Page 133 of Let It Breathe
“There’s one Coke in here,” she called. “You want ice?”
She stood up and looked at him. He hesitated. A polite guy wouldn’t take the last of anything in her fridge. Or he’d at least ask if she wanted it.
That seemed stupid.
“I’ll take it, thanks,” he said. “What are you drinking?”
“Pinot Noir, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually, I do mind.”
She blinked “Really?”
Clay folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t mind if you drink around me—especially in your own home. I can handle it. But right now, for this conversation, for anything else that might happen this evening, I want to be sure you’re totally, completely in control of your words and thoughts and actions.”
Reese stared at him. Then she shook her head and looked down at the Coke can.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I can do that. No wine, not tonight. I’ll drink milk. I draw the line at pouring it in a glass, though. It’s a straight-from-the-carton kinda night.”
“Fair enough.”
Clay reached up to grab one glass from the cupboard. He handed it to her without comment, and Reese opened the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice cubes. She dropped them one by one into the glass, the clinking sound making Clay think of Scotch. He pushed the thought from his mind and watched Reese’s hands.
“Is it okay if we don’t talk about Sheila?” she asked. “I’m kind of in shock, and I just—well, I just need some time to process things, okay?”
“Not a problem.”
Reese kept her eyes on the glass, which gave Clay a few more seconds to study her. Her hair was the same color as the cola but bore a few streaks of caramel and a few threads of silver and cinnamon and a dozen other colors he couldn’t name.
She looked up then, and Clay’s gut flipped as she pinned him in place with those wild green eyes.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“You’re beautiful.”
She looked away, flushed in the dimly lit kitchen.
“Do you know what the fight was about at Finnigan’s?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“The fight. Not the one the other night. The one five years ago. The one where you got hurt.”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Do you want to tell me?”
“Yes.” He balled his hands into fists, remembering every detail of that night. The smell of beer, the twang of country music over crackly speakers, the way Reese touched her hair and glanced nervously around the bar.
“I was wasted,” Clay said. “What’s new, right? I pulled out my wallet to buy another round, and this guy next to me catches a look at one of the pictures I’ve got tucked in there. He looks at you, looks at me, looks at the picture, starts going off saying all kinds of crude shit about how hot you were and what he wanted to do to you, and I just?—”
“You had a picture of me?”
Clay reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tossed it on the counter in front of her, bumping the Coke can against the glass. “I still do.”
She blinked at it but didn’t pick it up. She looked back at him and swallowed. “Why?”
“Because I’ve always been in love with you, Reese. Always. I still am.”
Her green eyes filled with confusion. “What—how?—”
