Chapter 7 Annabelle
Annabelle
Callum McBride.
I roll the name around in my head, testing it out, letting it settle like warm honey over my tongue.
Callum. It’s rugged and earthy, rooted in centuries of plaid-wrapped masculinity and thick Highland brogue.
It’s the name of a hero in a windswept romance novel who storms castles and breaks hearts with one steely stare.
Except, he’s here. In a pair of worn sweatpants and a faded T-shirt, brooding on a lakeside dock, scowling at me like I’m the reason the sky is blue.
Callum.
The name hits different. Like I just discovered an extra layer to him—a secret code that gives me the tiniest peek at the soft center underneath all that growly, closed-off “don’t talk to me” bullshit.
God help me, I’m so freaking into it. It’s hot. Like—a total hot guy’s name.
And don’t get me started on the fact he owns kilts. Plural.
Suddenly I can’t stop picturing him standing on a misty Scottish cliff, wind whipping his kilt around muscular thighs, hands on his hips, gazing off into the vast horizon.
Callum McBride.
It’s everything—the gravelly R rolling off his tongue, the quiet pride, the tiny smirk he made when he admitted Maverick was not his real name.
I fight off a full-body shiver just thinking about him in plaid, all the wicked possibilities that go along with a man who owns kilts and wears nothing underneath them.
Jesus, take the wheel.
“You want a private show?” he asks.
Do I want a private show? Hell yes I do. It’s the show I never knew I needed. The show I would happily pay front-row VIP ticket prices for. The show that could, potentially, break my brain forever.
I clear my throat. “Um. No. Obviously not.” Gross! my tone says. “Who would want that?”
Liar, liar, bikini on fire.
Maverick’s laugh is a low rumble, and from here on out, I want to call him Callum; it sounds so romantic. I’m curious to know more about him than just his name.
Such a sexy name for a big, burly man.
I sneak a peek over the top of my sunglasses, seeing him in a completely different light.
All of a sudden he’s not just this gruff, slightly broody football player with a bad knee—he’s a Callum, with ancestors who probably fought epic sword battles on windswept cliffs and who knows how to wield an axe in ways I’m sure wouldn’t be limited to firewood.
If you catch my drift, wink wink . . .
I shift on the deck chair, eyes straying to the kids splashing in the water on the neighboring pier. “So, Callum.” God, I love the way that sounds. “What made you choose football?”
He looks down at the lake, too, jaw working for a second before answering. “Didn’t choose it. Kind of fell into it.”
“How do you accidentally fall into football?”
“I was a big kid. Strong. Fast. By the time I was in seventh grade I could outrun the older kids. My dad signed me up for rugby as an intramural in middle school, and as they say—the rest is history. Football was the closest thing to it once I got into high school.”
“And you love it?” I ask, studying the way a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Sure. At first, yeah. Felt good to win. Then, you know—it turned into a job. Sponsors. Contracts.” He shrugs a shoulder, gaze still fixed on the rippling water. “Now it’s just a paycheck.”
That makes my heart twist a little. There’s a weariness in his voice that feels heavy. Lonely.
“That’s kind of sad,” I blurt out before I can think twice.
He looks at me. “You always say exactly what you think?”
Um. Most of the time. “Sorry, not on purpose.”
Maverick’s mouth twitches, like he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or roll his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Silence stretches between us for a beat, soft and gentle, until I decide to break it again, too curious to let him go back into his own head.
“What about Scotland?” I press, lowering my voice. “When is the last time you went back?”
“Last summer, my mom and I went to see my nan.”
His nan.
My ovaries tingle. I might actually melt straight through this dock and sink to the bottom of the lake.
“That’s sweet,” I manage, voice neutral while my brain sends images of him wrapping a gray-haired old woman in a hug; the kind of grandson who brings flowers and does the dishes for his grandparents.
He shrugs, a hint of a smile teasing his lips. “She’s ninety-two. Figured I’d better make time.”
“What’s she like? Your nan?” I ask softly.
He lets out a breath, and I swear something in his shoulders eases. “Bossier than you,” he admits, a grin flashing. “Still runs the town gossip mill too. Knows everything about everyone. Calls me ‘wee lamb,’ which is humiliating.”
My grin stretches wide. “Wee lamb?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you speak the language—what do they call it?”
“Gaelic.”
That’s it. “Do you speak it?”
“Some. Aye.” I gawk at him when he goes on to say, “When I visit, I sometimes slip into the cultural way of speaking, ye ken?”
Ye ken? Ye ken?
Shit, shit, shit.
