by Katy Evans
He lifts a brow.
I reach into his shirt pocket and pull out a lighter and a cigarette.
“Why haven’t you come to the terrace?” he asks as he watches me light up. He also sounds displeased.
“You went to the terrace?” I counter.
“I always go the terrace. Why would I stop going? It’s my terrace, Olivia,” he murmurs. He’s watching me intently.
“I had work to do . . .” Then I smile. “Wow, you noticed,” I say, exaggerating his smarts.
There’s a twitch to his lips. “Barely. You hardly talk—so you can understand why it would be hard for me to notice.”
The word hard rolls off his tongue rather too sexily.
I frown. Callan rests his chin on his hand and scrapes his thumb along the line of his jaw thoughtfully as he studies me. “Are you avoiding me?” He sounds bossy now. He edges closer, his shoulder close to mine, his eyes smiling but curious. “Did I grow fangs and an appetite for the blood of girls with secret clusters of freckles?” he asks.
“Well, you did show me your appetite is rather hefty.”
“I’m not the only one with a hefty appetite. You couldn’t take me inside you fast enough the other day.”
I open my mouth and can’t even think of what to say.
“Look this can’t happen,” I finally say when I recover. “My brother will kill us.”
“What the devil doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” He leans in and licks inside my lips.
Everything no man has made me feel, this one does. I’m crackling like a raw wire, torn to the fringes, explosion-ready. “You’re shameless.”
“I am.”
“Reckless and irreverent!”
“Yep.” He smiles. “I just want to get to know you, Olivia,” he whispers in my ear, then he looks at me, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I want more of this.” He licks into my lips again and holds the back of my head as he parts my mouth with his.
“I don’t know when you’re teasing and when you’re not,” I whisper, slipping my fingers into his hair.
God! I missed him.
“Then you better get to know me too.” He grins, then he cups the back of my head so gently you’d think I was made of crystal.
He kisses me, softly this time, carefully. I melt into his kiss, scratching my nails against the back of his neck. I groan from the pleasure.
“You’re so fascinating, Livvy.” He smiles as he withdraws, and he looks at me so tenderly, as if he wants to protect me.
“Callan . . .” I begin, unsure of what to say.
He seems to sense my fear and he lets me go. He pulls out a cigarette now and lights up, and I look at it yearningly as he offers it to me.
I shake my head. Nope. I do not want to smoke from his cigarette. Just watching him do that soft sucking motion to the end of his cigarette makes me sweat. I’m already soaked between my legs and ready to beg him to put his finger inside me.
Callan hasn’t even taken a second drag when I stand to leave. “I need to go back to my friends before they see me with you.”
He stands and puts out his cigarette then he shoves his hands into his pockets as I head to the doors. “Livvy,” he says.
I turn, and the wind is in his hair the way I want my fingers to be. The wind pushes his button shirt against his chest and his slacks against his long, muscled legs.
“I’ll take you home.”
I groan at how stubborn he sounds. “You took me to the ball twice already, Callan, thank you.” I turn back again.
“Come here,” he says, his voice stopping me.
“Excuse me?”
He sighs and drags a hand over his hair. He stretches out a lovely muscular arm with short blond hairs, his palm up, and wiggles his fingers, a little exasperated. “Come here. Give me your phone.”
I frown but obey.
“Text me when you get home.”
He types something on the phone.
“I’m not going to text you,” I protest as I take back my phone.
“You’re going to text me or you’re leaving right now with me.” He nods like there’s no doubt about him getting his way.
“I’ll text you,” I quickly agree and head inside, telling myself I won’t call him, hating the grin I saw appear when I hastily agreed.
I tell my friends I’m heading home early and take an Uber. When I’m back in the apartment, I brush my teeth and get ready for bed and tell myself I can’t let that personal connection and easy conversation happen again. I want to avoid calling him but here I am, scanning my contacts.
I find his number stored under Not Drake.
I smile over the fact that I had stored him, previously, as Derek. Checking my smile, I frown and type.
I’m home. Satisfied?
For now.
Where are YOU?
Home. Getting some work done.
Oh really? Wow. Well so am I, I lie and get my laptop out, my competitive side stirred.
Such a hard little worker. Lucky boss.
He’s a bit of a hard one too, I text.
There’s a silence and my eyes widen when I realize what I said.
Yes.
He IS.
My tummy flutters.
Oh lord above, help me.
I drop my phone as if it singed me and then power it off. Olivia Roth? His antics cannot get to you. It is not allowed.
I try to quell what seeing him tonight did to me and blame it on the alcohol I imbibed.
Because that crush has been crushed. I’m no longer a naïve young girl needing her brother to bail her out when she gets in trouble, hell, I’m a full-time working girl and I can’t be Callan’s shiny new toy.
I’m worth more than that even though I’ve always battled with feelings of not being enough. Isn’t that why I’m so desperate to prove myself?
Too many people labeling me a blonde bimbo. Too many people underestimating me until I’ve almost believed they’re right.
In that sense only my brother believed in me—and no matter how much I’ve idolized my father’s old friend Daniel Radisson all this time, it was bad boy Callan Carmichael who gave me a chance.
