Chapter 21
PARALLEL PARKING NEARLY KILLED ME, BUT I’D DIE FOR HER.
CAL
Izzy tucks her hair behind her ear, and I freeze.
It's such a small thing, something people do absentmindedly, but it sends a memory crashing through my head.
Of me doing that exact same thing last night.
Of brushing her hair back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers, tucking her in like she was mine to take care of.
Like she already belonged to me.
And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was what happened after. After she'd passed out.
After I was left alone, hard as fucking stone, aching for her. Knowing she was just on the other side of that wall. Knowing what she had done.
What I had made her do.
I had spent all night on her couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to every shift of her sheets, every tiny sound, every exhale.
Tortured.
Knowing she had just come for me, to my words, her body shaking, her moans pure fucking sin.
Knowing she was naked under those covers, her skin still flushed, still sensitive from her release.
I had to fist my own cock in the dark, gritting my teeth, swallowing down my own groans just to get through the night.
And now?
Now she's standing here, fresh-faced, pink-lipped, looking up at me like I'm the crazy one.
And all I want to do is tuck her hair back again. Trail my fingers down her cheek. Tilt her chin up, make her look at me the way I want her to. I shove the thought away before it roots itself too deep.
"You're not really going outside like that, right?" Izzy asks, eyeing me like I'm insane.
"Like what?"
"Like shirtless." She waves a hand at me. "It's March. In New Jersey."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "I'll be fine."
She huffs, the sound soft and exasperated. "At least let me try and find you something. I have hoodies, t-shirts, something to hold you over."
I raise a brow, amused. "Izzy, I don't think we're the same size."
She waves me off with a scoff. "I know, but I might have something oversized." Then, almost instinctively, she mutters, "I mean, I'm already big, so—"
I frown. "Stop that."
She pauses, blinking up at me. "What?"
"That." I tilt my head. "You say shit like that way too often."
She shifts awkwardly, clearly caught off guard. "I—I didn't mean—"
"I don't care how you meant it," I cut in. "Just stop doing that to yourself."
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, but instead, she closes her mouth and hurries into her bedroom. The door clicks softly behind her.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. She really doesn't see herself the way she should. And that pisses me off more than it should. Something's happened to make her think of herself that way, and I have a pretty good idea who the culprit is.
A minute later, she comes back out, holding up a black t-shirt. The fabric looks soft from wear, but I can tell from here it'll be too small.
"Um," she says, looking hesitant. "You probably won't want to wear this after I tell you, but...it's Evan's. Might fit?"
I stare at her for a solid two seconds before I laugh.
Like, actually laugh.
She scoffs, glaring at me. "What?"
I shake my head. "I'm definitely not the same size as that guy."
She crosses her arms. "He works out."
I give her a look.
She sighs. "Okay, fine. What's the difference?"
I lean against the counter. The cool stone presses against my lower back. "Men like him lift weights to make their arms look big in a mirror. Men like me lift weights so we can carry a fully grown man over our shoulder while running uphill being shot at."
Izzy blinks, clearly caught off guard.
Then she snorts. "Okay, sure, super soldier. I'm sure you can just...carry people at will."
I tilt my head, watching her closely. I can see the doubt in her eyes and I’m going to fix that.
"Has Evan ever lifted you?"
She pauses mid-sip of her coffee. "What?"
I raise a brow. "You heard me."
She laughs, shaking her head. "No, obviously not."
"Why not?"
She shrugs, a shadow crossing her face. "Because I'm way too big for that."
I frown. Instantly annoyed. That's twice in five minutes she's referred to herself as "big" like it's some kind of defect.
"No, you're not."
She huffs, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I am, Cal. I'm too heavy."
I stare at her. "No, you're not."
"I am," she argues, and her voice shifts slightly, like she's repeating something she's heard many times. "Evan says—"
I feel a spark of actual rage.
"Oh, well if Evan says it, it must be true," I say, voice flat.
She hesitates, her fingers unconsciously touching her side where her shirt clings. "I just—I've gained a lot of weight recently, okay? Like thirty pounds in the last three years. I'm heavier than I look."
Something in me snaps.
Enough.
Before she can say another word, I step forward, bend down, and grip her beautiful, juicy thighs.
She yelps, the sound echoing in the small kitchen.
And then, effortlessly, I hoist her up over my shoulder.