My brain takes a mental vacation and goes a little fuzzy around the edges. There’s something about the way he says the words—easy and natural, like he’s carried those words since birth—that does dangerous things to my girly parts.
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to appear unaffected, while my pulse pounds like a war drum. “Are you doing this on purpose? Weaponizing your hotness.”
“Am I?” he drawls, all innocent like—but his eyes sparkle, telling me he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Enough about me. What’s your origin story?”
Lame. Embarrassingly vanilla. I swallow, wishing I had some epic saga involving castles and sheep and nans who call me wee lass.
“Well,” I start, trying not to sound like the most boring person alive. “Before we moved to Washington, we lived in Illinois. My dad got a new job—he’s a contractor—and my grandparents moved close by so they could babysit me while my parents worked. Um.”
God, riveting stuff, Annabelle.
“We’re German?” I add lamely. “I’ve never actually been to Germany. My ancestors came over in, like, the late 1800s.” I cringe. “That’s it.”
“Germany sounds cool. I’d visit.” He pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes. “What else? You’re a wedding planner; you plan events. Any hobbies?”
Is he making small talk for the hell of it, or could he genuinely be interested?
“I run. I hike. I would love to travel more but . . .” I’m boring. Plus, I’ve never had anyone to travel with, and I’ve never had the urge for solo trips. “What are your hobbies?”
He shifts a little in the chair, one knee bouncing, sunglasses hiding most of his expression except the faint twist of a smirk on his lips. “Hobbies?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound breezy, even though my skin is prickling from his attention. “You must do other things when you’re not on the field or chopping wood.”
Ha ha.
He gives a soft, huffing laugh. “Recovery is my full-time hobby these days.”
I roll my eyes. “You can do better than that.”
He pauses, considering. “I guess I like the gym. Weight lifting. Swimming. Spending time with my family. I watch a lot of sports, even when I’m not playing.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You sound thrilling.”
He tips his sunglasses down just enough to meet my eyes, and something about the dark glitter of them hits me square in the chest. “I promise you, I am.”
My breath catches. A weird silence pulses between us, warm and electric. He’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose.
Freckles? Anything but those!
I try to look away, but my gaze drifts lower, over his ridiculously broad chest, down the faint line of sweat darkening the collar of his T-shirt. He shifts in the chair, tugging at the hem, like even he can’t stand the heat anymore, then casually peels the shirt off and tosses it over the armrest.
Shit.
There’s a trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, and the sight of it feels illegal. His shoulders bunch, rolling as he leans back, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Eyes closed.
“Want some sunscreen?” I offer, half joking.
He cocks a brow, all challenge. “You offering to rub me down?”
Yes. “No.”
The sun climbs higher, the lake glimmering in front of us, and for one suspended moment, I can’t remember why I thought it was a horrible idea being trapped in the same cabin with him.
“What’s your favorite food?” he asks lazily, as if he plans on napping in that chair all afternoon.
“I love fruit. Strawberries, mango.” Juicy, delicious fruit . . .
“Yeah. I could fuck with fruit,” he agrees. “What about burgers?”
I hum. “Mmm. Love. And pizza.” Obviously.
Maverick turns his face in my direction but still doesn’t open his eyes. “Know what else I love? The state fair.”
This surprises me. “Really? I would never have guessed.”
“Yeah. I love Disneyland and shit too.”
“So you’re into rides?”
I feel him nod. “Roller coasters and stuff. I was an adrenaline junkie in another life.”
Ha. “Not me. Those scare the shit out of me, but I’m cool sitting and waiting for my friends to ride them.”
He cracks one eye open and lifts his head. “What, you stand there holding their jackets?”
“Yeah,” I admit with a shrug. “Designated bag holder. Food. Someone’s gotta do it.”
His chuckles have my skin feeling five degrees hotter. “You’re missing out.”
“Missing out on puking my guts out after getting spun around? Hard pass.”
“Oh come on,” he drawls, propping his sunglasses on his forehead so I can see those annoyingly intense eyes. “Have you even ridden one?”
“I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl once,” I protest. “I was twelve. Traumatized. Another pass.”
“Spinning doesn’t count.” He argues, voice going rougher, teasing. “You need the big stuff. Magic Mountain and Space Mountain, all that.”
I can’t help laughing, picturing him at Disney, towering over every ten-year-old in line, getting recognized, signing autographs. The mental image is painfully adorable.
“I like thrills.”
Oh boy. I bet you do. My cheeks go pink just thinking about what other “thrills” he might like. I glance down the dock, trying to hide my blush.