Page 23 of Don't Leave Me Behind
“The chest freezer in the basement.”
He whips his head toward me, so fast I think he might have cracked his neck in the process. He rubs a spot under his skull. “There’s a basement?”
“Of course, there’s a basement.” I roll my eyes. “Where do you think the water heater and furnace are? Not to mention, the freezer.”
He sits back like he’s trying to decide if I’m fucking with him or not. The boys would, and maybe that’s what makes this whole thing so damn funny. “I swear to God, there’s a trap door in the pantry.”
He gets up, food forgotten as he saunters to the pantry, and back. “Huh.” He sinks back down into his chair, looking genuinely puzzled.
“Some deputy you are,” I tease, picking up my first taco and moaning a bit when the flavors hit my tongue.
Clayton blinks at me, his mouth dropping open ever so slightly as he watches me tuck into the food.
“I hate to break up, whatever fantasy is happening inside that head of yours, Traeger, but I make no promises not to finish off all of these tacos if you don’t start eating.”
He shakes that headful of messy black curls, before giving me a sheepish grin and turns his attention back to his dinner. It’s been a long time since anyone has tried my cooking for the first time. I love getting people’s reactions to the foods I make.
He eats half of a taco in one bite, sinking into his chair as he groans. It takes him one more bite to finish off the rest of it, that guttural sound making another appearance as a zip of electricity heads straight between my thighs.
So that’s why he’d been staring earlier; food groans are inherently sexual, noted.
“Leni.” The way he says my name this time is downright sinful. He’s loading up his plate with four more tacos, talking between bites. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Ma, obviously.” I shrug, trying not to show how affected I am by his praise. But holy lord, am I affected. Like, head-to-toe body shivers affected. The way he’s enjoying his tacos is not helping my case either. I gulp down half my beer in one go, chugging like my life depends on it.
“Seriously, these are incredible.”
“Thanks.” I look down at my own plate, suddenly overwhelmed by having his full attention on me.
Dinner finishes faster than the time it took to assemble the tacos, as we forgo the small talk and simply eat our food. I have to say, I don’t mind. The tacos are to die for, and I usually never get to finish my food on a date. Opting to get to know the person instead. Not that this is a date. I’m just enjoying beingable to eat my food the way I want without worrying if the person eating with me will judge me for it.
We clean up supper together, Clay shooing me away when there’s only the slow cooker left to deal with. It’s not quite dark enough to trek over to my car for the rest of my stuff, so I head for the front room to settle into my reading nook when a flash of metal precedes the rumble of my dad’s old pickup.
With the front of the cabin being all windows, I’m limited to where I can hide to keep from being seen. I opt for the most obvious answer and throw myself down on the floor, unable to stop the little yelp from escaping when my hip slams into the hardwood.
“Leni?” Clay pops out of the kitchen area, looking at me with concern, when a knock sounds on the door. His eyes widen as he peeks around to see who’s outside. “Hey, Pa,” he says, opening the door wide enough to not be suspicious, but not far enough to show me in the living area.
“Clay, how’s it going, son?”
A little ache slices through my chest at the sound of my dad’s voice. I haven’t realized how much I missed seeing him in person until right this second.
“I’m good.”
“Settling in, okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Though I’m sure Leni will be happy when I find somewhere a little more permanent. Mercers on a campaign to find some way to lure her home this summer.”
Another stinging pain cuts through my chest at the thought of Clay not being here permanently. Somehow, this place feels more like home with him in it. My dad laughs; I can almost see him shaking his head at Mercer’s antics. He’s kind of like the class clown of the family.
“Well, I won’t take any more of your time, Clay. I just stopped by cause Brooks said he couldn’t reach you by phone.”
“Oh, shit.” I hear some rustling, likely Clay pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I put it onDo Not Disturbafter work. The group chat was out of control.”
“This is why I don’t have one of them fancy phones,” Dad grunts. I can almost guarantee his white, Tom Selleck-style mustache twitches when he frowns.
“Yeah, well, not all of us can be as cool as you, Orson.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