She lets out a full-blown shriek. "CALLAHAN—"
I savor the way she feels in my arms. She’s all heat and give, her thighs molding easily to the grip of my hands. The curves that finance boy apparently finds so problematic? They're fucking perfect in my hands.
She's squirming, and it's making me hard.
I tighten my grip on her as she kicks her feet, laughing but also half-panicked. Her hands press against my back, fingers splaying over my muscles.
"Put me down!" she yells.
"Not until you admit you're not heavy," I say, adjusting my grip, enjoying the way she feels in my arms, the way she molds against me. The way her hips fill my hands, the soft give of her thighs against my shoulder. Christ, she's perfect.
"Callahan!" she whines, kicking again. "Put me down, you psycho!"
"Admit it."
"I'm—this is ridiculous!"
"I'll hold you here all day," I say, grinning against the side of her hip. "In fact, if you don't admit it soon, I might just start doing some squats."
She scoffs. "You wouldn't."
I drop into a squat, her weight pressing against my shoulders—and then I power right back up. Her body is substantial in the best possible way, all soft curves and warmth, but nowhere near as heavy as she thinks.
She shrieks. "OH MY GOD, CALLAHAN—"
I do it again.
And again.
And again.
She grabs onto my back, clinging to me for dear life, her nails digging in. The slight sting only adds to the satisfaction.
"STOP IT," she yells, laughing now.
"Not until you say it."
"I can't breathe!"
I chuckle, lifting her effortlessly once more. "Not my problem."
She groans dramatically. "I hate you."
"Admit it, Russo."
She squirms, flails, gives one last pathetic attempt at resisting—
And then, finally, finally, she groans in defeat.
"FINE! I'm not heavy! You lifted me easily!"
I grin like a damn idiot.
"See?" I say, easing her back down, letting her slide against me the whole way. I make sure I feel every inch of her body against mine as I set her down. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
She lands firmly on the ground, panting, her face flushed, eyes wide. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, her hair slightly disheveled from the ordeal.
I expect her to say something smart.
Instead, she just stares at me, lips slightly parted.
And I realize—I just messed her up.
Good.
She shoves at my chest. "You are so annoying."
I watch her struggle to regain her composure. Her cheeks are still pink, her eyes slightly dazed.
"You're not heavy," I say again, softer this time. "And you're definitely not too big. Not for me."
She bites her lip.
And I know—I just messed with her head in a way she wasn't expecting. Three years with a man telling her she's too much, too big, too heavy—and here I am, lifting her like she weighs nothing, like her body is exactly what I want. Because it is.
Her mouth opens slightly.
Then she snaps it shut.
And I definitely notice the way her eyes look down, just for a second, before she catches herself.
"So," she says, clearing her throat. "You really don't like him, huh?"
"It's not that I don't like him," I say, watching her closely.
She arches a brow. "Really?"
I shake my head. "It's not about him. It's about what he does to you."
That catches her off guard.
She looks at me, features carefully composed, but I can see the question forming before she even speaks.
"But why? Why does that even matter to you?"
Because you belong to me.
Because no one treats my woman like that.
Because if you were mine, you'd never doubt your worth for even a second.
Because I see the way you flinch when someone comments on your body, the way you hesitate before you eat, the way you try to make yourself smaller when you should be taking up all the space you want.
I swallow the words.
I'm pushing things too far, too fast.
Instead, I just shrug and say, "You deserve better. That's all."
Her eyes betray her disappointment, and I tuck that away for later.
"You're really not going to take a shirt?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.
"I've dealt with worse."
She groans. "You're such a guy."
I chuckle, pushing off the counter. "No. I'm a man. Let's go."
We step outside into the March air, and yeah, it's cold. The wind coming off the Hudson River cuts through me, but I refuse to show it. Not fucking unbearable, but enough that I feel her eyes on me.
Judging.
She crosses her arms, watching me with a knowing look. Her breath forms small puffs in the chilly air.
"Go ahead. Say it."
She shakes her head. "No, no. You're right. You're so tough. So manly. Not cold at all."
I laugh. "Exactly."
She huffs a sigh and unlocks her car. I get in the passenger seat, watching her as she starts the engine.
Izzy's car is nice, but not insane. A Lexus RX, sleek and polished, comfortable, practical, and just luxurious enough to feel expensive without screaming I have way too much money and no personality.
She starts the engine, pulls out of the apartment complex, and within ten seconds, I realize something.
Izzy actually does have a flaw.