Page 4 of When I Should’ve Stayed (Red Bridge #2)
Josie
A bouquet of red roses is the first thing I see when I open the door, Clay’s smiling face appearing shortly after as he pulls them down and holds them out to me on the front stoop of Grandma Rose’s house.
I’ve lived here since I moved back to town seven years ago, when I was just a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old looking to escape from under my mother’s thumb.
At first, I thought I’d be eager to move out and find my own place, but I’m comfortable.
Grandma Rose is nosy sometimes but, by and large, gives me all the freedom I ask for.
I mean, to her credit, she’s not even spying on me right now, and if I were her, after the way Clay proposed this date in the first place, I don’t know that I’d have nearly that much restraint.
It also doesn’t hurt that she only charges me a minuscule amount of rent and money for my share of the groceries.
And I know she only burdens me at all to make me feel like I’m making a contribution and not freeloading.
As a woman working as a waitress and surviving mostly on tips, I appreciate it more than I can say.
“Wow. You look beautiful,” Clay greets, handing me the bouquet and leaning in to place a single, gentle kiss to my cheek and then stepping back to take me in.
Low-rise jeans, a belt with a big buckle, and a fancy off-the-shoulder top was my fifth option for the night, and tired of taking off and putting on clothes, I finally settled. Still, Clay’s eyes are alight with appreciation, and my happiness with the choice is renewed.
“Thank you,” I say, studying his appearance with sly eyes.
He looks absolutely delicious in a formfitting, crisp white T-shirt and well-apportioned jeans and boots.
His hair is neatly combed and styled, and his smile is bright and white.
His features may be slightly rich Italian, but his aesthetic is full-on country.
And there’s no doubt about it—Clay Harris is one fine-ass man. Seriously. He’s what eighteen-year-old me would’ve called hot. And he’s what midtwenties me secretly wants to eat with a spoon.
“What?” he asks with a smirk. “No return compliment for me?”
I shrug, feigning neutrality despite my current state of lust. “You look all right, I guess.”
Clay Harris might be one of God’s gifts to women, but I refuse to show my I’m-totally-into-you cards before we even start our date. I’ll stick with playing hard to get and will have zero shame in that game.
He tilts his head, and his smile grows. “So, that’s how it is?”
“How what is?” I ask coyly, sliding past him, pulling the door shut behind me and walking toward his souped-up dark green Ford F-150.
I’m not exactly an expert on vehicles, but I know enough to realize it’s not brand-new.
The upkeep on it, however, is immaculate.
I see no scratches or spots of rust, and the chrome door handles shine like a brand-new copper penny.
He follows after me with both pep and patience, the warmth of his breath a gentle breeze on the back of my neck I’ve left exposed with an updo.
“The whole tough-nut thing,” he explains, hustling past me to open the passenger door to his truck and hold it for me.
I climb inside, and he surprises me by following with his upper body, grabbing the seat belt, pulling it across me, and securing it in the buckle.
His face is this close as he whispers, “I’m real good at cracking them. ”
“We’ll see,” I challenge somehow, even though I can barely breathe. His smell is entrancing, and if I’m honest with myself, I already feel a fissure in my shell.
Clay’s face is bright with happiness and ease as he edges back out my door, secures it shut, and rounds the hood to jump in on the driver’s side.
As he climbs in and fires it up, I test out giving this thing—this date—an actual chance.
He’s a fun, attractive-as-hell guy, and I’m an adventurous single girl.
Besides a few hours, I really have nothing to lose.
“So…” I pause and look over at him as he pulls out of Grandma Rose’s driveway. “Where are we going?”
“You know Molene?” he asks.
“Of course I know Molene. It’s the closest town with a Walmart.”
Clay laughs and takes a right turn off the main road to lead us out of town. “Well, they’re having their Spring Fling tonight in the town square.”
I nod. I know that too.
“I figured you’d be more comfortable getting to know me if the whole Red Bridge phone tree wasn’t looking on.”
I scoff. “Didn’t seem to bother you on Sunday when you physically got down on one knee to ask me out in front of all of them.”
“Yeah, but that was different. I wasn’t even myself.” He glances at me out of his periphery. “I was a man possessed.”
“Possessed?” I ask with a shocked giggle. “You should have stayed in the church, then.”
“Not possessed by the devil,” he corrects with a wag of one finger via the hand held loosely on the steering wheel as he weaves almost recklessly in and out of traffic.
I glance between him and the road, trying not to gasp every time he switches lanes.
“Possessed by need . The need to know you. The need to be near you. It’s totally different and far less damning. ”
“You’re a cheeseball,” I accuse, even as a whole flock of butterflies takes flight in my chest. “And you drive like you stole this truck. Which…I’m really hoping that’s not the case. Asking me to be the Bonnie to your Clyde is a little too much for the first date.”
He laughs. Hard. And I love the way his Adam’s apple bobs on his throat with each hearty chuckle.
“Josie, if there’s one thing you need to understand about me, it’s that I’m honest. When I’m consumed, I say I’m consumed.
Plain and simple.” He winks over at me, just one perfect blink of his right eye.
“And I own the truck outright, doll. I’m saving the Bonnie and Clyde shit for date two. Gotta take things slow, you know?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “How about you take your own advice and ease that lead foot of yours off the pedal?”
He grins at me, but he also does as I ask, slowing down his speed as he fiddles with the stereo.
He turns the knob, switching through various radio stations until he stops on one that’s playing a popular song by OneRepublic.
“Counting Stars,” I think it’s called. And there’s something intoxicating about the lyrics filling the inside of Clay’s truck as he drives us toward Molene.
It makes me think about the possibility of being with a man like him. The possibility of this first date going well and turning into a second date. And a third and a fourth. I don’t know if anything will come of this, but damn, I agree with what the lead singer says about hope.
Tonight, it feels like the word belongs to us.
“Clay?” I ask, grabbing his attention enough for him to glance away from the road briefly and meet my eyes. “How many times, exactly, have you been consumed before?”
His brief glance morphs into him actually turning to face me.
He stares at me hard in the dancing, fading light of the sunset, his view of the road completely precluded.
I panic, of course, looking away to watch traffic for him, but there’s none.
It’s a back road through the boonies, and all he has to do is keep it between the ditches.
“Never,” he says. And I never thought one word could hold so much power.
But again, I refuse to show my cards so early in this game. So, instead, I shake my head with a scoff. “Watch the road, Clay.”
“I’m not lying,” he contests. “Though, I know why you’d think I am. But I’ve never, not once, been so consumed by a woman I’ve jumped over a pew in church to follow her. Or, you know, gone to church in the first place.”
“What?” My head jerks back, bumping the base of my skull on the headrest of my passenger seat. “You jumped over the pews?”
“Betty and Old Lady Mouser were blocking the way.”
I smile at that and look down to my lap, working the fingers of both hands together in a knot. From the side and seemingly out of nowhere, Clay’s hand sneaks on top of my left one, weaving our fingers together.
I feel giddy and absolutely drunk with affection as he rubs the back of my hand with his thumb and drives into the old field behind the Molene Civic Center in silence.
Something about him and me feels like magic. Like, one day, probably far too soon, I could find myself falling for him. Or maybe I already have.