Page 5 of Sterling Clay

To my surprise, Mavis rushes forward again and places her hand on my forehead, the coolness reminding me of my thoughts only moments ago of my mother. Mavis’s touch is comforting, and instantly I melt back into the pillow beneath my head. She’s the one who touched me earlier.

Her soothing fingers smooth down my forehead to brush over my cheek, and I wince at the tenderness beneath my eye.

“You fell,” she states, as if reminding me when I have no recall of that happening.

“When? How?” Although, with Mavis gently stroking over my face, my body relaxes more. I fall under the spell of whatever she’s doing to me.

That feels nice.

A soft chuckle follows my thought, suggesting I might have said it aloud.

“Sleep, Clay,” she whispers. The ghost of her breath brushes my cheek, and my eyes want to open in surprise.

Did Mavis Holland just kiss me? Impossible.

She’s a married woman. With a child no less. And my thoughts should not be traveling down the path they sometimes lead. Where the crush I have on an unobtainable woman haunts my dreams and brought me to my knees a time or two, when the fantasy became too much, and I had to take matters into my own hand.

Imagining this woman who can never be mine.

A woman who entered my store with a forced smile and a bruise covered only by the edge of a short-sleeved tee.

A woman who stared at me, as if pleading for someone to protect her when it wasn’t my place to be near her.

She belonged to another man, and he didn’t deserve her.

Not one inch of that midnight hair I want to slip my fingers through.

Not a glance from those dark, hollow eyes which made me weak for her.

Not a kiss from those lips that look soft and thirst-quenching and make my own mouth water for a sip.

No, he didn’t deserve her after what he did.

I don’t either, especially as I drift back to sleep with images in my head of her curled up beside me, warming my skin, and matching my heartbeat.

The one hammering with desire to keep her safe.

Chapter 3

[Mavis]

I shouldn’t have stayed but I didn’t have the heart to leave. Clay Sylver was so sick. I was certain he had the flu, and as much as I didn’t want to expose myself to him for fear Dutton would have a relapse, I couldn’t leave him.

After watching him fall on his face the other night, I scrambled from the Jetta, grateful to find Clay had not locked his front door when he entered his home. Thankfully, he hadn’t broken his nose when he landed on the floor. By the grace of all things holy, I was able to rouse him enough to help him sit upright and then lead him to his bedroom, although he leaned heavily on me. His clothing was soaked. His skin was a cloying mixture of chilly and clammy. Unceremoniously, I dropped him on his bed and stared down at him, a war raging within me.

Stay or go.

I selected option one but first I had to get Dutton from the car. Rushing back to the vehicle, I picked up my six-year-old, struggling with the new weight he’d gained and the deadweight of a lanky sleeping child. I brought him into Clay’s house, tucking him in on the couch with a decorative pillow and a throw blanket. Returning to my car I retrieved our suitcases. The two large bags contained most of our belongings. The few other things we owned remain in Florida for now.

Then I settled in to take care of Clay.

As an out-of-work nurse, I told myself to treat him like any patient. Rolling him over was another struggle as a sleeping, grown man is five times the deadweight of a child. I peeled his wet leather jacket from him and wrestled with the Henley beneath it that was sticky and tricky to remove. Clay was hardly disturbed while I held my breath and occasionally let out a laugh at my awkward attempts. His boots came next, easy enough to tug off him, and then removal of his socks that were disgustingly saturated. His jeans, however, were my real dilemma.

I didn’t want to feel like I was taking advantage of Clay in any manner, but extreme times call for extreme measures, and Clay could not sleep in wet denim that was suckered to him like a second skin. Gingerly, I popped the button at his waist before realizing they were button fly as well and I couldn’t do a simple unzip to relieve him of his pants. No, I had to cautiously pop open each button, working deliberately while quickly, so I didn’t disturb a particular body part I had no business thinking about.

Certain the sudden movement of tugging at his waistband near his hips would wake him, I pulled hard and fast.

Clay didn’t rouse and, thankfully, neither did any other part of him.