Say You Love Me

by Heather B. Moore

  The office phone started to ring, so she went to answer it. She answered the questions from a potential client as best she could, but she was no Jeff Finch. So in the end, she said she’d have Jeff Finch call the lady back when he was feeling better.

  After the phone call, Clara went to check the cat. It had curled up on top of a closed box of brochures and was asleep.

  “Okay, then,” Clara whispered. “When it stops raining, you’re going back outside.” She felt sorry for the poor thing, but she couldn’t take it home because her apartment had a no-pet rule.

  The driving rain was keeping walk-in customers out, and within the next hour, Clara had caught up on all the emails that had come in over the weekend. Curious, she pulled up the spreadsheet of Jeff’s contacts and found Dawson’s numbers. Both an office number and cell number were listed.

  Clara knew that if she reached out to Dawson Harris, she’d be changing up everything she’d told him. Yet, it wasn’t as if she was asking him on a date, right? Maybe she could just tease him a little . . . he had bought romance novels.

  She put his cell number into her own cell phone. Then, after debating another ten minutes, she finally texted him: Jeff told me about your eclectic reading choices. I was surprised. She hit SEND, then held her breath. Good thing she didn’t hold her breath for long, because Dawson didn’t reply.

  In fact, two more hours passed, and with each passing minute, Clara felt smaller and smaller. And dumb. And silly. He was probably really busy. Maybe even in court. She was the one who had turned him down flat for a date. A man like Dawson Harris likely didn’t give second chances. Was she playing games? No. Just as she’d told him, they were different. Very different. But maybe he’d really listened to her, and that’s why he’d bought the books, and maybe . . .

  Her phone rang, and her heart nearly stopped when she saw Dawson Harris appear on the incoming call. He hadn’t texted her back . . . He was calling her.

  Clara let it ring once, then twice . . . her pulse was now racing like crazy . . . third ring. She answered, hoping she sounded cool.

  “Was it a good surprise or bad surprise?” he said with no preamble.

  The tones of his low voice coming through the phone seemed to melt into her. “Depends on the books,” she said.

  Dawson laughed. It was a nice laugh. One that reached to her toes.

  “Oh really?” he said. “All right. For your information, although it’s technically none of your business, since you don’t want to hang out with me, I got The Pursuit of Lady Harriett by Rachael Anderson, and The Smallest Part by Amy Harmon.”

  “Wow,” Clara said. “I’m impressed. I’ve read the Lady Harriett book, but not Amy Harmon’s yet.”

  “Want to borrow it when I’m done?” he asked.

  Clara smiled. “Maybe. And I didn’t say I didn’t want to hang out with you.”

  Dawson seemed to pause at this.

  Clara knew she’d just thrown him a pretty big lead. She’d be interested to see what his lawyer-mind came back with.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You didn’t say those words exactly, but you did turn me down when I asked you out on a date.”

  “With your parents,” she said. “I mean, no woman in her right mind would have said yes to a first date that involves parents.”

  “Very true,” Dawson said, and she swore she could hear the smile in his voice. “That was extremely poor form. You know, if the problem was the parent thing, I can definitely remedy that.”

  She closed her eyes. Here it came.

  “Except you said you didn’t want to date,” Dawson continued.

  Clara felt her heart sink. He had a good memory and was good about dissecting their previous conversation. She had told him she didn’t want to date. And for very good reasons . . . except she couldn’t remember what they were now.

  “So, I was thinking,” he said in that deep voice of his. “We could hang out. Maybe at a restaurant. Around dinner time? Absolutely no parents allowed.”

  Clara laughed.

  “We could discuss romance novels,” Dawson continued, his tone hopeful.

  “Tell you what, Mr. Harris,” Clara said. “Read one of those books, and then maybe we’ll hang out.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she wished she could see his face.

  “I think I’m starting to like how you call me Mr. Harris,” he said in a low voice. “It’s Regency-like.”

  “You already started reading it?” she asked.

  “I did. And I can see how I need to earn the right for you to call me by my first name,” he said. “Should I be calling you Miss Benson?

  Clara smiled. “Clara is fine.”

  “All right, Clara,” he continued. “Keep your nights free. I should be finished with both of these books in no time.”

  Clara’s pulse was racing again by the time she’d hung up with Dawson. He had done the unexpected, and she probably shouldn’t let it sway her, but she had. She closed her eyes and exhaled. Was she ready for this? Probably not. Maybe when he called her again, she’d have more resolve to turn him down.

  That thought gave her comfort, but she also suspected she had a dinner date in her near future. Dawson didn’t seem like the kind of man who would go back on a promise. Which made him different than Max.

  The rain never let up, and since the office was so slow, she downloaded the Amy Harmon book to her Kindle app and started to read. If she and Dawson did end up having dinner together, she’d know if he was bluffing.

  “I’m finished,” Dawson said as soon as Clara answered her phone. Reading two books over four nights had been a feat, and he might have only slept three hours last night, but he hoped it would be worth it.

  “With the Regency?” Clara asked, amusement in her tone.

  “With both.” He waited for it.

  “Are you serious?” she said, then laughed. “You are one determined man, Mr. Harris.”

