11. Peyton
Peyton
“Iwant to touch a man.”
I hear a rustle on the other end of the line, then a loud thud, like the phone dropped to the floor.
“What the hell, Peyton? You’re just going to dump that on me with no warning? I’m in a fucking coffee shop right now. And it’s a quiet, serious, aesthetic one!” Tessa sounds out of breath, panting in between whisper-shouting into the phone.
I bite back a laugh. While I don’t miss New York—or the fashion scene—I miss Tessa’s dramatic ass so much. We’ve been through a lot together. High-stress environments, cutthroat bosses, faulty dating apps.
“Sorry. It’s new for me, too.”
“Any man? Which man? All of them?” The surprise in her tone is nearly tangible.
I shudder, spinning in my office chair. “God, no. One man. One health inspector man.”
“What do you mean by ‘health inspector?’ Mental health? Spiritual health? Cult leader?”
“Think less sound baths, more Listeria. Throw in a poultry thermometer. Khaki pants. A little plastic baseball-looking cap thing, a government-issued vehicle, and a clipboard.”
Silence, then a tentative, “Okay…”
I can only imagine how this sounds coming from me.
Tessa knows all about my history. About three months after we met, I told her all about my pageant experiences, modeling, and the nothing-special relationship with my parents.
And then two weeks before I moved to Ohio, I told her everything else.
My touch aversion, my ex. We ordered two dozen midnight cookies and cried over them.
“My heart is breaking, Peyton. I’m a terrible friend. I can’t believe I didn’t notice anything with your ex.”
It would’ve been almost impossible for her to notice. Tessa met my ex one time, at the very beginning of our relationship, and it was backstage at the only fashion show he ever attended.
“I know it sounds wild, coming from me. But I’ve been wanting to put my beginner exposure therapy to the test, and I’m actually eager to touch him again.”
“Again?! You’ve already touched him? When?” Her voice deepens. “…also, where?”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “His hand. I held his hand. And it felt… pleasant. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed touch with a man I…” The end of my sentence trails off, but I quickly finish it inside my head: With a man I can’t stop thinking about.
“Anyway, I told him we could hold hands again today, which I know sounds very Kindergarten, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t make me feel abnormal. And all of that makes me want to touch him even more.”
“So, you like like him then?”
The emotions are complex, but my answer is simple. “I like like him.”
I’m not sure what I’ll do with that, but it’s how I feel.
It doesn’t sound like Tessa knows what to do with it either, because I hear nothing on the other end of the line. Complete silence from the woman I called on a mid-morning whim, needing to debrief with my best friend before my mind overheated.
A bell chimes and a horn honks before a loud squeal from Tessa pierces my eardrums. “Sorry, I needed to get out of that shop so I could give you a proper reaction. I’m so happy for you, Peyton! I’d jump for joy, but I’m holding Gio’s cappuccino.”
Giovanni, Tessa’s husband, is from Italy. It’s actually where they fell in love—somewhere amidst the fashion, the fig trees, and his family’s pet pigeon.
If a domesticated pigeon is a requirement for falling in love these days, I don’t think Callum’s a possibility. He’d probably rather kiss the hand of a toddler than get within fifty feet of a disease-carrying sky rat.
“Sometimes, I think Gio’s more serious about his coffee habits than he is about me.”
I snort. “Impossible. He literally embroidered a blanket for you to commemorate your last marathon. And you came in eighteen-thousandth-and-first place.”
She sighs happily. “The last three digits after the eighteen could barely fit. God, I love that man.”
I grin and fidget with the stress ball on my desk. “So you two are doing good, then?”
“Really good. If you can stay on for another five minutes while I finish my walk to his shop, you can say hi to him. He’d love to hear from you. Shit. I really need to book it. It’s ten forty-five.”
“You should know that—as a single person—I’m happy for you, but not from the bottom of my heart,” I joke.
“Well, great news. You can be ‘not bottom of your heart happy for me’ in person. We’re visiting my mom and step-dad in a few weeks, and I was hoping to drive up and see my best friend.”
I shoot up from my chair. “Oh my God! Are you serious? I’d love to see you.”
It’s been a while. Tessa’s entire family lives a little over two hours south of me in Columbus, including her famous brother—a retired wide receiver for the New York Mustangs.
“I’m so happy!” I glance at the calendar on my desk. “We have the Waterton Harvest Festival the second week of November if you want to time your visit for then. I went last year, and it’s really fun. Lots of autumnal activities.”
