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I can’t think clearly when you’re close to me.
Shouldn’t that tell you something then?
It only tells me what I’ve always known.
That wry smile. That wistful tone.
Clark Fletcher wanted me, and he always had. I just had to convince him that he could trust me enough to give in to his desire.
CHAPTER18
CLARK
Twenty-four hours later,I was still reeling from that fiery kiss in Hunter’s kitchen as I took my usual seat in The Stag Pub for trivia. My friends were already there, playfully trash-talking each other, the perfect distraction.
That was, until Bobbi looked at me and asked about the one person I was trying not to obsess about.
“No Hunter, tonight?”
I forced a smile and willed my voice to come out normally, as if I hadn’t run out of Hunter’s house like my tail was on fire after reacting to the man like a cat in heat.
“Hunter’s staying home with Toby this week. He doesn’t like to leave him with his grandparents too often.”
“Ah, too bad.”
Time to change the subject. “Anyone get the answer sheets? No? I’ll grab them. I need to order a beer anyway.”
I hopped up and escaped to the bar, where strangely, Maude was working.
“You’re here late,” I said. Maude didn’t usually pull evening hours since she ran much of the daytime business. “Someone bail on you?”
“Nah. Figured I’d save a few bucks by covering the bar a few nights,” she said. “Oven’s been on the fritz again. It’s going to set me back when I have to replace it.”
I winced in sympathy, happy to focus on someone else’s dilemma. “Don’t work too hard.”
She gave a raspy cough that was probably the result of years of smoking. “Think that ship has sailed, kid. But thanks.”
I didn’t take offense at being called kid. Everyone probably seemed incredibly young to Maude. She was in her seventies, though with dyed teal hair and an eyepatch, she had an unmistakably rakish air to her. Despite it being a small town, no one knew the true story behind the patch: was it legitimately needed or just a strange accessory? No doubt Maude had fed the rumors for the latter. Knowing her, she enjoyed being considered eccentric.
By the time I returned to our table, the conversation had moved on to Tucker complaining about the focus groups he was organizing for the Granville Shrinkage plan, Augustus sighing over Joe—what was new?—and Wes and Beckett bickering—again, what was new?
Wes picked up Beckett’s mug and took a swig, pulling a face as he swallowed. His own beer sat right in front of him, a paler shade than Beckett’s amber. There was no mistaking the two.
“Dude, that’s my beer,” Beckett protested.
“So? I wanted to try it.” Wes shuddered. “Big mistake. I should have known your taste in beer would be as bad as your taste in women.”
Beckett’s expression was priceless. His mouth opened and closed in shock. Then he rallied, pushing back his floppy ginger hair and nailing Wes with a narrow-eyed stare. “You’re saying my taste in women is bad?”
Wes leaned back in his seat, big arms crossed over his chest, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Yup.”
“Cora Wells.” Beckett started ticking off the names of women Wes had dated on his fingers. “Melissa Parth. Janine Mead—”
“Yeah, yeah, but they were all hot,” Wes said defensively.
“Are you saying I don’t date hot women? Who scored a date with Calista Locke?”
Wes snorted. “You mean before she replaced you with a hot-as-fuck girlfriend?”
