Page 33 of Summer Affair
“You’re dressed like you’re about to go to church.”
Clay looked down. He was wearing dark jeans, a blue Henley, no ball cap. “Besides the hat, I look like this every day.”
“No, usually you’re wearing some kind of athletic wear, looking like you accidentally stumbled into a bar instead of a gym. These clothes you actually paid for.” He raised a brow. “You’re looking for Goddess J.”
“Maybe I’m just here to watch the game and drink a beer.” He walked behind the bar and grabbed a frosty mug.
“My bar, so sit on a stool like a good boy.” When Clay didn’t budge, Owen stepped in front of him. Now, Owen might have an inch on Clay, but he didn’t have a lifetime of tackle practice.
“If I did that, I’d be sitting there until last call.” Clay palmed his older brother’s face and gave him a shove.
Owen looked down at Clay’s clean trainers and grinned. “I’m not buying it.”
“It’s laundry day. Ever think of that?” he lied.
“Then why do you keep looking at the door?”
“Waiting for Gage.” He purposely turned his back to the entrance.
“He’ll be happy to hear that since he’s looking for you,” he said through a grin. “Something about the sanctity of single mothers everywhere.”
Great, he’d come here to get some advice and it sounded as if Gage was looking to pummel him. And he’d be within his right.
It had been four days since he and Jillian had spoken—more like she’d spoken to him. While she’d dropped off his breakfast every morning, she’d pushed back her delivery time to five, well before his usual rise and shine. Clay would hear her come through the back door, but he figured that if she was going out of her way to avoid him, then he’d give her the space she needed.
He’d blown it, and for the first time, he didn’t know how to fix it. The chase came easy to him, not that he’d ever had to do much chasing. But with Jillian, it felt different. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but the fact that he’d been obsessing over it was enough to give him pause. A reminder to refocus himself—a reminder of why he’d come home to begin with. For a place to get back into fighting shape away from the distractions of the fam, his coaches, and women with warm whiskey eyes that held a hint of mischief.
He wasn’t opposed to a little mischief. In fact, he often went looking for it. But this kind of playfulness was foreign territory.
He’d been amused when he’d caught her watching him through the window a few times, but it wasn’t amusement he’d felt during that kiss—during all the kisses.
The first left him wanting more. The second left him turned on. And the third left him wondering just how he was going to keep his hands off her for the duration of his stay. It wasn’t those perfect curves or that sexy, full mouth that sucked him in—even though she was beautiful in a sweet, girl-next-door kind of way.
It was the something else, something that had to do with the flash of vulnerability when he’d admitted to the donation and—damn—he couldn’t get that look out of his mind.
Clay filled up his mug and took a seat at the bar. He’d barely taken his first sip when someone clapped him on the shoulder. Pasting on a smile he didn’t feel, he turned expecting to find a fan, instead staring down his former high school football coach.
Minus the spare tire and receding hairline, Coach Donovan looked the same. Maybe not as big as life as when Clay had been a kid, but that sturdy rock of a mentor Clay had needed after his dad passed. Donovan didn’t just coach at the local high school, he also ran the summer program for kids.
“I was hoping to see you here,” Donovan said. “A couple of the other coaches caught word about the scholarship you set up and wondered if you might be able to drop in during a practice and give the kids a little pep talk.”
He could spell out for the coach the definition of anonymous donor, but it didn’t matter. What went down between Clay and Jillian was on him. He’d considered telling her, but when he’d walked into her kitchen and she’d looked as if the morning had swallowed her whole, he’d allowed himself to become distracted.
Something that seemed to happen a lot around her. Hell, it was what drew him in. She worked so hard to give off the façade that she had it all together, as if she didn’t want to impose her problems on other people. It was something Clay knew all too well, the feeling of being a burden to others.
After his dad passed, Clay had worked hard to make as little of a footprint in his family’s lives as possible. They were grieving the loss of their dad; he didn’t want them to have to deal with typical teen drama. So Clay went from being the class clown to the kind of kid who avoided anything that could cause more undue stress on his family—even reeling in his funny, outgoing, troublemaking side.
“What can I get you?” he asked Donovan.
“Whatever you’re having.”
Clay lifted his hand to signal another, and Owen ignored him, so he hobbled behind the bar. “Just tell me when the Tiny Tikes play, and I’ll make it happen.”
“We were thinking more along the lines of the bigger kids.”
“I can do both,” he said. Something similar to excitement spread, thinking about the look on Sammy’s face when he showed. “When is the Tiny Tike’s first practice?”
Donovan ran a hand through his hair. “Not sure yet. The dad who was supposed to coach the Bullfrogs was offered a position at a local community college. We’re hoping one of his players can take over but, with their practice schedule, it’s still up in the air.”
