Chapter Seven Lexie
“No dancing in the kitchen this morning?” Callum’s voice has me glancing over my shoulder from my place at the stove.
It’s been a day since he brought me to the nightclub.
I thought it would change things but surprisingly it hasn’t.
I’m not shaken or traumatized, my life feels pretty much the same.
And even as I stand here with the man who turned out to be even more dangerous than I suspected, I feel at ease. Maybe not completely, but close enough.
Callum looks immaculate, per usual, with his black dress shirt, slacks, and leather belt. I’ve never seen the man with a single hair out of place. Does he even own a pair of sweatpants? Or does he just wear his dress clothes to bed?
“I reserve dancing for mornings I have enough energy to pull myself out of bed without a caffeine drip,” I inform him.
“Whatever you say, Dewdrop.” His response makes me pause to actually look at him.
“Dewdrop,” I repeat. “Isn’t that a flower?” Callum’s broad shoulders shrug as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to compare me to a plant.
“Seems fitting. Dewdrops can be toxic when ingested, just like that poison you’re so addicted to.” He’s referring to Mountain Dew.
“Do you have a thing for nicknames or something?” With a flick of my wrist I turn off the burner.
“I know how much you love your other nickname. What’s one more?” He’s winding me up on purpose, and it’s working. “Right, Doc?”
“There are a few choice words I’d like to call you right now.” If I’m not mistaken, I swear he laughs at that. My eyes roll dramatically to the ceiling as I turn away from him to focus on things more worthy of my attention. Like my food.
“What’s for breakfast?” Callum eyes my spread like he doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s an unusual combination, but I like it.
“Oh, this is avocado, red onion, and a poached egg with some sriracha on a slice of toasted French bread.” My finger points to all the different components on my plate.
After adding a drizzle of hot sauce and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, the spread is finished—and it’s a beautiful thing.
Maybe I’m just hangry, because my agitation melts away with each bite of food.
It only takes five spoonfuls of cereal before I’m ready to do my happy dance—something I’m sure the man standing only a few feet away notices.
“And that?” he asks, nodding to the bowl. I flash him a smile and a small shrug.
“Cocoa Puffs.”
“Isn’t that a children’s cereal?”
“What can I say, I go cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” Swallowing the last spoonful, I reach for the box to refill my bowl.
“Are you at least going to put some fresh milk in there?” With the look I give him, he might as well have sprouted a second head.
“That’s the best part. Do you seriously not know how satisfying it is to finish the second bowl and drink the chocolatey milk? Here, have some of mine.” I extend the box towards him, but he just eyes the cereal like it’s going to bite him.
“I don’t eat that stuff.”
“Oh, you’re one of those people.” I can’t say I’m surprised. “Let me guess, you’re a raisin bran and granola kinda guy.”
Callum straightens to his full height, rolling back his broad shoulders and stretching his neck.
“Cereal doesn’t cut it for me. I need protein and complex carbs.
Sausage, eggs, beans, potatoes.” Circling the island, he opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients.
Looking at the machine of a man, it makes sense.
I bet a guy his size needs to consume a lot of food for his body to keep running.
He probably burns like a million calories a day just by existing, let alone working out.
For me food is fun, and for him it’s fuel.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook.” The thought has occurred to me a few times since he showed up.
Watching a man as busy and formidable as Callum scramble eggs in the morning seems a little out of place.
I mean, I know even dangerous people need to eat, but the task seems too commonplace and almost silly when he does it.
“Typically, when I’m in the city I have a chef that provides me with weekly meals, breakfast and lunch. This trip was last minute, I didn’t get to some of the usual details.” He flashes me a meaningful look, case in point.
“No dinners?”
“Dinner is usually for business. I cook when I can.”
“Do you like cooking?”
“I’m good at it.”
“Okay, but do you like doing it?” He turns to look at me as if I’m speaking an unfamiliar language, jaw clenched tightly beneath his immaculate beard.
“You do know what liking something means, right? Finding enjoyment, having fun.” I speak slowly, like an adult trying to explain something to a child with a soft smile on my face and a teasing lilt to my voice.
The serious expression I receive in return simply stares at me intensely.