  “That’s both a strength and a weakness.” He rested his head against the headrest in his truck. It had been a crazy day at the office, and he’d fielded several calls from new clients, as well as tried to get schedules coordinated for upcoming court dates. One of the cases had a prosecutor whom Dawson always clashed with. Since Dawson had won the last several cases against this particular prosecutor, things were strained between them.

  Even with all the busyness of today, he’d managed to read the final two chapters of Harmon’s book over lunch. He’d eaten a Subway sandwich at his desk, with the door shut, as he read. He had to maintain some sort of dignity.

  He and Clara had texted a few times over the past four days. It had taken a lot of will power not to call her, but now that he had, he decided to feel flattered she’d answered on the first ring.

  Tomorrow he’d be in court most of the day, and depending on the outcome, he could be in a foul mood. So his goal was to get Clara to agree to meet him for dinner tonight . . . or their non-date would have to wait until Saturday night.

  “What did you think?” Clara asked, genuine interest in her tone.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he said. “You have to wait until our date, I mean, our hang-out session, to find out my thoughts.”

  She laughed. “I see what you’re doing.”

  He loved the way she laughed. “Hungry?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You would be a terrible witness if you ever had to testify in a court case,” Dawson said. “It’s a simple yes-or-no question. Either you’re hungry or you’re not.”

  “Hmmm,” she started. “I’m not sure I agree. Sometimes I’m a little hungry, and I only need a granola bar. Or, I’m very hungry, and I need a full meal, and maybe dessert. Other times, I just crave something sweet—like ice cream or chocolate.”

  “Okay, I concede,” Dawson said with a laugh. “Are you a little hungry, very hungry, or craving ice cream or chocolate?”

  Clara only paused for a second. “I’m very hungry.”

  Warmth spread throug
h Dawson. Now they were getting somewhere. “Great. Can I pick you up, or is that breaking your hang-out rules? We could meet at a restaurant. Have you been to Rick’s BBQ? They have salads, too, not that I’m expecting you to order a salad.”

  “I like salad, and ribs.” Clara released a small sigh. “Do you want to pick me up at the office? I live in the opposite direction.”

  Dawson felt like he’d just been awarded a gold star. “Sure, when are you done?”

  “I’m done, but I can always work on stuff until you get here.”

  “I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Dawson hung up with Clara and started his truck. He wouldn’t have time to go home and change, so he just tugged off his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. He’d take the grief if she gave it to him. It would be worth every minute.

  As he headed toward Main Street and the realty office, he tried to remember the last time he’d felt so eager for a date. Had he felt this way when he’d been dating Romy? They had started dating in college, and it just seemed that everyone expected them to be together. So when she’d become pregnant during their last year of college, they married. Later, she’d had a miscarriage, but Dawson had thought their marriage was still worth it. She worked as a dental hygienist while he went to law school. His hours were long, and late, but that was how law school was. Romy had always been quiet, yet she’d had a decent circle of girlfriends. When he’d received the divorce papers, she had included a three-page, single-spaced letter, laying down all of her feelings—which amounted to a giant list of his failures—all things she’d never told him in six years of marriage.

  Dawson pulled his truck up to the curb in front of the realty office. He had just climbed out when Clara came out of the front door of the office. Her auburn hair hung straight, just below her shoulders, and she wore navy dress pants with a pale blue blouse. The blouse was fairly sheer, and underneath she seemed to be wearing a dark blue tank shirt. He pulled his gaze away from her outfit to meet her amused gaze.

  “Got rid of your tie, did you?” she asked.

  Dawson smiled. “I didn’t want to upstage my date, I mean, my hang-out buddy.”

  Clara smirked, and she glanced over at the truck. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you to drive a truck.”

  He arched his brows. “What did you expect?”

  Clara looked Dawson up and down. “Mercedes? Or maybe a BMW?”

  Dawson motioned to the truck. “You would be wrong, Miss Benson.”

  She shook her head but was smiling. He moved to the passenger door and opened it for her.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said as she climbed in.

  Dawson could swear he smelled citrus. He had the sudden urge to tug her toward him so he could breathe in the scent of her hair. Instead, he shut her door after she was settled and walked around the front of the truck.

  When he climbed in and started his truck, Clara said, “This reminds me of my grandpa. He had a red truck, and he babied it. I remember my grandma telling me she was sometimes jealous of it.”

  Dawson chuckled. “That’s sort of ironic, because my grandpa had a truck too. It looks like we do have something in common.”

  “Wow, that’s unexpected,” she said, clipping on her seatbelt.

  “My grandpa’s truck wasn’t red, but we used to go fishing together,” he said as he pulled out onto Main. “I always felt like such a big kid because he’d let me ride up front. There weren’t airbags back then.”

  “The good old days,” Clara said. “Is your grandpa still around?”

  “No,” he said. “He died when I was sixteen. How about your grandparents?”

  Clara sighed and looked out her window. “My grandma died a few months ago. My grandpa has been gone for about eight years.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dawson said. “Were you close?”

  Clara glanced at him, and Dawson wished he wasn’t having to drive. He hadn’t expected their conversation to take such a serious turn.

