Chapter 18
Gabrielle
“What are we drinking to?”
I raised my wineglass, the deep red catching the overhead pendant light above Cal’s kitchen island. He stood across from me, sleeves rolled up, a chef’s knife in hand, slicing zucchini with maddening precision.
He set the knife aside, looked up, and—of course—smirked. “To…worship.” He picked up his glass and touched it lightly to mine.
The first sip warmed me all the way down—dry and velvety smooth. I tried to focus on the wine. The kitchen. Anything but the slow, deliberate way his gaze lingered when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“This is really good,” I said, eyeing the bottle—a red foiled tree on a slate-gray background.
Cal gave an amused huff. “Well, that’s a relief. I only bought it because I liked the label, if I’m honest.”
I leaned on the counter as he took up the knife again. The steady slice of metal against wood was strangely hypnotic. “I didn’t realize you lived so close to me.”
The blade faltered for half a second before finding its rhythm again. “Had to preserve a bit of mystery. Though…the proximity has been tempting.”
“Tempting how?” I asked, pulse kicking hard.
He didn’t answer. But the glint in his eyes said everything.
Moving to the stove, he tossed the vegetables into a skillet, and reached for a wooden spoon.
I looked down at the food, trying to distract myself. “What’s on the menu?”
“Sautéed vegetables over herbed risotto,” he said. “With a side of I-remember-you’re-a-vegetarian.”
My breath caught. “I’m touched you remembered.”
He finally turned, leaning one hip against the counter, wineglass in hand. “There’s very little about you that’s forgettable.”
Before long, we’d settled at the table, my nerves easing with the first bite.
The risotto was warm and creamy, the wine mellowed to a hum beneath my skin, and the conversation—easy and open—unfolded between bites.
Nothing weighty—just music, movies, the merits of fresh herbs versus dried.
Cal was a deft host—attentive without hovering, dryly funny in a way that made me lean in to catch his inflections.
By the time we’d cleared the dishes, I realized I hadn’t checked the time once. I didn’t want to.
I lingered at the edge of the dining room, wineglass in hand, watching the track lights paint long shadows across the walls.
“How did you learn to cook like that?” I asked, turning to face him. “That was…legitimately impressive.”
Cal shrugged as he wiped the counter, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “YouTube. And an embarrassing amount of trial and error.”
I raised a brow. “Seriously?”
He leaned against the counter, drying his hands with a towel.
“We always had cooks growing up. Staff. Meals were prepared and served.” His tone was light but somehow brittle underneath.
“My parents thought cooking was beneath us. Said it was domestic work—not meant for someone with the Hawthorne name.”
I took a slow sip of wine, giving him space. “And you disagreed?”
“I did,” he said. “Eventually. Turns out, self-righteous defiance and the fear of starvation are powerful motivators. That, and the grim realization I couldn’t survive on takeaway and toast forever.”
Before I could reply, he stepped in close, settling his hand at the small of my back—steady, certain, and quietly electric. His touch sent a shiver through me.
“So,” he said, voice low, “I believe I promised you a tour.”
“Lead on,” I managed, more breathless than I meant to be.
He gestured around us. “Well, you’ve seen the kitchen.”
I laughed, the sound light and a little giddy. “Seen it and been thoroughly spoiled by it.”
We stepped into the living room, and it was nothing like what I’d imagined.
Instead of dark woods, smoky colors, and books stacked to the ceiling, the space was sleek and modern—almost austere.
Black leather furniture with sharp lines contrasted against bursts of saturated color—a red throw, a yellow pillow, geometric patterns that danced across the area rug. Bold, abstract art lined the walls.
“This is…wow.”
Cal rocked back on his heels. “What were you expecting?”
“Not this hyper-modern,” I admitted. I scanned the room again, noting details that didn’t quite fit the Cal I thought I knew. A gaming console sat tucked beneath a large flat screen TV. In a corner, two guitars rested on stands—one acoustic, one electric. “And definitely not rockstar gamer.”
He stepped closer, gray eyes bright with amusement. “I’m not all work.”
“I’m getting that.”
“Here,” he said, taking my hand and leading me down the hallway. His thumb skimmed across my knuckles—a fleeting caress that left sparks in its wake. “I think this next room will feel more…on brand.”
We stopped at a door, and he let go of my hand to open it, revealing a room both familiar and yet wholly unexpected.