Why is it so damn hard to get to know this guy? What’s a straightforward question for most people turns into a complicated equation with him. And I’m left sitting here with an incomplete answer trying to decipher all of the variables. Math was never my strongest subject.
The portion of food he piles on his plate could feed a small family. I sit patiently waiting for an answer, and after a long moment, he finally responds.
“Having fun isn’t something I waste time on.” Stepping over to the coffeemaker, he pours himself a cup. No sugar, no cream.
“That explains a lot,” I comment, taking a bite of my toast. Next comes a spoonful of cereal, the perfect combo of savory and sweet.
“Meaning?” The man certainly has a mean stare, one I’m sure intimidates most people—it makes my pulse jump.
My eyes trail down to how his expensive black shirt stretches taut across his broad shoulders.
The sleeves rolled up to his elbows show off his strong forearms decorated in dark ink.
There’s no denying he has good hands—the kind every woman wants to grab her by the throat and work her into a frenzy.
Those hands can be my undoing, and I’ll gladly beg for more.
I haven’t decided if I need to be afraid of Callum yet.
The evidence is circumstantial at best and the jury’s still out on this one.
I know that people capable of violence aren’t always dangerous, and he’s never shown an ounce of aggression towards me.
My high school best friend’s dad was in a motorcycle gang.
He liked to crack skulls and he had a habit of pulling out a switchblade, but he treated his wife and daughters like princesses.
Callum’s grip on the coffee pot shifts and his brows raise marginally, his expression knowing. I’m staring, blatantly ogling him. And he noticed.
I avert my eyes quickly to focus on the food in front of me. “Just that you’re all business.”
“Speaking of business.” He pauses to catch my full attention again.
I drag my eyes from my plate to land on him—this time focusing as I fight back a blush.
“Come into my office when you’re done eating.
There’s something we need to discuss.” With that, he’s scooping up his plate and coffee and striding towards his office.
I guess that means he doesn’t plan to eat with me.
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Don’t call me that,” he calls over his shoulder.
I smile to myself, bringing my bowl to my lips. I’m right, as usual—this chocolatey milk hits different. Callum really doesn’t know what he’s missing. What’s the point in living longer if it means you can’t enjoy a bowl of sugary chocolate cereal once in a while?
After taking my time to finish my food, I take a deep breath before walking into Callum’s office.
There’s something ominous about this room.
It feels like I might accidentally trigger a boobytrap if I make one wrong move.
Maybe it’s the man sitting behind the desk, inked arms on full display, who seems to always be watching and waiting.
Or maybe it’s the idea that anything can be lurking between these four walls, like a man missing his finger dripping blood onto a tarp.
“Alright, what’s this business we need to talk about?” I ask, sitting in a chair across from Callum’s desk. His eyes leave the computer screen to look at me, lowering briefly to my outfit.
“You changed.”
I look down at the green dress that I replaced my pajama set with after breakfast.
“I got dressed. I don’t want to be fired while I’m in my pajamas,” I say, crossing one ankle over the other. Callum sits back in his chair, spreading his legs out in front of him while his eyes sweep over me in consideration.
“You’re not being fired, Lexie,” he replies, easing some of the worry gnawing at my stomach. “I was impressed the other night. The way you handled yourself at the nightclub surprised me, and I’m not surprised easily.”
“Right, the other night when I sewed up some random guy’s hand after his finger was cut off. You’re surprised I did a good job?” I take a second to absorb what he’s saying. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
“There is,” he concedes, his hand running down his beard. “I won’t lie to you and say it was a one-off. But the person I used to call is no longer an option.”
“Lucky me,” I can’t help but joke.
“In my line of work, I like to have a medical professional available to me at all times. Now that my previous arrangement is over, I’m looking for a replacement.”
“You’re talking about Tony,” I guess, the pieces suddenly clicking together until it makes sense. Callum nods, the weight of his focus never leaving me.
“Tony did more for me than just watch the apartment while I was out of town. And now there’s a position to fill. I want you to fill it, Doc.”
“You want me to work for you long-term… as a private nurse?”
“Not specifically my nurse, but essentially yes.”