Chapter 5
Callie
The door creaked open, and there he was. Alistair Graves in all his broody, miserable, landlord glory. Dressed in black like he was in mourning, probably for peace and quiet.
His eyes flicked over me. Not in a pervy way—but in a way that made me instantly aware of the sweat on the back of my neck, the cheap energy drink fizzing in my veins, and the fact that I had purple hair now.
His gaze landed there.
My hair.
Shit. Was it too much?
His mouth twitched. Just slightly.
Was that a smile?
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual. My voice came out too high, like a balloon being strangled.
“Callie,” he said, deep and smooth. Then he leaned on the doorframe like he had nowhere else to be. “New look?”
I resisted the urge to push my glasses up my nose. “Just… a little colour. Bit of fun.”
“Hm.” His gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned and disappeared inside. The door stayed open.
I stood there like an idiot. Was that an invitation?
I stepped in slowly, cautiously—like he might change his mind and slam it in my face.
He came back from the hallway carrying the box.
My box.
The one that was supposed to be discreet. The one that definitely, absolutely, better not be giving off vibrator vibes.
“Thanks for taking it in,” I said quickly, reaching for it.
But he didn’t hand it over right away.
“What did you order?” he asked, tone light, unreadable.
My heart hiccupped. I laughed. Nervously. “Uh… just some… personal stuff.”
That was true, right?
His eyebrow lifted.
“Personal?” he echoed, as if savouring the word.
Oh God. He knew. He so knew.
“It’s nothing bad,” I blurted. “Just boring student stuff.”
“Boring?” he asked. Still not giving me the box.
I could feel the heat crawling up my neck to my face.
“I mean, like… shampoo. Pads. You know. Girl stuff.”
Oh my God. Shut up, Callie.
He studied me for a second longer. Then—finally—he handed it over.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Nothing exciting in there, I’m sure.”
I took the box, trying not to snatch it like a lunatic. It felt heavier now. Radioactive.
“Right. Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Anytime,” he murmured, his voice a little too amused. “Enjoy.”
I bolted before I could make it worse, the box clutched to my chest like a sacred artefact. I didn’t dare look back.
But all the way home, with my heart still pounding and his voice echoing in my head,
I kept thinking about the difference.
Not the toy.
Him.
What he might feel like—warm, real, rough in all the right ways.
Not buzzing silicone. Not cold plastic.
Him.
And that stupid little thought followed me through the door, past Dottie, and straight into the part of my brain I couldn’t shut off. I closed and locked my door like I was hiding from the law.
My bag hit the floor.
I made a beeline for my desk and tore into the parcel like it might somehow reassure me.
White label. My name. A barcode.
No company name. No brand. No clue what was inside.
I turned it over.
Nothing.
Then I saw it—the strip of clear tape.
Sitting awkwardly on top of the standard brown paper seal.
That wasn’t there before.
My breath caught.
He’d opened it.
Alistair fucking Graves had opened it.
My stomach dropped.
Why would he—?
Oh God.
He knew.
This was why I wished I were more like Melissa. She wouldn’t give a damn.
In fact, she’d probably invite him to join in.
But me?
I stood there, sweating shame and panic, while my brain short-circuited.
I turned back to the box. No careful peeling. No gentle folding of the cardboard for recycling like a responsible adult.
No. I tore that fucker open like it owed me money.
Triumphantly, I yanked the vibrator from its packaging and held it up like it was Excalibur.
Let the good times come—pun very much intended.
Maybe now I’d stop being so testy.
?? ?? ??
I didn’t remember falling asleep.
I just… rebooted.
Like someone had pulled my plug and left me in sleep mode on the bed, limp and blinking.
I rolled onto my side, the sheets still bunched beneath me, one thigh twitching. My hair stuck to the back of my neck, and my fingers were curled tight around the vibrator like I might need it for self-defence.
Seven.
Seven times.
Was that a personal best? Or a medical warning?
I stared at the ceiling, dazed, blinking slowly. Then turned to look at the little black menace beside me.
Its light had gone dim.
Oh no.
“You need to be charged already?” I croaked.
My voice sounded destroyed. Some of my muscles definitely were.
I reached for my phone and winced at the time.
4:12 p.m.
I’d been gone. Mentally, physically, emotionally.
The worst part? Even as I lay there with my thighs still slick and the toy still warm, my thoughts still strayed to him.
Alistair Graves.
Because why imagine anyone else when I’d already seen what he could do to a woman?
I groaned and rolled over again, this time planting my face in the pillow.
God. I had to start doing yoga, journaling, or something.
Normal people didn’t wind up fantasising about their emotionally unavailable landlord after melting their brain on a Klarna-funded vibrator.
I peeked out from under the pillow, eyeing the toy where it lay like a guilty secret.
…Did it come with a warranty?