Chapter 7 #2
"I'll add those to my list of concerns." He nodded toward the hallway. "Shower's that way. I'll find you clothes."
"You have women's clothes just lying around?"
"I have t-shirts and sweatpants. Unless you'd prefer to stay in your current outfit."
I looked down at my coffee-stained, damp disaster of a shirt. "Point taken."
The bathroom was predictably immaculate—white towels, expensive products, a shower with more settings than my car's dashboard. I stood under water that was probably filtered through angel tears and tried not to think about the fact that I was naked in Callum Hayes's apartment.
Didn't work. Thought about it anyway.
When I emerged, wrapped in a towel that was softer than my entire bed, I found clothes folded on the guest bed.
Gray t-shirt, black sweatpants, both obviously his.
I pulled them on. The shirt hung past my thighs.
The sweatpants required rolling three times at the waist and still pooled around my ankles.
I looked ridiculous.
I kind of loved it.
I padded back to the kitchen, where Callum stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible.
"You cook," I said.
He glanced over his shoulder, and I watched his gaze travel down my borrowed outfit before snapping back to my face. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I eat. Cooking is a prerequisite."
"I assumed you survived on protein shakes and ambition."
"That's Tuesdays." He turned back to the stove. "Pasta okay?"
"Pasta is always okay. I'm not a monster."
I hoisted myself onto his kitchen island, my butt landing on cool marble, and watched him cook. God, he was hot. The epitome of the sexy bachelor, just doing his thing and being effortlessly delicious while he whipped up culinary greatness for a table of one.
The loneliness of it hit me harder than I expected. Callum sat in this big, beautiful, soulless museum and ate his meals alone. I mean, I ate alone too, but I was surrounded by chaos, which somehow made me feel less isolated.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked.
"Eight years. Since the divorce."
"And you've been... alone? The whole time?"
"I date occasionally. Nothing serious."
"Define occasionally."
"Once or twice a year. Dinner. Polite conversation. Mutual acknowledgment that neither of us is interested in pursuing further." He drained the pasta. "And… we part ways."
"So… a booty call?"
"I hate that word."
"What would you call it?" I asked. "When you invite a woman over to your museum-house, have sex, and then call her an Uber? Sounds like a booty call to me."
He chuckled with self-deprecation, exhaling in defeat. "Okay, I guess that's what it's called. I never said I was a monk. Besides, I think I should get points for being honest. I don't have time for dating."
"That's a cop-out."
"It's the truth."
"It's a cop-out disguised as truth." I swung my legs against his cabinets, enjoying the way he winced at the scuffing. "You have time. You just don't make time. There's a difference."
"Thank you for the unsolicited analysis."
"You're welcome. I also accept payment in pasta."
He plated the food—carbonara, from the look of it, and my stomach growled in anticipation—and handed me a bowl. We ate at his kitchen island, perched on stools, and I tried not to moan at how good the food was because his ego was already bloated enough.
"Okay, this is annoyingly delicious," I admitted, unable to help myself.
"I'm adequate in the kitchen."
"This is not adequate. This is 'you could have been a chef if architecture hadn't worked out.'" I twirled more pasta onto my fork. "Where'd you learn?"
"My mother. She believed everyone should be able to feed themselves."
"Smart woman."
"She was."
Was. Past tense. I didn't push, and he didn't offer more. We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the city glittering through his windows, the strangeness of the situation settling into something almost normal.
"Can I ask you a question?" I said.
"You're going to regardless of my answer."
"True. But I'm being polite." I set down my fork. "Why did your marriage end? You've mentioned the divorce, the distance with Elena, but you've never actually said what happened."
He was quiet for a long moment. I watched him decide whether to deflect, then watched him decide against it.
"I was never there," he said. "Not physically absent—I came home, I attended events, I showed up to parent-teacher conferences.
But I wasn't present. My mind was always on the next project, the next client, the next problem to solve.
" He stared at his pasta as if it held answers.
"Jessica asked me once if I'd notice if she and Elena moved out. I laughed. Thought she was joking."
"She wasn't."