I’m determined to use it and focus on what’s important to me.
Maybe if I stopped feeling prejudiced against Callan’s business ruthlessness, I could pull my head out of my ass and ask him to teach me.
Janine is now interning with Callan and lunches are proving difficult when I have to listen to her gush on how hot he is and how intensely she’s learning. She also mentions she picks up regular calls for him from a thousand and one girls, all asking if he’s in, for Janine to please ask him to call them, inquiring about whether he got this or that invitation, etcetera.
Etcetera.
Etcete-fucking-ra.
“I’m seriously learning so much just by the little glimpses I get into the conference room and phone calls. I won’t even say how I’ll feel if I manage to get a night with him in my pocket, too, oh god. Livvy, the size of his you-know-what is like . . . you can see the size through his pants. And he’s got big hands, obviously it’s huge, he has huge shoes too. And that mouth! He’s so wicked!” She’s flushed as she speaks.
I push the food around my plate, not hungry now. Conversation swirls around us, and all this time, I’m only aware of the low, dull throb inside me.
I came here to work, to learn. Did I let my own personal prejudices and confusing feelings keep me from learning all that I can, from the best man I could possibly learn it from?
I excuse myself and head up to Mr. Lincoln. He’s reviewing the research I submitted earlier today, and he looks distracted as he glances at me from across his desk and asks me to pull up the Alcore proposal again. “Callan requested an update.”
My heart kicks in excitement, and I nod and head to my desk. “Right away, sir.”
Later that evening, after a full day of work and trying not to dwell back on the two nights I’ve spent with the boss—because, really, it needs to st
op! There will be no, no third!—I make a phone call to my grandma.
“Hey, Nana!”
“Who is this? Do I know you?”
“You don’t just know me, you adore me.” I curl up on the couch and glance at the steaming green tea I just set on my coffee table—I take it bitter without sweetener, just like my grandmother taught me. “I’m just checking in, Nana. How are you?”
“I’m well, but freaking missing my favorite granddaughter!”
“I’m your only granddaughter. I freaking miss you too.”
I hear her laugh, and then a creak, and I imagine her settling on the swing outside on her front porch. “Tell me about Chicago.”
I grin. “It’s good.” My smile fades a little and I draw an invisible pattern on my jeans. “I just felt a little homesick,” I say, then I ask her what she’s been up to, just wanting to hear the familiarity of home and the routine I know she follows by memory. Pruning the rosebushes, adding food to the birdhouse on the huge oak outside, baking something to give away, looking at old pictures and living by memories of her time when my dad was young, when my grandfather was alive.
It’s familiar, homey, and grounding.
I feel like I need that. Like I climbed a little too far up the Callan Carmichael tree house and I need my family to hold a ladder for me so I can climb back down.
I have a restless night. I dream I’m in the tree house, smoking on the ledge, when Jeremy Seinfield tries to kiss me. Except this time I don’t turn away. I lean closer and open my mouth, never so eager for him to kiss me before. I slip my hands into his hair and he tastes of coffee and cigarettes. I’m so surprised by how well he kisses, I ease back and stare at him in shock. But it’s not Jeremy looking back at me. I look into eyes that are a swirl of bronze, his voice a man’s voice, not a boy’s.
“I’m Callan.”
I wake up Friday morning to my alarm buzzing on my nightstand. I groan and turn around, squinting at the time to realize it’s already 7 a.m.
I hurry to start getting ready, moving through the apartment.
It’s already familiar, the view outside, my bed. I leave in less than two months, really. It’s only a summer internship.
I think of him in my bed and how my sheets still smell of him.
I think of the terrace. All those meetings I won’t have again. They’re branded in my memory, down to the shirts he wore and the way he smelled. It’s not like he’s the only good-smelling man out there, but there’s something special about his scent. It’s familiar, warm, and comforting. His eyes and the way we talk as if we’ve known each other forever.
No regrets, I remember.
I sigh and go shower and get ready for work. I slip into my Carma uniform and tuck my hair into a neat bun, then look at myself in the mirror. Blonde, blue-eyed, young, and determined—that’s what I want my boss to see.
Not naked, moaning, and writhing—that was only for my Hot Smoker Guy to see.
“Hold the elevator,” a familiar voice says when I arrive at Carma that morning. I jerk up straighter and my hand starts to tremble slightly as I press the open button.
Callan steps inside, typing something into his phone as he boards, stands beside me, selects his floor, and tucks his phone into his pocket.
He’s wearing a suit today and my knees wobble under my skirt.
I’m not sure he’s even realized it’s me who’s standing alone with him in the elevator until he speaks. “How are you?”
Well. Let’s see now. I came in this hot guy’s arms several times and I can’t quite get him off my mind, I think helplessly.
“Great,” I say instead. “You?”
“Good now.”
Through the corner of my eye I see that he’s smirking as he looks down at me, but I can’t bring myself to face him fully. Every time I do, I think that I kissed those lips. I seduced him. Ate up. Those amazing lips. And that wasn’t all. I’ve told him so many things about me. I always marvel at how easily this man makes me verbally vomit all over him.