A large espresso desk dominated the space, covered in neat stacks of notebooks and papers.
Bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with physics and mathematics texts, ordered by a system only he could understand.
A whiteboard spanned the far wall, dense with quantum field equations and abstract diagrams that seemed to hum with the energy of his mind.
“Should I be impressed or intimidated?”
His laughter was soft, close behind me. “Let’s go with impressed.”
I moved to the whiteboard, searching for a familiar anchor in a sea of complex math and abstraction. “What are you working on?”
He stepped beside me. “This?” He gestured to the board like a maestro before his orchestra. “This is what happens when you’re too stubborn to admit you don’t know everything.” He moved closer, his presence as consuming as the equations on the wall.
I turned to face him, caught in the gravity of those storm-gray eyes. My pulse fluttered as the world narrowed to this single, charged moment. “Maybe,” I said, low and daring, “you’re not all work after all.”
He closed the distance—a gentle insistence that sent heat rushing through me. His kiss was tender at first—testing—then deepened, like he’d been holding back a tide.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine. “I’ve been waiting all evening to do that,” he murmured, his breath a whisper against my skin.
“What took you so long?”
His low chuckle curled around me like smoke, and I loved how intimate and wild it felt. Drawing back just enough to catch my hand, his lips found mine again—searing and urgent— breaking only long enough for him to murmur, “There’s a more pressing conundrum than what’s on the board.”
I could barely breathe. “What could possibly be more pressing?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled in that maddeningly charming way. “Trying to work out how a woman so radiant, brilliant, and utterly disarming is here with me.”
My heart skipped. My breath hitched. “Oh,” I managed, confidence evaporating.
He cupped my face with both hands, voice low and fierce. “I can’t figure it out. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find it’s not real.”
Another kiss—devouring, consuming—cut off my reply, and I didn’t care that he couldn’t see what was already so achingly clear.
His intensity was a drug, and I craved another hit.
I kissed him back with a heat that melted time and reason, tangling my hands in his hair as if touch alone could make this real.
“Cal,” I breathed as he traced his lips along my jawline.
“Gabrielle,” he said—reverent, almost broken.
I pulled back. “You really don’t see what I see, do you?”
He smiled, but there was a shadow in it. “I seem to suffer a particular myopia where you’re concerned.”
I shivered as he skimmed a thumb down my neck.
“Either that,” he said, drawing me in with exquisite slowness, “or I’m willfully blind.”
I felt the moment he hesitated—the slight shift in his touch as a hint of doubt flickered across his face. He held my gaze, searching for something—reassurance, permission perhaps—anything to steady the uncertainty.
“Well, my eyes are wide open,” I said, voice steady despite the wild racing of my heart.
He looked at me like we were poised before some irrevocable leap, his reluctance to cross our private Rubicon palpable in the charged air between us. The kiss that followed was soft, almost gentle.
“Stay,” he whispered against my lips, so quietly it almost wasn’t a word at all.
I met his gaze, pulse thudding. “Are you sure?” I held my breath, worried I’d gone too far—or not far enough.
The corner of his mouth lifted into that roguish smile that undid me every time. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
I curled my fingers into the buttery-soft fabric of his shirt. His eyes searched mine—intense, unreadable—as if measuring just how far this would go.
I tilted my head. “In that case…” I slid my fingers down the line of his buttons. “You’d better finish the tour.”
His eyes darkened, lips parting—more reaction than reply. And then, without a word, he took my hand again and led me down the hall.
His bedroom was dark, lit only by the warm spill of light from the hallway. Clean lines. Cool tones. A black headboard framed against a slate-gray wall. Nothing soft. Nothing fussy. Just Cal—sharp, elegant, controlled.
Until now.
He turned to me, and everything shifted.
The change in his eyes was clear before he even touched me—something raw and unguarded breaking loose beneath that careful facade. He reached for me, and I met him halfway.
The kiss was nothing like before.
It was hunger. Fire. A question asked and answered in the same breath.
He slid his hands into my hair, tangling them at the base of my neck as he kissed me deeper, harder—like he needed to make up for every hour we’d spent apart. I melted into him, fingers fisting in his shirt, mouth opening to his like we were made to fit this way.
He walked me back until the bed hit the backs of my knees.
“I can’t—” He broke the kiss with a growl, forehead pressed to mine. “If we start, I won’t be able to stop.”