Page 69 of Let It Breathe
Clay had just stared at her for a few beats, barely registering her words. He was mesmerized by those green, green eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the roundness beneath her T-shirt.
“Clay,” he finally stammered. “Clay Henderson. Horticulture.”
“Yeah? Do you like wine, Clay?”
He was startled by the question and started to stammer some inane reply, but she cut him off.
“My family owns Sunridge Vineyards over in Dundee. You should check it out sometime.”
He’d nodded, so enchanted by her that he almost forgot she’d asked him a question.
“I like beer,” he’d blurted lamely. “You, um—you asked if I like wine, but I’m really more of a beer man.”
It was a stupid thing to say, but she’d grinned at him as she dropped into the seat beside him. “It takes a lot of beer to make good wine.”
“What?”
“It’s an expression in the wine industry. Come harvest time, everyone’s putting in long hours and the last thing they want to drink is wine. It’s a pretty intense few weeks. There’s a lot of beer flowing then. Keeps everyone fueled.”
“Sounds like a good party.”
“It can be,” she’d told him, tucking her hair behind one ear. “We’re always looking for volunteers. Harvest is coming up in October if you want to join us. We could use help running the de-stemmer or scrubbing mildew off pipes—stuff like that.”
Clay nodded, not sure if she was asking him out or just looking for free labor but not caring much either way. He would have walked on his knuckles through broken glass to scrub mildew off her pipes.
The professor had stepped to the front of the room then and launched into a monotone explanation of the syllabus. Clay didn’t hear a word of it. The only sounds he was aware of were the scratch of Reese’s pencil on her notepad, the soft rustle of her hair against the flannel of her shirt, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Even now, Reese was the only thing he really remembered from his college days.
His years as a stumbling drunk may have stolen a lot of his memories, but he’d never forget the curve of her cheek against her palm as she tapped her pencil on her teeth and looked toward the front of the lecture hall.
Idiot, Clay told himself as he shut off the shower. Why didn’t you make a move then? You’re the king of botched opportunities.
He shook off the memory as he shook the water out of his hair, then stepped out of the shower. He toweled off quickly and dressed in clean jeans and a T-shirt. Grabbing his jacket off the hook by the door, he stopped and inhaled.
It smelled like Reese.
He’d never known her to wear perfume, not even in college. It must be her shampoo, or maybe just Reese—something grassy and sweet, clinging to the wool of his jacket. He pulled it on, fighting the mental picture of Reese hugging it over her breasts after her bra malfunction the other night.
Then he thought about the kiss in the hallway, the kiss in the winery barn, the feel of Reese warm and damp in his arms?—
“Knock it off,” he ordered himself out loud. “You made her life hell once before, remember?”
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He drove slowly to Finnigan’s, remembering how many times he’d gone there in his drinking days. Back then, he headed straight for the bar—no screwing around on the restaurant side ordering halibut and drinking Coke.
But now he sat in the parking lot looking at the side of the building. The paint looked the same, the neon sign flickering faintly as dusk drifted toward darkness. He could hear the blare of music inside, and he watched as a laughing couple came stumbling out, their fingers hooked in each other’s belt loops. He remembered the smell of spilled beer and the crush of bodies near the bar, but those things didn’t make him wistful. Not anymore.
He hadn’t been inside since that night. That awful, horrible night. He still couldn’t shake the memory of that guy’s fist smashing into Reese’s face, a punch meant for Clay. He remembered the look of betrayal on her face, the moment he knew for certain any chance he’d ever had with her was gone forever.
My fault, he thought.
So win her back, whispered the voice in his head. Prove you’ve changed.
He shook his head, pretty sure that wasn’t an option.
He pushed open the door of his truck and made his way inside. He was five minutes early, which gave him a chance to check out the scene inside. Even for a Friday night, the place was packed. He sat down at one of the tables in the middle of the room where he could see both the front door and the bar. The taps rose above the edge of the bar—Bud, Bud Light, Deschutes Brewery, Pelican, and Boneyard all lined up in a colorful row.
