Page 24 of Sterling Clay

She turns for her suitcase, which isn’t unpacked but open on the floor in the corner. She isn’t making herself at home like I’ve asked. She’s living like she’s on the run, and I don’t want her running.

“Is today the day I go to Miss Meredith’s?” Dutton groggily asks.

“Sure is, little bear,” she calls out, standing once she’s found what she wants within her bag. “I need to shower quick and then I’ll get us breakfast.”

“I can do breakfast,” I offer.

“Do you know how to make oatmeal with the right amount of cinnamon and some milk?” Dutton asks, his voice morning rough while he doesn’t appear fazed that I’m in their room this early.

“I know my way around a microwave and a bowl of oatmeal, buddy,” I counter, placing my hands on my hips to tease him while he assesses me, taking in the hip hugging pajama bottoms that I typically don’t wear to sleep in. My hair might be a fright like Mavis’s because of the way I slept.

Softly, Dutton smiles. The first real smile I’ve seen on the kid.

“Then let’s go.” He scrambles forward, crawling until he reaches the end of the bed, then swings his legs off it and stands ramrod straight, lifting his arms in the air like a practiced gymnast.

“How’d I do on the dismount?” Dutton asks, although I’m not certain if he’s talking to me or Mavis.

“A perfect ten,” she says at the same time I say, “Eight point seven-five-five.”

Dutton glares at me, holding his position a second before lowering his arms with a slap to his thighs. “I’ll work on that.”

“You do that,” I remark.

With that, he gives me a nod and exits the room.

“You could have given him a better score,” Mavis chastises, scowling at me. Even with a frown, she’s still stunning. Somehow her expression only makes her edgier, bolder, fiercer. Her desire to fight only sparks my need to rescue.

“Not doing him any favors by making him think everything he does is perfect,” I state, and instantly regret my answer. My mind flits back to Mavis’s ex and the abuse poor Dutton must have experienced at the hands of his father. Mavis’s encouragement might have initially sounded over-the-top, but it makes sense. She’s his sole support system and number one cheerleader, and she’s trying to erase every mean or disparaging word Dutton has endured.

Scratching at the back of my head, I apologize. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Mavis’s mouth pops open. Then claps shut. She shakes her head once more and then brushes past me and out the door.

And I’m left wondering if I can ever make things right with this woman.

Chapter 9

[Mavis]

Clay’s words were triggering once more, reminding me of Wesley’s constant criticism of how I parented Dutton. Also reminding me of my parents’ comparison to how Cecilia would have done things differently.

On the other hand, Clay wasn’t wrong. While I did want Dutton to think he was perfect just the way he is, I might overcompensate on the perfection-praise to make up for all he’d endured. All his losses. All his conflicts. All I’d put him through. And no one faulted me more than me, for the precarious position Dutton and I found ourselves in with Wesley.

My emotions were a mess because Clay Sylver held both Dutton and me through the night, offering comfort during a storm, and then woke looking too smug and sexy for his own good. That deep, rugged tenor. I’d have lady morning wood, if there was such a thing, from that voice alone, but then throw in a patch of hair on his chest, the tats on his arms, and the silvery scruff along his jaw. Deep sigh.

I need a cold shower but want the heat to wake me up and calm me down. I have no business getting sexually worked up over Clay. He was hospitable, if absent, and doing us a huge favor by letting us crash here for almost two weeks. But we needed to move on. I hated feeling like a charity case, and I’d learned my lesson the hard way by putting my faith in someone who had nothing to stand on but his own two feet. And even that was shaky at best after he drank too much.

But today, I wasn’t thinking about my past. This morning, I was looking forward to my future. I had an appointment with the insurance company.

Day one of regaining some financial stability.

Rapidly, I finish my shower, shifting my concern to Clay’s ability to make oatmeal. The man hasn’t prepared a meal since I’ve been present. After quickly moisturizing, braiding my hair, and dressing in a casual skirt and sweater, I near the kitchen to find Clay seated across from Dutton.

The two dive into their breakfast like a synchronized pair of oatmeal connoisseurs. To my surprise, Clay isn’t on his phone, which Wesley would have been, had he been present, and Dutton isn’t on his tablet. Instead, the two are talking about Halloween.

“And you want to be a what?” Clay asks, confused by what Dutton first mentioned.

“I want to be a Power Princess. The pink one.”