Chapter 17
ALIA
Inever thought I’d say this, but Callum Finnigan, arguably the hottest man I have ever laid eyes on, looks like shit.
“You’re not pulling a Ross, are you?”
Irsia snickers beside me but my concern is genuine. Why would anyone do this to themselves?
“I’m not Spudnik, if that’s what you mean.”
Cal’s lips twitch as he stands on the porch of my uncle and aunt’s house, wearing an atrocious brown costume that, at the risk of repeating myself, looks like shit. Poop. Crap. Take your pick.
“Who’s at the door?” Irsia turns at the same time I do to reveal my maternal aunt, Suchi, walking down the hall. Chitthi, as I call her fondly, is like another mother and I adore her.
My Tamilian mother fell in love with my Maharastrian father and their intercultural love story caused tension within their conservative households.
Chitthi, Mom’s younger sister, took it a step further and eloped with an American Scot who, thirty-three years into their relationship, still worships the ground she walks on.
I hope I’m lucky enough to find a man who adores me a fraction of how much Ian Moore loves his wife.
Chitthi tips her chin up, silently repeating her question when I step aside to reveal the man behind me. She stops immediately, her eyes dragging down before she cackles out loud.
“Alright, alright! It’s not that bad, Mrs. M.” Cal throws his arms up, dropping them against the sides of his rounded costume with a thump. “I knew I couldn’t trust Novak to pick something decent.”
“Did you lose a bet?” Chitthi asks, making no effort to contain her amusement.
Cal’s lopsided grin confirms it.
“But what are you?”
“A half-baked potato.”
“Why is everyone gathered he. . .” Rohan ambles down the hallway, trailing off when Cal steps into the foyer. “Finnigan, why the fuck are you dressed like shit?”
“Language!” Chitthi scolds, while Irsia and I burst out laughing.
Cal rips his costume off with a low growl and all the mirth from my body drains.
A simple white t-shirt under the poop-tato atrocity clings to his sculpted body, the short sleeves snug around the muscles of his biceps.
My nipples pebble as I imagine running my fingers along the contours of his chest while his lips explore mine, clutching his strong arm while he nibbles lower, pulling off my bra to—
“Is that better?”
Snapped out of my fantasy, I will the warmth in my cheeks to subside. Better? Another second and I might have orgasmed.
Thankfully, Cal is facing Rohan so wouldn’t have seen me panting like a dog in heat. I watch the two men walk away, led inside by my aunt, and finally release a trapped breath. That was close.
I turn, jumping in place as an involuntary shriek climbs its way up my throat. Irsia stands there with her arms crossed, observing me with a shrewd look and a tiny smirk. Crap. I know that smirk.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“You tell me, Aloo.” Her eyes swing down the hall and back. “I saw the way you were looking at Callum.”
My heart jumps to my throat. As if I just got caught watching porn.
“Ish, we’re friends. And the man was dressed like poop. Of course I’d look. Don’t read too much into it.”
“If you say so,” she replies in that extra-annoying tone siblings use to make it blatantly obvious they don’t believe you.
“Honestly. We’re just friends.”
And he’s made that perfectly clear.
I shoo my cousin inside, stopping to say hello to the rest of the team. I’d only come to Diwaloween once, a couple years ago, but Namik complained loudly about missing dinner with his colleagues to attend something this childish. Embarrassed and wanting to avoid an argument, we left early.
Next year, I skipped Diwaloween altogether. Namik didn’t think it would look good if I attended alone when he had other plans.
As I soak in the friendly ambience, I’m ashamed I allowed him to separate me from my family and treat me like a doormat. No wonder he thought I’d stay even after he cheated.
The Moore house buzzes with activity in a way I’ve never seen before.
Marigold garlands decorate the doorways and little diyas and candles line the mantle and windowsills.
String lights have been draped around the curtains.
Carved pumpkins sit on the fireplace’s hearth while a house full of people roam about in either ethnic clothes or Halloween costumes.
Rohan and Irsia grew up celebrating this mixed holiday and, when Rohan started playing for the Ironhearts, it evolved into a team celebration.
I see him deep in conversation with his captain, Mateo.
His friends and their partners fill every corner of the room.
The backyard is teeming with more guests.
It warms my heart to see this kind of camaraderie.
The Ironhearts don’t just accept Rohan’s mixed heritage—they enthusiastically celebrate it.
Even if said enthusiasm leads to someone showing up looking like potato-doody.
I snicker under my breath, covering my mouth behind the glass of punch I’ve been carrying around.
Though I try not to, my gaze unwittingly sweeps my surroundings, searching for Cal.
And, in keeping with how the past week has been, his presence is nowhere to be found.
I flit about, helping Chitthi, getting drink refills, trying to stay busy.
But my mind is stuck on Cal and our unlikely friendship.
It feels like a long time has passed since our midnight taco run.
I’ve lost many nights of sleep over how mortifyingly close I came to making a mistake by misreading his interest in me.
He was being a good friend and I assumed it was something else.
