by Kent, Alison
She turned then, and caught him staring at her, her smile fading to something hesitant again, something that said she wasn’t sure she should be here. Something that made him want to get her to change her mind.
But he’d already had this talk with himself more than once. He wanted her here, but only if the want was a mutual thing. Right now, her vibes were all about finding the fastest way to the door. And that had him on the verge of giving up.
He headed for the kitchen where he’d left the candy he’d made her, and before offering it to her, he put the bar between them, pushing the bonbon across it. “I meant to give this to you yesterday, but getting Addy out the door turned into a mini-drama yesterday morning, then this morning you were waiting downstairs by the time I was dressed, and I forgot to grab it.”
She took it from him with a heavy sigh, picking it up and looking at it up, down, and sideways.
He finally said, “You’re welcome,” because the silence was gnawing a hole in his gut.
“Sorry. It’s beautiful. But you’ve got to stop doing this.” For a moment she looked as if she was going to eat it, then she set it back down. “You make me feel . . . guilty.”
“Guilty of what?” he asked as her gaze came up.
“Not reciprocating.”
That wasn’t what he’d expected, but he gave her extra points for honesty, and for not looking away. “You think gifts are about reciprocity?”
“No, but I still feel as if I should be doing something for you.”
Did she really not get it? How much she’d already done? “Like helping me pick out furniture? Like keeping my daughter from breaking legs at a church carnival? Can you imagine if Alva Bean had fallen hard on the gymnasium floor?”
“So this is a thank-you?”
“It’s a chocolate, Brooklyn. It’s meant to be enjoyed, not analyzed.”
“Analyzing your chocolates is one of my favorite things to do.”
Too bad she wouldn’t be here to analyze more. “Then tell me about this one.”
She took so long deciding, he thought she was going to say no, but then she bit off a third or so, savored, and finally swallowed. “I taste banana. And some sort of liqueur. Or maybe rum. Cinnamon for sure. I think all it’s missing is the ice cream.”
“There’s cream in there, too.”
“If I light a fire will it burst into flame?”
“It’s not that kind of Bananas Foster. At least not anymore. The flames got a little dicey while I was cooking the filling, but that’s because my head wasn’t in the game.”
“Where was your head?” she asked, licking a speck of chocolate from the pad of her thumb.
“Nowhere important,” he said, the words a lie, but a small white one that felt better than telling her he’d been thinking how to convince her that they’d be good together. “You going to eat the rest of that or just see if you can get it to melt in your hand?”
Smiling, she bit off half of what was left, closing her eyes, her mouth still as she let the flavors settle.
“Good?” he asked as he came around the bar to where she sat.
“Mmm. You want to taste?”
“Yeah. I do,” he said, taking the chocolate from her hand. He bit into it, let the chocolate melt on his tongue, moving in and lowering his head and covering her mouth with his.
She smelled like the sun and the wind, and like her shampoo that he loved. She tasted like chocolate and like Brooklyn and like the rest of his life. He was insane for putting himself through this, and yet this was exactly what he wanted. This passion. This response. This woman.
He hooked one arm around her neck, the other around her waist, and pressed his hand into the small of her back, wedging his thigh between hers that parted for him so easily. He wasn’t going to take her to bed. He wanted to take her to bed, but not tonight. Too much stood unsettled between them . . . his past, her past, the future.
There was something about her trip to Cinque Terre that she wasn’t telling him, and he would bet the bank it involved her husband. Again with the rival. Again with the ghost. The thoughts came at him like cold water, buckets of the stuff, and Brooklyn felt it; she began pulling away from the kiss before he did, her hands sliding from his neck to his chest, her smile uncertain, her gaze strangely timid as she let it fall and stepped back.
Yeah. Neither one of them had been on the top of their game today, both thinking too much about things gone wrong instead of working at what they had that was so very right.
“Now that we’ve had dessert, you want to do something about dinner?”
“That would be nice, as long as we don’t have to go out to get it.”
He groaned. “Right. Can’t be seen in the company of an ex-biker hoodlum thug.”
“I doubt you were ever a hoodlum or a thug,” she said with a smile. “But you are the father of one of my students, though as long as I’ve been here tonight, I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed.”
He wasn’t going to set her straight on what he’d been. This wasn’t the time. But he planned to enjoy the hell out of the fact that she hadn’t split at the idea of being seen. “I can order pizza or Chinese.”
“Or we can cook.”
“Cook.”
“Unless the pantry is bare?”
“It’s fresh out of fruit for sure.”
She tucked back her hair as she considered him. “If Addy were here, what would you two do for dinner?”
“It’s Sunday night, so probably pancakes and bacon.”
“I like pancakes. And bacon.”
He grinned at that. “Do you want them shaped like Olaf?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a snowman pancake before. So yes. Thank you. I’ll take a stack of Olaf.”
SIXTEEN
Almost a week went by without Brooklyn seeing or talking to Callum, a week that left her too much time to think about the kiss in his loft, the kiss in his kitchen, and to decide that, though their two busy schedules were completely out of sync, they were getting too close. The fact that he was on her mind as often as he was, when they’d reached the early days of March, and she needed to be getting ready for her trip to Italy, was more than enough proof.
