All Summer Long (Fool's Gold #9)(22)

She’d been at it for a couple of hours. She was sweaty and hot, her sticky skin dotted with bits of leaves and smudged with dirt. She had just finished with the last hedge and was about to take her tools to the garage for cleaning when Clay strolled up.

He looked cool and fresh, his cotton shirt all smooth. His jeans were worn, with interesting creases at the hips and thighs. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but there were tiny reflections of herself on the lenses. Sweat, grime and debris were not her best look.

“What do you want?” she demanded, before she remembered that perhaps she might want to be nicer to the man she’d asked to sleep with her.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Not a morning person?” he asked.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“I was giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

She sighed. “I don’t like yard work. I’m not good at it. Not the physical stuff—that’s easy. But knowing what to do. I think my plants make fun of me behind my back.”

“Because they respect you enough not to do it to your face?”

“Something like that.” She looked at him, then away. Confusion made her uneasy. Should she demand he tell her what he’d decided? Or just withdraw the request and accept a year or two of therapy?

“We should go inside,” he said, motioning to the front door.

As it was her house, she should do the inviting, but she decided to simply go with it. She put down her clippers and wiped her hands on the front of her tank top, wished her jeans were a little cleaner, then mentally shrugged. This was the real her. If Clay couldn’t handle it, then sex was out of the question.

But as she led the way into the house, she realized she was filled with a queasy combination of anticipation and dread. He could agree or tell her to go to hell. To be honest, she wasn’t comfortable with any of the possibilities.

She passed through the living room and walked into the spacious kitchen. The previous owner had updated it a decade or so ago, which had been more than enough for her. Appliances that worked, wood cabinets and a countertop where she could stack takeout was plenty. Annabelle had done a full five-minute lovefest on the six-burner stove she’d chosen for Shane’s new house and an even longer soliloquy on the countertops. Charlie had listened with seeming interest because she wanted to be a good friend, but dear God. It was a kitchen. She simply didn’t have it in herself to get excited.

The table and chairs by the window had been a garage-sale find. She’d stripped them herself and refinished them. Heidi had helped her pick out the cheerful red cushions. Now she pointed to the chairs.

“Sit.”

The word came out as more of a bark than she would have liked. Clay removed his sunglasses, gave her an amused single-eyebrow raise, then did as instructed.

She sighed. Fine. She would admit it. The boy-girl thing was a complete disaster for her. At least she understood her limitations. Besides, she wasn’t looking for a meaningful relationship. She simply wanted to get laid.

Sort of.

She pulled a pitcher out of the refrigerator. After filling two glasses with ice, she carried them over to the table, set the pitcher in the middle and then glared at Clay.

“Did you want something else?”

The amusement never faltered. “You get defensive when you’re nervous.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckled. “Thank you for illustrating my point. Now you sit.”

She plopped down and poured them each a glass of lemonade. After passing his to him, she happened to glance at her hands.

Dirt covered every inch and collected under her nails. Crap. She probably should have washed her hands before getting them drinks. Which she would have done if he hadn’t been here. The man rattled her and not in a happy way.

“I’m not defensive,” she snapped.

He picked up his glass and took a sip. His unsettling gaze swung back to her. “This is lemonade.”

She rolled her eyes. “Most people would say the yellow color was a dead giveaway.”

He reached his free hand across the table and placed it on her forearm. “No claws required, Charlie. I’m not the enemy.”

His voice was gentle, as was the pressure on her arm. She was aware of the warmth of his fingers on her skin. It all seemed easy for him. Because for him, the touching thing was no big deal.

She could touch, too, she reminded herself. She could carry a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man out of a burning building, then give him CPR without blinking. But even she knew that was different.

She drew in a deep breath, ignored the warmth his fingers generated and then exhaled.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “It’s lemonade.”

“You used sugar.”

“Have you tried it without sugar? Do you know what a lemon is?”

His hold tightened slowly. She had a feeling if she were a stray cat or dog, he would be murmuring something like, “It’s okay, girl. No one is going to hurt you.”

“I was making conversation,” he told her, his tone still tinged with amusement. “Most people don’t use sugar. They use something without calories.”

“Women,” she said, snatching her arm away. “You mean women. I don’t like artificial sweeteners. And if most women lived my day, they could afford the calories.” She glared at him. “Are you saying I’m fat?”