Page 114 of Ex Marks the Spot

I’d had days like those. Or hours . . . or . . . moments?

The point was that I’d had my cartoon hearts—however brief—and however clouded by revisionist history, dreams, and embellishment. And however ripped off from whatever Regency romance novel I was reading. If my friends accused me of confusing my life with those in my books, they were most certainly...probably correct.

It didn’t mean I’d lost touch with reality. It just meant I had healthy romantic dreams that would most certainly...not become reality.

Sigh. Yeah, who needed reality?

I mean, it’s not like I spent a lot of time worrying about turning my life into a novel. That was impossible. Obviously. I knew Mr. Darcy wasn’t going to rock up to Green Valley on his horse and declare his undying love for me. Still, I could fantasize about the kind of swoony, possessive men whose words dripped with passion and masculinity: “I won’t allow another man to kiss you. You belong to me. You have since the day we met.”

These men had locks of hair that fell roguishly over their foreheads, abs visible through winter-weight cotton shirts, and jawlines that could carve facets into diamonds. Their voices came out in growly rumbles that sent a thrill of awareness right down to my...

“I didn’t see if Diamond ate the chicken salad, but I really hope not because I had two helpings,” Witty whispered loudly, sending a spray of pineapple Fanta in my direction.

The record scratch that brought me back to reality was men like Witty—kind, dependable co-workers who’d married good women and made the happily ever after look easy. Witty served as a father figure to me, doling out hopeful advice from time to time when he sensed I was giving up on romance. “There’s a lid for every pot,” he was fond of saying.

What he didn’t understand was that the men who I fantasized about in my novels did not exist. I knew this. It had been drilled into me by my mother, and then I’d learned it the hard way. Twice. Two budding relationships, two cases of heartbreak I should have seen coming.

Now I relied on myself. I was happy teaching high school art and yearbook design and going home to a small, spotless house. Happy and single.

I stood up to reheat my coffee and noticed the assortment of ceramic coffee mugs with sayings like “Don’t make me use my teacher voice” and “Teaching is a work of heart.” No one ever washed those mugs, so there they sat, week after week, growing ten colors of mold.

I popped my lukewarm coffee into the microwave, watched the inner carousel spin slowly, and wondered for not the first time how microwaves work.

“It’s all about moving the molecules. Exciting them.” I didn’t need to turn to identify the voice over my shoulder. Just like I didn’t have to ask my question out loud for Clay Meadows to know I was wondering about the microwave.

Reading my mind was just something he did. Quietly, unobtrusively. Always serious and stoic, always leaning in to say things just to me, as though he and I shared a secret, and leaning away just as quickly to go about his business.

The problem was that he moved my molecules all over the place when he spoke and he excited them just by walking into the room.

I willed the chills that prickled across the back of my neck to abate along with the flush I felt creeping across my cheeks. I hated that my body reacted to Clay, heart rate speeding to a faster clip, even as my brain gave it firm instructions to chill.

Clay was standing close enough that I could smell the woodsy, fresh scent of whatever soap or aftershave he used. I swallowed hard and popped the door on the microwave open, even though my coffee still had twelve seconds to go. “All yours,” I said, taking a generous step aside.

He slid a tray of something into the microwave and started it with the quiet press of a button. I tried not to notice every small movement Clay Meadows made, but it was impossible. Not when his six feet, three inches of muscle took up residence in a room.

Today, Clay wore a tan blazer over a gray tee and a pair of dark jeans which hugged his runner’s thighs. His hair had the rumpled perfection of a mad scientist mixed with a sexy surf-wear model.

He shoved a hand through it whenever he was thinking, which was often. Add the tortoiseshell reading glasses, and he ticked every box on the how-to-look-hot-and-nerdy checklist.

He and I had known each other since we were teenagers. He was—and still is—my older brother Jefferson’s closest friend. During our teen years, Clay spent half his waking hours at our house, but he was always on the go, moving in and out of our kitchen, upstairs and back down again, into the hallway and out the door. Never stopped long enough for a conversation with me, which was just as well since I was fifteen, two years younger, and tongue-tied around guys other than my brother. I was awkward and shy, he was tall and handsome, and his constant proximity made him the object of all my fantasies.

A lot had changed in nearly two decades. Now, I was confident and outgoing, and my teenage dreams of Clay Meadows had long since faded, replaced by dreams of fictional men. We’d worked together for going on ten years, and other than conversations that involved Green Valley High, we rarely talked outside of the teachers’ lounge.

Clay was still fast moving, stoic, and evasive, brow always furrowed with a permanent crease, hazel eyes always darting around as though his mind was elsewhere. Students loved him. He taught a senior honors seminar and a Shakespeare elective, and he coached the track team.

He kept his circle of friends small, and as one of Green Valley’s most notorious bachelors, he didn’t let in many women either. Not that they didn’t try. Not that every match-making auntie countywide hadn’t given it a go as well.

But according to the rumor mill, first dates with Clay Meadows rarely led to second ones. Ever discerning, he always explained, “It’s not you, it’s me,” and moved on. Clay was as commitment-phobic as Mr. Darcy was swoony. And as my mother would warn, “Leopards don’t change their spots.”

I inhaled deeply as a melted cheese aroma filled the room. At least it distracted me from the soap smell and the man emitting it.

“Wow, that smells amazing.”

Glancing at my wilting salad, Clay nodded. “Mac and cheese. Leftovers.”

“Even better. Where are they left over from? Restaurant or did you work your magic on some Kraft noodles at home?”

Clay tipped his head toward the microwave and inhaled a whiff of a smell that made me want to throw my salad in the trash. Or at him. “It’s from that new place outside of Knoxville. They Know What to Do with Pasta.”

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