Yet another mark against my poor decision-making skills.
Between the team traveling for games and me licking my wounds in private, our communication has all but come to a screeching halt.
No texts. No calls. Not even an accidental butt-dial.
I’m still too appalled by my own behavior to reach out.
But I’m crushed Cal hasn’t either. I’ve tried to excuse it.
The guy is popular, has more friends than some people have hair, and is busy enjoying an incredible career.
That he made time for me when he did was simply the stars aligning.
I shouldn’t assume that’ll always be the case or that I’ll become a priority.
I sigh, weaving my way through the backyard, struggling with a massive platter of samosas while trying to retrieve my buzzing phone.
I’ve only just managed to successfully slide it out of my pocket when I trip over the hem of my skirt.
Eyes scrunched shut, I wait for the inevitable crash when the weight of the samosas in my hands disappears.
A thick arm snakes around my bare waist, saving me from faceplanting right into the buffet table.
My phone drops onto the lawn with a soft thump but my heart hammers within my chest because, that scent? I recognize it.
Need slithers up my spine as his chest rises and falls against my back, his arm a heavy band across my exposed midriff.
I twist my neck just slightly to glance up at Cal when he lets go, brushing against me as he leans forward to place the samosas he saved on the table.
From this angle, my eyes are aligned with the base of his neck.
His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow—the mere action unjustifiably attractive and masculine.
I inhale deeply and, instead of oxygen, my lungs fill with the scent of wood and vanilla.
The cologne he wears must be catnip to the ladies, because I have the insane urge to bury my nose right at the nook of his throat and breathe him in.
He straightens and I realize I’ve been staring. At his neck. My eyes shift up. Now I’m staring at his lips.
I should say something, but words have deserted me. I know four languages and I can’t seem to recall anything appropriate to say in any one of them.
Say hi. A word. Any word will do. Just grunt, for goodness’ sake!
I jump when my phone vibrates angrily at my feet. Before I can, Cal swipes it up, pausing momentarily before handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I murmur breathlessly. I sound like I’ve run a mile, and all Cal has done is exist near me.
Blindly turning toward the table, I shuffle over to grab a cooler from the bucket of ice.
I tuck the bottle opener under the cap’s teeth and lever up, taking more time than I need so my nerves settle.
“Connor1288 messaged you.”
The bottle cap pops off into the air as I whip my head to look at a stoic Cal, his usually smiling face devoid of any friendliness.
“You read my message?” I squawk indignantly—not that it makes Cal contrite in the least. If anything, he has the audacity to glower at me.
“I landed upon information I found. . . concerning.”
“Good thing that it’s none of your concern.”
I turn away, hoping that he’ll drop it.
“ChatTrick? Really?”
“Not gonna talk about it with you,” I hiss out of the side of my mouth while furiously avoiding looking at him. God, why was it that this man of all people had to be the one to see those messages?
“Didn’t think you were looking for a hookup,” he mutters, swiping a drink for himself.
The struggle to maintain the blatantly false smile on my face is real. I don’t need anyone glancing our way to think we’re involved in anything other than a polite conversation about the weather. When it becomes clear everyone is occupied in their own little groups, I pin him with a frown.
“It’s a dating app.” My hand tightening around the cold glass bottle. “Even if I hook up with someone, so what? If the internet is to be believed, you’ve dipped your pickle in enough mayo.”
He coughs. Or chokes. Either way, I’m not taking it back.
Cal looks flustered for a moment by my vehemence. Good. I’m irritated with him and in no mood to deal with his disapproval.
“I don’t know what I want to focus more on. That you looked me up or that you confirmed you’re hooking up with someone tonight.”
“Didn’t say tonight.”
“Didn’t say never,” he argues.
“I’m single and available. Never saying never.” I attempt to walk away, but a gentle touch on my arm makes me pause. “What now?”
Cal opens his mouth and instantly snaps it shut, blinking so rapidly I think something might be wrong. His hesitation confuses me because, for as long as I’ve known him, the man’s shown enough confidence for seven people, with more to spare.
“Your. . . you. . . your dress,” he stammers.
I clutch my baby blue skirt with gold accents that passes for a Princess Jasmine costume. “It’s a lehenga,” I explain.
“And your. . .” He swirls a finger in the air in front of my face, gesturing to my hair, and my stomach sinks.
I’m wearing a maang tikka and jhumkis. I’d gotten a trim a couple days ago and Irsia convinced me to get curtain bangs.
It’s a change from my usual ponytail and I thought I was carrying it off well. Then again, the male gaze is different.
“Spit it out,” I snap, anxiety making my voice sharper than I intend for it to be. “If it doesn’t look good, I’d rather hear it from you than on a date.”
At that, he straightens, eyes flaring with something bright and indecipherable.
“You look flawless.”
Heat licks at my cheeks, but I’m saved from responding when we’re called to play games. Theo and I end up on the same team where he keeps me occupied with his excitable puppy energy.
But it’s not enough to snuff out my awareness of Cal.