"She wasn't. And a year later, she proved it. Took Elena to California. Filed for divorce. Told me I could have the marriage or the career, and I'd already made my choice." He looked up, meeting my eyes. "She was right. I'd been choosing the career for years. I just hadn't admitted it."
"And Elena?"
"Elena was twelve. Old enough to understand that her father had prioritized buildings over her.
Old enough to resent it." His voice roughened.
"I've spent eight years trying to rebuild what I broke.
She tolerates me now. Talks to me occasionally.
Agreed to visit this week. But the trust I damaged—that doesn't come back with apologies and birthday cards. "
My throat felt tight. I'd spent so much time seeing Callum as the polished, put-together architect who had his life figured out. This version—the one who'd chosen wrong and knew it, who'd lost his family to his own ambition—was harder to dismiss.
"For what it's worth," I said, "you're here now. Trying. That counts for more than you think."
"Does it?"
"Ask me in ten years. I'll have better data."
His mouth curved, just slightly. "Fair enough."
We finished eating. I helped him clean up—over his protests that guests didn't do dishes—and we settled on his fancy sectional with cups of tea neither of us really wanted. The city sprawled beneath us, all those lives unfolding in apartments we'd never see, problems we'd never know about.
"Your turn," he said.
"My turn for what?"
"I shared my damage. It's only fair you share yours."
I tucked my feet under me, his sweatpants bunching around my knees. "You already know my damage. Career pivot. Disappointment to parents. Ex-boyfriend who thinks I lack ambition. Currently homeless due to plumbing failure."
"That's the surface version. What's underneath?"
I wanted to deflect. Make a joke. Redirect the conversation to safer ground.
Instead, I heard myself say: "I'm terrified I made the wrong choice."
He waited. Didn't fill the silence.
"Going to Brew & Bean instead of finishing physical therapy school feels the most damning.” I picked at a thread on his very expensive couch.
"Everyone told me I was making a mistake.
My parents, my advisors, Devon. And I was so sure they were wrong.
So convinced I knew myself better than they did. "
"And now?"
"Now I'm twenty-three, managing a coffee shop that might close any day, with no plan and no idea of what I want to do and the growing suspicion that everyone was right.
" I laughed, but it came out hollow. "Maybe I did lack ambition.
Maybe I was just scared of failing at therapy school, so I ran to somewhere failure looked different. "
"Do you believe that?"
"Some days." I met his eyes. "Other days I think I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing work that matters even if no one else sees it. And I don't know which version is true. That's the worst part. Not knowing."
"For what it's worth," he said, echoing my earlier phrase, "I've watched you work for a year. You're not running from failure. You're building toward a success that looks different than what other people expected."
"You don't know that."
"I know what I've seen." He set down his tea. "I know that every morning, you show up before dawn to a job that underpays you. You remember every regular's name, their kids' names, their problems. You slip free drinks to students who can't afford them. You've made that shop into a community."
"That's not—"
"It is." His voice was firm. "Ambition isn't just climbing ladders, Willow. It's caring about your craft. Investing in people. Building spaces where they feel seen." He paused. "You do all of that. Every single day. Maybe you're meant to open your own shop."
My secret dream that I was scared to voice because I saw how hard it was to stay afloat? My throat threatened to close.
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to handle Callum Hayes—cynical, guarded, emotionally constipated Callum Hayes—looking at me with conviction I didn't feel about myself.
"You're being nice again," I managed. "It's unsettling."
"I'm being honest. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes."
We sat there, the city glittering below us, his words hanging in the air between us. I was aware of how close we were. How quiet the apartment had gotten. How his gaze kept dropping to my mouth before snapping back up.
"Thank you. For letting me stay. For..." I gestured vaguely. "All of this."
"You're welcome."
Still neither of us moved.
The pull between us was magnetic—had been since Hartfield, since before that if I was being honest. Every interaction felt like holding a match near gasoline. It was only a matter of time before one of us dropped it.
He stood. The spell broke.
"I keep the thermostat low at night. There are extra blankets in the closet if you need them."
"Got it."
"Right." He ran a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture I'd never seen from him. "Goodnight, Willow."
"Goodnight, Callum."