration, Dylan. Amuse. Someone to get those creative juices flowing.”

I roll my eyes, but before I can shoot back a retort, the bell above the diner door jingles, cutting through our laughter.

I don’t look up at first—just another late-night straggler, probably old man Jenkins grabbing his usual pie to-go, grumbling about the weather.

But then Chris’s eyes widen, and he lets out a low whistle under his breath…

“Holy hell, Dylan,” Chris gasps. “Don’t look now, but your ‘something to happen’ just walked in.”

I scoff, figuring he’s exaggerating, but curiosity gets the better of me. I glance over my shoulder, casual as I can manage, and then my heart stops dead in my chest, like someone hit pause on the whole damn world.

He’s tall, broader than I remember, with shoulders that fill out the leather jacket hugging his frame.

Dark hair, a little messy, falls into his eyes as he scans the room, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look rougher, harder than he used to.

This is the kind of guy who looks like he could break something—or someone—without blinking. He’s got that biker vibe down pat: black boots scuffed from the road, jeans worn in all the right places, and a presence that sucks the air out of the diner like he owns it. But it’s not just that.

It’s him.

Clay Damon.

MyClay.

Or he was, once. Seven years ago, when I was nineteen and he was twenty-one, we wereeverything.

A whole year of stolen kisses behind the old mill, late-night rides on his bike with my arms wrapped tight around his waist, promises whispered under the stars while the crickets sang.

Clay was my first love, the kind that burns so bright you think it’ll never go out. Until it did. Until he got hauled off in cuffs, and I was left with a broken heart and a town full of whispers.

Prison…

Three years, they said, for something I never fully understood—something about a fight, a guy who didn’t walk away. I didn’t stick around to find out the details.

I couldn’t.

It hurt too much.

I packed up my dreams and ran to the city, thinking distance would erase him. It didn’t.

“Dylan,” Chris hisses, kicking me under the table. “You’re staring. Close your mouth.”

I snap my jaw shut, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

He’s moving toward the counter now, his stride easy but deliberate, like he’s got nowhere to be but knows exactly where he’s going. The waitress—Jenny, a real sweetheart—blushes as she takes his order, fumbling with the coffee pot, and I don’t blame her.

Clay has always had that effect.

Even back then, he could make you feel like you were the only person in the room with just a look. It’s still there, that magnetism, but it’s sharper now, edged with something dark I can’t place.

And then it happens. His head turns, just a fraction, and his eyes lock on mine. Green, sharp, piercing—like they could cut right through me. For a second, I think I imagined it, that he’ll look away and keep moving. But he doesn’t. He holds my gaze, and the diner fades—the hum of the jukebox playing some old country tune, Chris’s whispered “oh shit,” the clatter of dishes in the back.

It’s just him and me, and seven years collapse into nothing.

My pulse slams in my throat. I don’t know what to do with my hands, my face, my whole damn body.

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