3. Dakota
3
DAKOTA
Sweat is pouring down my face.
My legs are chafing through my jeans, and I’m not all that confident in the strength of my deodorant at the moment.
Cute.
I wish the bad days happened when I was sheltered in the confines of my own space, free to cry or scream whenever needed.
That’s how I feel today.
Borderline ready to erupt and close to hysterics.
A healthy emotional balance.
I guess that’s the part of grief you don’t fully understand until you live it.
It’s mid-February in Atlanta and far too hot to be considered winter. It’s scorching inside my truck without air conditioning, leaving me no choice but to stand outside while I wait for Callaway to show up.
Despite my twisted personality, I happen to love the spring and summertime. There’s something about the easiness of the sunshine. It’s like my body responds to the blazing sun rays, and the salty air infiltrates my senses .
I’m not typically someone who thinks too far into things, but I feel my best at the beach.
When I was younger, my parents and I traveled a couple hours east to Saint Simons Island every summer. I have so many fond memories there. I remember telling my parents when I was old enough to understand that I wanted to live where we vacationed. That may not be where I ended up, but thankfully, Atlanta is still close enough to visit when my mood calls for it.
Those times are a massive part of why it's such a special place to me.
It’s my form of bliss.
But today, there’s no breeze, and the heat is thick.
It feels excruciating to stand here.
I’m thanking myself for assembling some type of care this morning and deciding on my current fit instead of sweats and a tank top. Despite how I woke up feeling, I decided to wear what I knew I would feel most comfortable in— a white body suit that hugs my breasts and accentuates my curvy hips, blending with high-rise flared jeans and Dunks—orange ones, to be specific.
I should be ashamed of the size of my Dunk collection—but I’m not. Ask my bank account, though, and we may have different opinions.
Pushing my long brown hair off my face, I glance upwards with one hand raised to block the sun as I hear the sound of an engine approaching the front entrance of the building.
Nerves hit me like a ton of bricks.
I’m standing on the curb, rocking back and forth, while running through conversation starters to get me through this car ride in one piece.
Jesus, he drives a Jeep .
Why are Jeeps my kryptonite for a man? Well, that and tattoos. It must be my lucky day because Callaway is covered in them.
I need to shut down what I know is attraction for him because that can and never will happen. I’m also not in the mood to fake my face today; annoyance and frustration are clearly written, I’m sure.
He’s taking time out of his day to give me a ride, so I’ll show him as much kindness as I can manage.
I falter back as Cal’s Jeep rolls to a stop. I watch in hesitancy at his leisure as he lounges back in his seat, careless of the fact that he paraded up here looking like he owned the place. His right arm is draped across the steering wheel while the other reaches to turn down the music.
“There she is.”
His Wayfarer sunglasses are resting on the top of his head, giving me a close-up view of his strikingly handsome features.
Heaven help me, he’s pretty.
Callaway is the effortless kind of handsome. His black hair is long enough on the top to hang across his forehead, ruffled like he runs his hands through it often. He’s clean-shaven on the sides with the perfect five o'clock shadow. It’s evident he takes pride in keeping it clean and trimmed.
His blue eyes captured my attention from the start.
They look like the brightest sea glass the beach can offer, reminding me of the treasured pieces tucked into the hidden corners of the shore.
His confidence holds my attention and is one more thing about the untouchable man I shouldn't be noticing.
He’s sporting what looks to be a simple selection of practice gear, making it evident he has places to go .
I now feel even worse for being the roadblock in his plans today.
Deciding that greeting him is probably the better option than staring, I respond, “Hi.”
He runs a hand through his thick hair, sending me a playful smirk.
I’m pretty sure I caught him looking at me from top to bottom.
“You trying to kill me, woman?”
Is he for real right now? Just get me home, please.
He doesn’t attempt to clarify what he means. “Uh, what’s happening here?”
I’m waiting for him to show any sign of impatience. If he feels that way, he doesn’t make it known. His silent smirking does nothing to help calm my racing thoughts.
Cool. Good talk.
He surprises me by rushing my pace along. “Angel, I’ve got places to go, and people to see, so get your pretty little ass in the car, and let’s roll.”
I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone this forward.
“I fear my life may be at risk riding with you. Also, don't call me that.”
Before I know it, Cal throws his head back and laughs. The most gravely, sexy laugh I’ve ever heard. If I didn’t feel so numb, I'd say it’s one I’d like to bottle up and keep forever. Too bad I couldn’t care less.
Yes, he’s nice to look at. I’m not blind. Just not interested; at least that’s what I tell myself.
He gives me no choice but to notice things I don't want to, like how the sculpting of his Adam’s apple is brought to a heavier light from the glare of the sun. He has so many intricate tattoos that run like silk from his wrist and slowly escape underneath his short-sleeved shirt. It’s annoying that he looks so happy and put together.
I don’t even want to know what the sweat I’m showcasing has done for my appearance. I’m likely doing myself a disservice.
“Oh, she’s feisty. I like it.”
I’m groaning so loud I startle myself. “Sure am. I’m so very sorry to act as your Monday morning inconvenience. I’ll buy you a coffee and we’ll call it even.” I send him a snarky smirk, hoping he catches the leave me alone vibes I’m giving him.
Rounding the front of his Jeep, I not so gracefully grab the handrail and lift myself into the passenger seat. Placing my crossbody in my lap and pulling my sunglasses over my eyes, I lay my arms across my chest and stare out the front window waiting for him to drive away—but the Jeep remains eerily still.
Callaway hasn’t moved an inch, and I’m scared to look at him.
I should have called an Uber. Instead, now I’m forced to overthink everything this complete stranger is thinking because he’s the one with the keys and working vehicle to get me out of this mess.
I’m grateful and slightly caught off guard by his boldness around me.
He’s probably wondering why Navy would be friends with someone so difficult and unpredictable.
Color me confused because I am too.
Before I get a chance to speak up and ask what the holdup is, the smell of cedar and citrus hits my nose, putting goosebumps at attention on my arms.
No. No. No . Lock it down, Dakota.
His massive frame is leaning over the center console, fully invading my space, and making me question if I stink or not.
Lovely.
His long arm reaches over me, the perks of being a Major League pitcher, to grab ahold of my seat belt and swiftly buckle me in. His thumb gently caresses my arms that are folded at my chest from the sudden movement.
It’s such a small slip with such a lasting effect.
I don’t want to notice him this close. Even seeing his attractiveness could send me spiraling and risk all the work I’ve been putting into bettering myself. Slowly, but consistently.
Callaway pauses once the buckle clips, letting his breathing be the only audible sound I hear.
Why can’t this be a simple car ride? Why does he have to get all up close and personal with me?
I’m obviously not about to ask him that. Maybe if I stay silent, he’ll do his thing and finally take me home.
I gather my wits and slowly turn my head in his direction, attempting to keep my body still. His blue eyes are fixed on mine, and the smirk that plays across his ridiculously smooth face is tragic for my strength.
“Safety first.”
Callaway lifts his sunglasses, making sure I see the gesture for what it is. Then he winks, spiking my body temperature to an unhealthy degree.
Jesus, take the wheel. Or at least get me out of this car fast.
I don’t even have a chance to respond before he speeds off and out of the parking lot.
I must have lost all my words because I’ve got nothing to say, although my fast heart rate should be the first sign that I’m still alive .
Thankfully, the outside heat is flushing my cheeks, and my sunglasses shield part of my face; otherwise, he would surely see my stone-cold heart blushing.
I should probably be concerned by the small fact that he made me blush in a matter of seconds when he called me “angel.”
But here I am: dead inside and suddenly feeling very alive.