“I got the Alcore updates. Good job.”
Oh god.
I don’t know what to do. I miss my family. I want my grandma’s advice. I can’t talk to my brother about this. Farrah and Veronica would say I should enjoy yielding to my infatuation of him, the first of my life. They wouldn’t understand that a part of me fears I’ll want more. The homesickness I’ve been battling threatens to reappear.
My floor comes up, and I glance at him with a smile and say, “Have a good day, Mr. Carmichael.”
His lips shape a thin smile that echoes his tone of voice. “Callan,” he corrects me.
“I’ll only call you Callan when we’re alone. Otherwise, it’s Mr. Carmichael.”
“Lucky for you, I respond to both.” He reaches out to hold the door as I step out. “Are you still up for sightseeing?”
“Always,” I blurt without thinking. It’s the second time he’s asked, and the second time I blurt out the same answer without thinking better of it.
How does he do that?
My toes are curling under his stare. “Where are you planning to go?” he asks.
“Navy Pier. I went there with Wynn but I’d love to go again.”
Lights of mischief spark up in his eyes. “You must really love that Ferris wheel.”
“Oh, of course,” I laugh.
He leans closer. “I’ll take you to the Pier tomorrow.”
“What? I don’t think it’s a good idea. I really think—”
“Pick you up at five.” He presses the button to shut the doors and as they do, he raises his brows in challenge, and the doors shut.
He’s downstairs, behind the wheel of his black-on-black Range Rover. I hurry to the car even as he steps out to open the passenger door.
I greet him with a nervous, “I brought a hat.”
He takes his seat behind the wheel and shuts the door behind him. “Preventing freckles?” One brow goes up, along with the corners of his lips.
“Clusters of freckles on my face, yes.”
I slide the cap over my head, and Callan reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear that had ended up flat over my eye.
The touch flits across my skin and down my entire body, making me shiver.
He smiles, noticing my shiver.
I gulp and lift my hand, fingering and readjusting my Dallas Cowboys cap in nervousness.
We start driving and I watch his hands on the wheel as he steers. I try to look away because I’ve been brainwashing myself that this is only a friendly outing. Having Callan catch me staring at his hands like some ogling, adoring idiot won’t do.
“Are you up for some excitement?” he asks me.
“Speed and altitude? Are you trying to get rid of me?” I mock frown.
“Nah. I might miss the excitement of anything outrageous you want to share. I’m selfish like that.”
“Oh, so you won’t murder me because I’m entertaining to you.”
He smiles and parks his car, and we head toward the long, bustling corridor of Navy Pier. I point to the colorful horse carousel. “I’d go on that.”
“Go to Disneyworld. Better fit for you.” He lifts my cap, rumples my hair, and laughs as he sets it back down. I’m smiling as I fix my hair and we head down the corridor and I take in the scenery of restaurants, shops, and entertainment stands, and the imposing Ferris wheel in the distance.
“Now I feel like I’m in Chicago.” I stick my tongue out at him.
“Ah. You thought you were in Texas all this time.”
“No, I thought I was dreaming.” I laugh. “I wasn’t very smart, grade-wise. I always had to put in double the effort than others in my class.”
“Most of the time, effort trumps talent.”
“True.” I nod, my lips curving. “So you built Carma on your own?”
He nods.
“I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished on your own, you’re still too young.” We take a seat on a bench, and I glance around
the Pier. “That’s what I plan to do the next couple of years. Work. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life, though. It’s like my whole life has been taken over by you and Carma.”
He laughs softly, and takes my cap and turns it around.
“No!” I laugh. “I’ll get freckles this way.”
“That’s the plan.”
I scowl and notice the heat in his eyes, blushing as I quickly straighten the brim.
“Are you like this with all the women you know?” I narrow my eyes.
“Like what?”
“I’m not going to say it.”
“Come on, say it,” he dares, shifting in his seat to stretch his arm out behind me.
“Only because we’re out of the office and you’re wearing a polo and you look like you.”
“I am me.”
“You look a little untouchable in a suit. You don’t invite conversation when you look all stuck up and harsh.” I inhale. “This attractive. All week, Janine apparently answers calls from your girls. ‘Is Callan in? Please tell him x, y, and z called.’ They’re all hopelessly in love with you.”
“I assure you, they’re not. Many are friends. Others, acquaintances—no strings.”
I nearly snort.
He crosses his arms, eyeing me in speculation. “Think I should call them back?”
I start at that, mute.
“Olivia.”
I lift my head. His eyes are studying me intently as one sleek eyebrow goes up. “Think I should call them back?”
“I suppose if you want to.”
“So you’re telling me I should do exactly as I want.”
“I mean if you want to talk to them.” I’m so jealous I feel literally green.
“Let’s see.” He pulls out his cell phone and dials.
I inhale painfully—when suddenly, my phone buzzes and NOT DRAKE appears on the screen.
I’m puzzled but pick up, scowling at him. “What are you doing, Drake?”
“Not Drake.” He disconnects the call with a press of his finger, looking at me.