Yet here she sat, Friday night, trying to come up with a legitimate reason to call him, or make the drive to Bliss. If they were just friends, hanging out would be simple. She’d drop by to see him and Addy. The three of them would grab a bite to eat. But her desire wasn’t simple. And she was in no position to be in a relationship, though she feared it was too late.
So she stayed where she was—curled in the corner of the couch, her book on the arm, her phone on the lamp table—staring into space. Or at least staring at the full-wall bookcase across the room, the dozens of owls populating the shelves, and the several hundred titles waiting for her to give them away, or pack them away, or throw them away because she would never in her life have time to read them all.
And what a waste that was: of money, that she could’ve spent so more wisely, much as Jean had bemoaned what her husband had spent on his hobbies. Of expectations, that the books she’d bought in increasing numbers over the past two years could give her what she’d had with Artie, when it had been Artie who’d saved her more than a decade ago from a life destined to be spent in the pages of academic texts.
When she heard the doorbell ring, she was so lost in thought, she jolted before getting up to answer the door, then frowned at the teenager standing on her porch wearing the black-and-orange logo shirt and hat of Fat Mike’s Pies. “I didn’t order a pizza.”
The driver looked at the ticket. “Harvey, 262 Stardust Lane. Is that you?”
“Yes, but I—” And that’s when she heard the approaching rumble of the big Harley. Heart fluttering, she took a rather unsteady breath and said, “Hang on. Let me get my purse.”
“Oh, it’s already paid for, but if it’s not yours—”
“It’s his,” she said, gestur
ing into the distance and leaving the driver frowning as she fetched her wallet for a tip. She handed the boy a five and took the pizza, just as Callum rode into her driveway.
“Oh. That his,” the boy said, then added, “Thanks,” tucking the money into his pocket. Before he made it back to his car at the curb, Callum waved him over. He tugged off his helmet, digging for his billfold and tipping the kid a second time before climbing from his bike.
He shook out his hair as he secured his helmet to the bike, then reached up and wound the strands tight to the back of his head while walking to where she stood in the doorway drinking him in. Jeans and boots and black leather jacket, oxford shirt wrinkled, as always, beyond belief.
He was absolutely gorgeous. Breathtakingly so, with his eyes flashing, his dimples cutting into his cheeks like two smiles turned sideways, his mouth ready to laugh and holding back until he reached her, as if he needed to share what he was feeling before letting it go. She half expected him to lean down and give her a big kiss, and she wanted him to do just that, and so very badly she came close to lifting up on her toes to reach him.
Dear God, she mused, nearly crushing the pizza box in her fists, she was in so much trouble. So much trouble, and absolutely, positively in love.
The realization hit her as he reached her, and she had no time to process any of what she was feeling, only to enjoy it, to enjoy him, to step back and make room for him on the porch, his body so much larger than hers, looming over hers when the pizza box kept him from coming closer. Oh, but she wanted him closer.
“Good night for him,” Brooklyn said, bumping the door open with her butt and backing into the house.
Following her in, he took the box, set it on the coffee table along with a small white sack she hadn’t noticed, then opened his billfold a second time. “What did you give him? Let me pay you back.”
“It was nothing,” she said, adding, “It was five,” when he shot her an I’m going to win this battle look. She took the money from his hand, then gestured for him to sit on the couch. “I’ll get napkins and plates. I’m out of beer. You want wine?”
“That’d be great,” he said, perching on the edge of the center cushion and flipping open the box. The smells of tomatoes and onions and peppers hit her nose, and her stomach growled before she made it to the kitchen.
“I heard that,” Callum called, chuckling as he did.
She rolled her eyes, laughing, too, happy as she grabbed the wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew along with the napkins and plates and joined him, returning to her corner seat and curling her legs beneath her, every bit of her previous ennui gone—a mood swing she didn’t even want to think about.
He handed her a plate with a monstrous slice, and she didn’t argue. She was starving. “What are you doing here? Besides having dinner. And what’s in the sack?”
“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he said, shaking loose his own piece. “I’d have hated to eat all alone on your front porch. And the sack is dessert.”
“Dessert?”
He nodded. “From Two Owls. I thought you might like a brownie.”
“You brought me a brownie?” Had she told him how much she loved Kaylie Keller’s creations, or had he watched her inhale the one she’d eaten the night of the church carnival?
“I brought you a half dozen.”
Her grin grew huge, her cheeks aching with it, her heart aching a little bit, too, and in a very good way. “I think you just earned yourself the position of my best friend forever.”
“I can deal with that,” he said, his mouth full, the word a jumble of sounds as he chewed.
“Where’s Addy?”
“I dropped her off at Kelly Webber’s,” he said, backhanding the grease from his mouth, then reaching for a napkin and his wine. “Lindsay called and invited Addy to eat with them right as we were leaving Bliss to go home.”
