Page 10 of Fast Currents
“Glad we cleared that up,” he said wryly.
“Make it make sense, Robertson.”
He reached for my hand, tangling our fingers. The light caress felt good. Right. His gaze met mine, his expression bordering on a tenderness that made me uncomfortable.
“When I kiss you for the first time, I don’t think we’re going to want to stop.”
“So now you’re afraid of sex with me?” I skipped right over protesting that stopping would be easy. I wasn’t a liar.
“Not quite. But I think you’re scared of intimacy.”
“Duh. I was pretty clear about that. Breaking up in a small town is awkward as hell.”
“When we come together, I want it to feel right. Like the most natural thing in the world.”
“Robertson, we’re not the nature channel.”
He grinned. “Challenge accepted. I know you don’t trust me yet, Lucy, and that’s fine. I’ll wait. But that means you have to wait too.”
I slid into my car, muttering under my breath. The man was a menace. Winding me up and letting me down. He crouched beside me, fingers tangling with mine on the seatbelt. Pent-up aggression made me want to slap his hand away, but his face was too close. His lashes impossibly long. How did he manage to look gentle and dangerous at once?
I quit breathing, letting the buckle fall from nerveless fingers. Smoothly, he slid the belt across my lap, careful not to touch me, clicking me safely in place. Taunting me with his proximity.
He stood to his full height, finally giving me space to breathe. But now the entire car smelled like him. Salty, soapy, and with just enough onion to prove he wasn’t perfect. That and his stubborn refusal to kiss me.
“Sweet dreams, Lucifer.” Gently, he shut my car door.
It sounded more like a taunt than a good night. I drove the few blocks home, parking behind my studio-slash-apartment. Clay idled at the curb in his truck, waiting until I was safely inside before rumbling away. Shut doors, seatbelts, and locked lips—he threatened to ruin me with patience alone.
I slipped off my shoes and belly-flopped on my well-worn couch, screaming into the cushions. The tiny release felt good. Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the ceiling.
I’d kept my promise to be real. No biting my tongue or shrinking to fit. I’d done that before, and I wasn’t dragging those regrets into my new life.
I could have taken control and kissed him. The power had been mine. Maybe that was what he was waiting for, pushing for, but something about his expression held me back. Open but uncertain. Like all protests aside, a kiss would be more than just a kiss for Clay.
He’d shared more in the last hour than in the few months I’d known him. He’d shattered my original assessment of him with one word – widower. I had him pegged as a flirt. Charming. Harmless. Temporary. Nothing to take seriously. His admission withdrew him from the feckless fuckboy category and put him into a more serious group: a man you could build a life with. The realization sent a tremor through me.
He had me questioning everything. Him. Me. What I wanted. If I could trust my own judgment yet.
He kept teasing and pushing. The marriage proposals were obviously a joke. Tonight he’d alluded to a more serious interest in dating.
But was his heart really up for grabs? Was mine? I’d drawn a hard line, giving myself five years to establish my independence and unlearn bad habits. Reassert control. While I was nearing the end of my self-imposed period of celibacy, could I really cozy up to Clay and not regress? Not surrender?
I was done being a doormat. Done being a fool.
Clay met me at my strongest. And he seemed tolikethat. He sparred with me, undaunted when I challenged him. He wasn’t intimidated by my sharp edges or scorn. And tonight, he let me see beyond the bravado. He showed real vulnerability, talking about his wife. About therapy.
Could he respect the strength it took to escape a bad relationship and break free from a toxic past? I wanted to believe he could. But what if I was wrong? What if I lost myself again—this time to him?
Chapter 6 – Lucy
Irolled out of bed and straight into work clothes, hitting up my coffee maker before immersing myself in my latest project. Technically, I was open to the public from one to close five days a week in the summer and four during the slow months. But I often forgot to flip the sign to “open,” choosing to sell most of my work to collectors through the local art studio. I wasn’t cut out for retail.
Chaz Underwood ran the local arts scene, hosting showings in his gallery, Island Muse. He was on the slimy side, mid-fifties and slick in that former frat-boy kind of way. Lots of teeth and smiles. But he knew his business.
In addition to hosting the charity show for the National Parks Service volunteers, he held regular shows featuring my glasswork and other local artisans.
I stepped back, eyeing the chandelier globes I spent the morning polishing. Round and in iridescent shades of blues and greens, they were meant to resemble the old glass floats used in the ocean before plastic alternatives became common. Hintsof silver threaded each orb. It'd be stunning entryway art for the Roche Harbor restaurant. Their owners commissioned the piece, and it promised to be gorgeous when finished.
