Page 23 of Unlikely
The grin on her face is filled with pure delight. “Well, maybe you should.”
She winks, actually winks, at Aubrey, who laughs at her and her antics, while my attention gives in to the magnetic pull between Clem and me, wincing at her having to witness this banter between Aubrey and Raine, innocent as it may be. I don’t want her to feel insignificant or unremarkable.
Because what we shared was anything but that.
It was memorable.
Shewas memorable.
Reluctantly, I tear my eyes off of her and look back at Aubrey, now wishing she left sooner rather than later, because Clementine is here, in my kitchen, friends with my daughter, and visibly itching to get out of here. And I need to work out how to make her stay.
“Okay, I better get going,” Aubrey announces.
Thankful, I place a hand on the small of her back. “Let me walk you out.”
The goodbye is cold and rushed, and I know I’ll hate myself for it tomorrow, but for now, my only thoughts are of Clementine.
Straightening my dress, I walk back into the kitchen, feigning confidence and filled with determination. I somehow need to find the balance between the mother I am in this house and the woman I was that night in the club.
Grabbing plates, bowls, and glasses, I start to set up the table for the three of us to, even though I have no plans to eat.
“Clem,” I call out, keeping my gaze off of her. “Would you be able to grab silverware for us? It’s in the first drawer by the stove.”
I don’t wait for her answer, and I’m not surprised when I notice her in my periphery, placing a fork and knife on either side of each plate.
“So,” I hedge, pretending to fiddle with the positioning of the plates. “You and Raine work together?”
“You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly.
Confused, I check that Raine still has her back to us as she stands at the stove, and quickly eat up the distance between us. “Do what?”
“Make conversation. You don’t have to worry; I’m not going to tell her.”
Irritated, I step even closer to her. “You think I’m worried you’re going to tell Raine?”
She turns to look at me. “Well, aren’t you?”
Her face is so close, her eyes tired, her nose still red from crying. She looks like the world is on her shoulders, and I hate that I have no business asking her why.
“No,” I say firmly, sticking to the conversation. “We were two consenting adults.”
She remains silent.
“Clementine.”
“That’s not my name,” she says. “Not here.”
Her words have me asking more questions I won’t get the answers to.
“Please tell me it wasn’t your eighteenth birthday.”
When words fail her, I grab her chin and make her look at me. “Clem, please.”
Her eyes soften, and for the first time tonight, she’s right back there with me. Dancing, laughing… touching.
“I’m twenty-four,” she answers, her voice soft. “It was my twenty-fourth birthday.”
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