Page 59 of Saved By Noel
Chapter thirty-four
Clark
We’re at the crawfish boil, and Junior is showing Clara how to eat a crawfish. She regards Junior with amused affection, and the crawfish with skeptical disgust. Chase is stuck to them like glue, knowing they’re his best chance at a bite of food from the table.
Today’s “Christmas in July” event went better than I expected. Everyone acted genuinely excited about the festival. Even I have to admit there were a lot of good ideas thrown out in the brainstorm session.
Still, it was a tough basket of emotions to sort through. Gratitude to see the people of Noel full of hope. Anxiety about what my dad and granddad would have to say if they were here to see this. Relief that they aren’t here to say anything. Guilt over the relief.
I haven’t experienced this much inner turmoil since the years following the accident. Except maybe with the introduction of Clara into my life.
I observe her as she watches Junior bring the crawfish head to his lips, sucking out the butter and juices. Her attempt at a smile falters, and it’s evident she’s trying her hardest not to gag.
I bring a hand to my mouth to cover my smile. Then I decide to put her out of her misery.
Ambling over to them, I ruffle Junior’s hair and tell Clara, “Looking a little green around the gills there. You’re taking this Christmas thing too seriously.”
She casts a glare my direction, and I can’t hold back a laugh any longer. I hold up the hot dog I’ve been hiding behind my back. “Here. Looks like you could use an alternative meal.”
Relief floods her eyes as she accepts my offering. “Oh, bless you. I’m sorry. I know this is such a cliché city girl move, but I just don’t have . . . that . . . in me.” She gestures toward Junior eating another crawfish, who’s oblivious to Clara’s discomfort.
I chuckle again as Clara takes a bite of the hot dog. “The brainstorm went pretty well, I suppose,” I say. I try not to be affected by the spark in Clara’s eyes or the perfect smile that draws my attention to her mouth. Try and fail.
“It did, didn’t it?” she replies. “People were full of fantastic ideas.”
“You know almost every idea thrown out was already on your original list,” I observe. Her cheeks flush at my admission of having memorized her list, but I don’t try to backtrack the statement. My resolve to keep her on the outside of my internal walls has been waffling today.
“Still, it’s better for it to betheirideas coming to life. Everyone has to own this if it’s going to work,” she says, eyes locked on mine.
“Hey, I’m owning it,” I respond. She raises an eyebrow, and I hold up my hands. “Okay—reluctantly—but I’m still owning it.”
Satisfied, she takes another bite before tearing off a small piece and feeding it to Chase. As if he needed any more reasonto follow her around. Clara finishes her last bite and brushes her hands together. “We should probably talk through some of the practical logistics,” she says, turning to face me.
“Why do I feel like I should be grabbing a notepad and pen for this?” I reply.
“You should absolutely grab a notepad and pen for this,” she quips. “And possibly a cranberry-orange scone if there are any left!”
I shake my head but smile. “Why don’t you go raid the dessert table, and I’ll get stationery supplies.”
Clara nods and walks toward the food table, Chase on her heels. I whistle and call him, “Chase! C’mere, boy!” He glances back at me, then up at Clara, then back at me. He whines. “Traitor!” I yell as he follows after her. The smug smile she gives me over her shoulder ignites a fuse of dynamite in my chest. I quickly stride toward my truck before it detonates and I wind up the same love-struck puppy that Chase has become.
Five minutes later, we’re sitting at a secluded picnic table with a legal pad between us. I brush Clara’s scone crumbs off the page before writing a list of logistics to discuss—installation, upfront investment, advertising, and marketing. Chase makes camp between our feet, lying down in the cool grass.
Clara leans toward the page, squinting. “Need your glasses there, ma’am?” I tease in my driest deadpan tone.
She rolls her beautiful blue eyes at me. “Ha ha,MayorNoel. No, I don’t need my glasses. I just can’t read that chicken scratch.”
I examine the paper. “What? It’s perfectly legible.”
Clara scoffs. “Puh-lease. No one—except maybe you—could read that. Are you sure you didn’t secretly aspire to be a doctor?”
As soon as the words leave her mouth, her sarcastic smirk falls as her lips and eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t mean that, Clark! I’m sorry. That was poor taste in jokes.”
The fact that she would not only be aware of the possible impact of that joke, but also care enough to apologize, evaporates any potential sting from the comment.
“Clara, it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Although Junior’s stitches run did get me thinking that we could use an urgent care here in Noel. Maybe I’ll learn that next. A scalpel might make a nice addition to my tattoo.”
My mention of the tattoo sends Clara’s gaze to my arm, and my forearm flexes at the memory of her soft fingers tracing my skin. Her eyes track the movement of my muscles, and suddenly the tension between us is so thick, a butter knife would do the trick. No scalpel necessary.