  “My grandparents raised me,” she said. “I never knew my mom. And my dad, well, he struggled with some serious addictions. So my grandparents filed for custody.” She waved a hand. “Don’t worry. My childhood was great. My grandparents were the best parents a girl could ask for.”

  Although her tone was light-hearted, Dawson sensed a deep pain there. “Then I’m glad you had your grandparents.”

  Clara picked up her purse and pulled out a white envelope. “Today I received notice that my grandma’s house is under contract. It’s kind of crazy to think about. When she died, my life was a pretty big mess, so my solution was to start over. Somewhere. Pine Valley was the lucky destination. But, I always knew my home—my grandma’s home—was still there, waiting for me. Now, it won’t be.”

  Her voice trembled at the last sentence, and Dawson reached over and squeezed her hand as he slowed the truck to stop at a traffic light. “We don’t have to go to Rick’s BBQ if you don’t want to.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Clara said, taking a shaky breath. “Life happens, and I’d rather be with someone than alone right now.”

  Her eyes were bluer than blue, Dawson decided. She pulled her hand from beneath his.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, though,” Clara said, giving him a tremulous smile.

  Dawson returned the smile. “I’ll try not to, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Clara slid the envelope back into her purse.

  The traffic light changed to green, so Dawson stepped on the accelerator.

  After a moment of silence, Dawson ventured, “What was your grandma like?”

  “Oh,” she said with a half-laugh, “she was a homemaker through and through. Made everything from scratch. Kept the house pristine. She fussed over everything, but I adored her for it.”

  “She sounds pretty amazing.”

  “Yeah, she was amazing,” Clara said. “Every day before I left for work, she said, ‘Say you love me.’ It was sort of our thing.”

  Dawson smiled. “My grandpa used to make me guess between numbers one through ten. If I guessed right, he’d take me fishing.” He felt Clara’s gaze on him.

  “I’ll bet you were a sad little boy if you guessed wrong,” she said.

  He shrugged. “No matter what number I guessed, he said I was always right.” He laughed. “I never knew which number he had in mind. He just pretended whatever I said was that number.”

  “Grandparents are the best,” Clara said in a wistful tone.

  They’d arrived at the restaurant, and Dawson pulled into the parking lot and stopped. Before he shut off the ignition, he looked over at Clara. “Will you be all right? We can do something else if you want.”

  One side of her mouth lifted as her gaze met him. Dawson knew he could get lost in her blue eyes pretty easily. “Are you trying to get out of our book discussion?”

  Dawson lifted his hands from the steering wheel. “Never.”

  Clara’s lips lifted into a full smile. “Then, let’s go. I’m starving.”

  Clara kept catching Dawson looking at her. “You know, a lady doesn’t like to be stared at,” she told him. “Especially when she’s eating.”

  Dawson only grinned. “I’ve just never had a date enjoy her food so much. Please, continue.” He slid the giant platter of ribs toward her.

  “Ha. Ha.” The truth was that Dawson had already eaten most of what they’d ordered. Clara was a slower eater, and she was only on her fourth rib. “So, what did you like best about the books you read?”

  “Can I tell you what I hated first?” Dawson said. “I want to get that part out of the way.”

  “All right.” Clara couldn’t wait to hear what he thought about the romance novels. She knew she was allowing herself to be captivated by this man, but she was enjoying every minute with him. It surprised her. She didn’t want to overthink it.

  “First, I hated the fact that you told me I had to read them before you’d hang out with me,” he said. “That made me feel like
I was doing homework or something.”

  She took another bite of her food, hiding her smile.

  “Then, I hated that I couldn’t complain to someone while I was reading,” he said. “I just had to accept everything and continue reading. I couldn’t change anything in the story.”

  Clara wiped her mouth with her napkin, then said, “What do you mean?”

  “In the legal world, everything is questioned and analyzed.” He picked up his glass and took a drink. “I couldn’t argue with anything going on.”

  She laughed. “Surely you’ve read novels before.”

  “Yeah, some in high school,” he said. “Those classic kinds.”

  She had a hard-time picturing this man sitting on a couch reading Of Mice and Men or The Scarlet Letter. He looked like he’d spent most of his time on the basketball court or football field. “What else did you hate about the plots you had no control over?”

  “I hated the miscommunication,” he said. “I mean, if men and women just told each other what they were thinking, so much angst could be avoided. But maybe that’s the lawyer in me talking. I’d much rather see an argument play out, rather than a resulting crime committed.”

  Clara stared at him. “I think you’re onto something. But people are afraid to say what they really think.”

  “Why be afraid?” Dawson said. “If my ex-wife had told me what she was really feeling during our marriage, we’d probably still be married.”

  “She didn’t talk to you?”

  “Not about what she really thought,” he said. “Instead of telling me, her husband, that she was unhappy with our marriage and life together, she put it all in a letter with the divorce papers.”

  Clara knew it wasn’t her business to know what was in the letter from his ex-wife, so she asked, “Did you always tell her what you felt or thought?”

  “Within reason,” Dawson said, his tone lightening a little. “I mean, there are things you never tell a woman. Or your wife. Like, you never comment on her weight or appearance or compliment another woman around her.”