Chapter 8 #2
“It's what she wanted to hear.” She sits and folds her hands on her desk. “I also noticed more customers heading into the bakery after I left. Your sister looked happy.” There’s a sadness to her tone, and I know it’s because, while she may not be ready to admit it, she still wants what’s best for Harper.
“She was.” I take a step around the edge of the desk. “But that doesn't explain why you suddenly decided our fake relationship needed a much more public reboot.”
She sighs, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I realized I was wrong, and you were right.”
“You’re admitting you were wrong?”
She gives me an evil glare, but it’s just too cute, so I snicker.
“I was approaching this all wrong,” she says. “It's not about making a big splash, it's about the small moments, like you said. The walks home, the kiss good-bye. The casual touches. The things that make people believe we're really together.”
“And that kiss on the cheek was what? A casual touch?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and challenging. “It was a start.”
Something shifts in the air between us, an explosive energy that's been building since I first saw her across the street weeks ago.
“A start,” I repeat, moving closer until I'm standing beside her. I sit on the edge of her desk, so she has to either look up at me or push her chair back.
Her breath catches, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
From this angle, I can see the smooth tops of her breasts beneath the V in her blouse, and there is a stain of pink appearing across the top of them.
“And where do we go from here?” I continue as though the air in the room isn’t becoming stifled. As though the effect we have on each other is a figment of our imagination. Because I’m ready to take this pretend fling to the next level.
“I think we need to establish some ground rules.”
“Rules?”
She gestures vaguely between us, fingers trembling slightly. “If we're going to convince people, we need to be on the same page.”
I bend toward her, close enough that I can see the flecks in her eyes, like stars in a night sky. “And what page would that be, Callie?”
She swallows hard, her gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before snapping back up, a flush crawling up her neck. “The one where we remember this isn't real.”
I know she intended for those words to be cold enough to douse the fire that’s slowly building between us. If I were a gentleman, I might step back and give her some space. I give about an inch. “Not real. Gotcha.”
She looks away, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “Boundaries, Luke. We need boundaries.”
“Boundaries?”
“Yes.” She stands and walks to the opposite end of the desk.
It doesn’t work, though. The distance is just space.
“First,” she says, trying to act all business, but I can see the tremble in her fingers, the blush on her skin, the way her eyes keep skipping over to me.
“Public displays of affection should be believable but limited. Handholding, brief kisses, that sort of thing.”
“And not so public?” I tease.
She glares at me, but the fire in her eyes doesn’t contain an ounce of anger.
“Second, we need to coordinate our stories. If people ask how we got together, we should have the same answer.”
I nod, watching as she ticks off points on her fingers. Her hands are small and delicate, with short, practical nails painted a soft pastel yellow. I remember those hands on my skin, tentative but eager, all those years ago.
“Third,” she continues, “no emotional entanglements. This is temporary. Just until...”
“Until what?” I prompt when she trails off.
She bites her lip. “Until we've accomplished what we set out to do. Until the bakery is thriving, and people stop looking at me like I'm some tragic spinster.”
“And then I suppose we have an amicable, public breakup,” I finish for her.
“Exactly.”
I walk around to lean back against the front of the desk, putting her within arm’s reach again. “Anything else?”
She’s been pacing but stops and turns to face me fully. “One more thing. That kiss in the car...”
My pulse jumps.
“It can't happen again.” Her voice is firm, but there's a tremor that betrays her. “Not like that, anyway. Are we on the same page?”
We’re not even reading the same book. Because all I can think about is how much I want to kiss her again, rules be damned.
Instead, I push away from the furniture before I do something stupid like sweep my arm across the top, sending paper flying everywhere, and lay her down across the sturdy desk. “I should go. It's getting late.”
“Thank you,” she says as I step toward the door. “For going along with this. I know it's not exactly what you signed up for.”
“I'm not sure what I signed up for,” I admit, pausing at the threshold.
She smiles, a genuine one this time, and it transforms her face. “Good night, Luke.”
“Good night, Callie.”
I'm halfway down the steps when she calls my name. I turn back to find her silhouetted in the doorway.
“One more rule,” she says, her voice carrying in the quiet evening air. “We need to go on a date. A real one, not like last Friday. Something public but intimate, to cement our story.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night? I'll cook dinner at my place.”
“Your place? But that's not very public.”
She laughs softly. “Trust me, in this town, everyone will know you're at my house for dinner. All you need to do is park your bike in my driveway. Besides, we need privacy to practice.”
The word 'practice' hangs between us, loaded with possibilities. And I’m sure we’re still not using the same playbook. “Practice what, exactly?”
“Seven o'clock. Don't be late.”
Then she's gone, the door closing behind her, leaving me standing in the growing darkness, confused.
My body shifts into high alert, the same rush I used to get before entering an unknown situation in Chicago. But this time for entirely different reasons.