“That sounds perfect. Daniel and his wife—Grace, the vet, remember her? They love that shit. I know they want to monopolize all our time while we’re visiting, so maybe I’ll bring them with, if that’s okay? We’ll probably make a day trip out of it.”
I swing my legs back and forth, giving my excited energy an outlet. “The more the merrier. I’m looking forward to seeing them again.”
“And I’m looking forward to meeting your health inspector.”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach, thinking of introducing Callum to Tessa. She’s the closest thing I have to family right now. I don’t need her approval, but it’d mean a lot, especially after everything I’ve been through.
“Shit!” I hear a loud beep, more muffled swearing from Tessa, and a noisy clatter, followed by scratching, like the phone is skidding across concrete.
Things suddenly get quieter. Only the sound of Tessa’s heavy breathing travels through the speaker.
“Are you okay? Did you drop your phone again?” I ask.
“My heel got stuck in a sewer grate. The phone wasn’t the only thing I dropped. Gio’s cappuccino is bleeding out on the sidewalk right now.”
I stifle a laugh. “Sorry, girl. Maybe I should let you go, so you can get a new one.”
“It’s too late now. It’ll be past eleven by the time I get to Gio’s shop.” Her tone sounds comically dark.
I nod grimly. “Italians and their espresso rules.”
“Agh, and my tights are ripped now.” Tessa groans.
Letting out an exaggerated sigh, I say, “If only we knew a talented tailor who could mend them…”
She laughs. “Good one. I better go before my phone gets a restraining order against me.”
“Okay, see you soon. Love you, Tess.”
“Love you, too!”
As soon as I hang up the phone, Romy stomps in, her combat boots thudding against the wood floor. “Dropped the business license renewal form off at City Hall. There was one person ahead of me, so naturally, it took an hour.”
I press my lips together, trying to avoid laughing at her expense. “How’s Betty doing these days? Is she—”
“Still asking everyone for one piece of town gossip in exchange for notary services like some sort of tabloid bridge troll?” Romy throws her hands up in the air. “Yes. Yes, she is.”
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, in between muffled laughs. “That sounds awful.”
Roguery tints her expression. “You know, Peyton, maybe you should go next time. Tell her all about Cal. Speaking of, how was the golf tournament?”
I shift in my seat. “Um, we had a little hiccup of sorts halfway through the gig—nothing to worry about—but it ended on a good note. We charmed the pearl necklaces off some trust fund babies and secured six new members for the club.”
Romy’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline. “Wow. I was not expecting it to go so smoothly. Cal must’ve put in some serious effort.”
I sink deeper in my chair, partially hiding behind my monitor. “He definitely did. He made actual jokes, shook hands, and acted like the perfect gentlemen.”
But it wasn’t an act. Callum was a perfect gentleman. After everything happened, he drove us back to the clubhouse and completely took the reins, giving me the space to become background noise while I sorted myself out. Thankfully, Paul was in the cigar room when we returned.
Romy sits down and jiggles her mouse to wake her computer. “Well, I’m really happy it went well. And that the couple thing wasn’t so bad.”
Understatement of the century. The “couple thing” was addicting. And outside the clubhouse, when I begged Callum to let me pay him for the day, he just shook his head, saying, “A real boyfriend wouldn’t accept money, Peyton. He’d feel like he won the lottery just by spending time with you.”
But for now, I just smile at Romy. “Yeah. It wasn’t so bad.”
And when she starts typing on her computer, distracted, I take a long look at our wall clock, counting down the hours until I can spend more time with Callum.
* * *
When I arrive at Solid Grounds ten minutes early, Callum’s already sitting at a table near the front window, reading a book.
He’s in his work uniform, once again, and a little thrill rushes through me. I should find my newfound attraction to khakis and polos concerning, but I know it’s not the outfit—it’s him.
A sense of anticipation floods my stomach as I wonder when we’ll hold hands. Should I walk up to him and try to grab his hand? Should I wait for him to initiate it? I don’t think I’d punch him again, if he did touch me, but it’s hard to know for sure.
Callum looks up from his book, and his eyes find me immediately. The neutral expression on his face swiftly softens into a smile. I love the way he looks at me, like just my presence alone increases his happiness by ten percent.
He closes his book and stands when I reach his table.
“Hey, Pey,” he says softly.
“Hey, Inspector,” I say back.
His eyes glint at the moniker. “You want some coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? My treat.”
His treat. Is his offer to pay a romantic gesture? All we’ve done is hold hands, and I suppose anyone can hold hands. Families hold hands. Church members hold hands. Otters hold… dear God. I need to get a hold of my thoughts.