Page 25 of Let It Breathe (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #1)

C lay wasn’t surprised when his sponsor called that evening to check in. He was only surprised it had taken so long.

“Hey, Patrick,” Clay said when he grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand in his hotel room. “Thanks again for sending the vet out. I owe you for that.”

“No problem. Everything’s okay with the camel?”

“Alpaca. He’s doing great. Dr. Wally’s a great guy, really helpful.”

Clay bit back the urge to feel bitter about the kindly young vet and his date with Reese. It wasn’t his place to judge, and God knows he had no claim on Reese himself.

But that kiss ? —

Patrick cleared his throat. “Is everything okay, Clay? You seemed a little shaky when you called yesterday.”

“I’m doing great. Really, everything’s fine .”

Patrick seemed to hesitate. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but the situation you’re in seems risky. Spending every day working at a facility that produces alcohol—it just seems like a lot of temptation to face.”

“You could say that,” Clay muttered, then regretted his words. He hadn’t been thinking about alcohol at all. He’d been thinking about Reese in his arms, Reese with her damp clothes and warm lips, Reese with her body pressed against his?—

He cleared his throat and tried again. “I really appreciate the concern, Patrick. I do. I’m glad to have a support system out here.”

“Good. That’s good. You know you can call if you need me, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Clay hesitated. He knew he should be more forthcoming with his sponsor, maybe sharing the history of his connection to Reese and the feelings he was having now. But something stopped him. Something made him bite off the words before they could form in his throat.

He’d never told Eric. He’d never told Reese. If he couldn’t be honest with his two best friends, how could he tell someone he’d known less than a week?

On the other end of the line, Patrick was quiet. Clay wondered if he was waiting for him to fill the silence, to share what was on his mind. Hell, maybe he should do that.

A phone call didn’t seem like the right way to handle it, so Clay cleared his throat. “Actually, what are you up to tonight?”

“Nothing much,” Patrick said. “Working on some bills, maybe reheating leftovers.”

“Maybe we could meet up at Finnigan’s for a couple Cokes and their halibut fish-n-chips.”

“That sounds great,” Patrick said. “Seven thirtyish?”

“I’ll see you there.”

Clay hung up the phone and set it back on the nightstand. He surveyed the room, taking in the bleak walls and neutral gray comforter on the bed. Was it just him or was the place looking smaller?

His HR contact at Dorrington Construction had called earlier that morning, apologizing for the delay in finding a temporary rental for Clay.

“It’s the damn college kids,” the guy had lamented. “They’ve rented up everything within thirty miles of Linfield and George Fox. Probably not a coincidence they’ve got a bunch of colleges right in the middle of wine country, huh?”

Clay was trying hard to remember why he didn’t want to rent Axl’s place out at the vineyard. There were plenty of reasons, good ones. Patrick was right—working at a vineyard was risky enough for a recovering drunk. Living at one? Bad idea. Very bad idea.

It’s not the wine you’re worried about , said a voice in the back of his head.

He heard Eric’s words again. Don’t shit where you eat.

“Shut up,” Clay said aloud, and went to take a shower.

But once he was naked and soapy, thoughts of Reese just intensified.

He drifted back to college, to the first time he’d met her their sophomore year. He’d been sitting there alone in the back row on the first day of class that fall, wondering if he should have bought pens instead of pencils to demonstrate his status as a mature, confident college student.

“Someone sitting here?”

He’d looked up to see her with the fluorescent lights of the classroom making a halo around her head.

She wore her light-brown hair gathered in a low ponytail beneath her right ear, cinched with a red elastic that sent a cascade of sun-streaked waves over her shoulder and into the hollow between her breasts.

She hadn’t been wearing anything memorable—not to anyone else, though Clay recalled she wore a flannel shirt over a yellow T-shirt that hugged her curves.

But there was something in the way she carried herself that made him sit up and take notice.

Her cheeks were flushed and lovely, and she wore a tatty canvas shoulder bag with a romance novel peeking over the top.

He tried to get a closer look at it, but she nudged the bag back over her shoulder, obscuring the book from his view. Then she extended her hand.

“I’m Reese. I’m studying viticulture. How about you?”

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.

He stared at them for a moment, waiting to see if temptation would grab him by the throat and squeeze. It didn’t. There was a familiar tang of nostalgia, but he didn’t think it was the beer calling to him.