“It’s great that they’re such good friends,” she said, and bit into her pizza, thinking about the two girls, their heads close together during snack time. Then thinking about Callum with Lindsay Webber at the church carnival. “Addy’s mentioned going over there a lot. Doing things with Kelly on the weekends . . .”
She let the sentence trail as what was probably the truth behind Lindsay’s numerous invitations hit her, then said, “Oh,” and reached for her wine.
Callum was closer and handed it to her, holding it for the few seconds it took him to say, “You know Lindsay’s divorced.”
“I just remembered.”
“She likes my chocolates,” he said, letting go of her glass.
“Yeah. I’ll bet she does,” she said, and drank.
He laughed at that. “You can’t be jealous, considering you and I are just friends.”
Friends. She didn’t want to be friends. Or just friends. But telling him that now, when in three months she’d be leaving . . . Great timing, Brooklyn, falling for one man when you’re on your way to fulfill a promise for another. “Actually, I think I am. A little bit anyway.”
“Really,” he said, adding an interested, “Huh,” his brows in a deep vee as he sat back. “Not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.”
“Do with it what you like,” she said flippantly, when she didn’t feel flippant at all, downing the rest of her wine and holding his gaze as she did.
“Oh, Brooklyn,” he said, his eyes flashing again, his mouth grinning again, neither conveying the teasing from before, but saying things that were so much more potent when spoken without words. “Be sure that’s what you want before you say it.”
He was so still, sitting there on her couch, his chest rising and falling, his knees spread wide. One hand crushed his napkin in his fist. The other held his wineglass so tightly she feared it cracking and spilling the Sangiovese all over him. Yet nothing happened. The wine didn’t spill. Callum didn’t move.
Neither did he say anything more, or catch fire, which was what the heat in his gaze had her imagining. It was so very hot, that look, and she was already burning from the flush of the wine, and so she threw caution to the wind and tossed out more fuel. “I think the cat’s already out of that bag.”
In response, he groaned, a sound that rolled up from his gut as he pushed off the couch and crossed the room, finishing off his drink as he stood with one foot in the living room, one in the dining. She thought he might be trying to escape, and the very idea that she’d brought him to feeling the need . . .
She leaned forward and poured another glass of wine she didn’t need in order to have something to do with her hands. He stared at the floor between his feet as she lifted it, shaking his head, his mouth working as if he didn’t like the words he was going to say, or he needed more wine to say them.
“I think we both owe Lindsay Webber a very big thank-you right now,” was what finally came out.
Of all the things she’d expected to hear, well, mentioning another woman when she’d pretty much just offered herself to him . . . “How so?”
“I told her I’d be back to get Addy at nine.”
It was nearly eight now. “Oh.”
“That cat’s going to need more than an hour.”
“Oh,” she said again, barely able to get the simple sound up her throat. Sweat trickled between her breasts, bloomed in the small of her back.
“Yeah . . . probably best if you just forget I said that.” He took a deep breath, blew it out in a whoosh, leaned his head against the doorjamb separating the two rooms. “After Sunday night at the loft, it’s pretty clear neither one of us is in any position for things to get heated.”
She gave him her go-to response, which was growing weaker with each use. “I don’t date—”
“I got it,” he said, scrubbing one hand over the stubble on his face. “We’re not dating.”
“Callum—”
“It’s okay.” He laughed. “Lainie once told me, after all the shit that went on with Cheryl, to keep it in my pants until I knew it wa
s safe to let it out.”
If she hadn’t already been flustered, she was now, so she took the conversation in another direction. “Lainie. From the motorcycle club.”
“Right. Duke and Lainie Randall. The couple I lived with after Addy was born.”
“Was the club a social thing?” She thought about the fictional ones she’d seen on TV. “Or did it operate as a business?”
“Wolf Bane was registered as a business, though originally most of what the MC did was outside of the law. Duke played a big part in the club going legit, even if he was an outlaw at heart, and kept one foot in the off-the-books activities.”
She glanced to the wolf’s head tattoo on Callum’s inner wrist, the parchment scroll with the Tennyson quote he’d had inked to cover up the goriest of the details. “How did you get hooked up with them anyway?”
“The truth?” He snorted. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n roll. And before you ask, yeah. At eighteen? I really was that shallow. I shouldn’t have been, considering where my parents came from.”
She was more interested in where he’d come from, but rather than push, she asked, “Are they not from here?”
“I went to school in Dallas,” he said, coming back to join her on the couch. “They moved to Hope Springs after I’d graduated. My dad was transferred to Dallas thirty years ago. He’s an accountant. Telecommunications. Both he and my mom grew up in the Northeast. He went to MIT. She went to Boston College. I was born in Boston, but never went to school anywhere but Texas. And I only made it through high school. No higher education for me.”
“That doesn’t make you shallow,” she said, thinking about her own parents and their focus on academia, how she’d toed that line so exactly she’d never thought of anything else. Not sex or drugs or rock ’n roll.
“Maybe not. It does make me lazy and unappreciative. I could’ve gone to school anywhere. I had the grades. Or I did until my senior year.”