Chapter 10 Riley #2
I dug out my ancient camping stove, a relic from a camping trip I took with Margo a year ago that ended with us checking into a hotel after approximately four hours of “roughing it.” We made pasta, the only thing I had ingredients for, in a pot balanced precariously over the tiny flame.
Caelan insisted on helping, which meant we kept bumping into each other in my cramped kitchen.
His arm brushed mine as he stirred the water, and goosebumps rose on my skin.
My hip grazed his as I reached for the salt, and I felt the contact like a brand.
When I turned to grab a spoon, I ended up with my face approximately three inches from his chest.
His very damp, still very visible through his shirt chest. He’d said he was okay when I asked if he wanted a dry one, insisting he didn’t get sick. Men were so stubborn.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, stepping back.
“Don’t be.” His voice was lower than before. “I’m not.”
I busied myself with the pasta sauce, which was just butter and garlic because that’s all I had. My hands were trembling slightly. From the cold. Obviously from the cold.
“You’re not very good at this,” I observed, watching him struggle with the colander. He was holding it upside down, water dripping everywhere except where it was supposed to go.
“I have other skills.”
“So you keep saying. What skills, exactly?”
“I can...” He paused, clearly searching for an answer that didn’t involve whatever mysterious thing he actually did. “I’m good at strategy. Planning. Long-term thinking.”
“Those are job interview answers.”
“I can also fight.”
“Fight?”
“Combat. Physical confrontation.” He shrugged like this was normal. “I’ve been trained since childhood.”
“To fight.”
“Among other things.” He finally managed the colander, draining the pasta into the sink with only minor spillage. “Hand-to-hand. Weapons. Tactical assessment.”
“That’s... not normal.”
“Where I come from, it is.” He plated the pasta, dividing it between two bowls with careful precision. “Everyone in my family trains. It’s expected.”
“Even Thessa? Your family sounds intense.”
“You have no idea.” He handed me a bowl, his fingers brushing mine. “But I’d rather hear about yours.”
“Not much to tell. Dead parents, raised by a godmother who did her best, spent most of my childhood escaping into books.” I took the bowl, moved toward the couch. “Standard orphan backstory.”
“You say that like it’s nothing.”
“It was a long time ago.” I settled onto the cushions, tucking my feet under me. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
He sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him despite his still-damp clothes. The couch was small, there was nowhere else for him to sit, and yet I was acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
“What kind of childhood did you have, exactly?” I asked.
“A complicated one.” He stared at his pasta for a moment. “Not unhappy, just different.”
“Different how?”
“Lots of expectations. Preparing for responsibilities I wasn’t sure I wanted.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “When I came here and met you, it occurred to me I could escape for a while. Figure out what I actually want.”
“And have you? Figured it out?”
His gray eyes met mine in the candlelight. The flame reflected in them, making them look almost gold.
“I’m getting closer.”
The way he said it made my stomach flip. We ate in comfortable silence after that, the storm still raging outside but feeling distant now. Irrelevant. Like we’d created our own world inside these walls.
“Tell me a secret,” I said, somewhere around my third glass of wine. We’d moved on from pasta to the bottle I’d been saving for a special occasion. This felt special enough.
“What kind of secret?”
“Anything. Something you don’t tell people.”
He was quiet for a moment, considering. The candlelight highlighted the angles of his cheekbones, the strength of his jaw.
“I haven’t told my family where I am.”
“What?”
“They know I’m in Lysmont. They don’t know I’m here, not doing what I’m supposed to. They don’t know about...” He paused. “About you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I told them, they’d want to interfere. They’d have opinions, expectations, plans.” He set down his wine glass. “I wanted this to be just mine. Before the rest of it caught up.”
“The rest of what?”
“Everything.” He turned to face me fully, his knee pressing against mine on the narrow couch. “My family isn’t like yours. We have traditions. Responsibilities. Ways things are supposed to happen. If they knew about you, it would all become very complicated very fast.”
“Complicated how?”
“Complicated in ways I’m not ready to explain yet.” His hand found mine in the candlelight. His fingers were warm, calloused, and the feeling of his skin on mine made butterflies fly wildly in my belly. “Is that okay? That I’m not ready?”
I should’ve pushed, maybe. Should’ve remembered all the reasons why mysterious men with secrets were red flags.
“Yeah,” I said instead. “That’s okay.”
“Thank you.” His thumb stroked across my knuckles. “I promise I’ll tell you when the time is right. When I figure out how to say it.”
“Tell me something else, then. Something less complicated.”
He thought about it. “I’m afraid of small spaces.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I don’t know why. Put me in a closet and I’ll lose my mind.” His thumb continued its gentle path across the back of my hand. “I got stuck in a storage room once when I was young. My brother had to break down the door.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It was. Still is.” He smiled slightly. “Your turn. Tell me a secret.”
“I still sleep with a light on sometimes. When I have nightmares.”
“About what?”
“Damien, mostly. The apartment we shared. The way it felt to be trapped with someone who was supposed to love you.” I hadn’t meant to say that much. The wine was loosening my tongue.
Caelan’s hand tightened on mine. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump.
“If I ever see him...”
“You won’t do anything.” I squeezed his hand. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth you getting in trouble.”
“He hurt you.”
“And I survived. I got out. And now I’m here, in my apartment, with candles and bad pasta and a strange beautiful man who ran through a storm to help me.” I smiled, hoping to ease the fury I could see building in his eyes. “That’s the happy ending, Caelan. Focus on that.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he took a breath, then another, and let it go.
“You think I’m beautiful?” he asked, his voice lighter now, though his eyes still held shadows.
“Oh my god. That’s what you took from that?”
“It’s the part I liked best.”
I laughed despite myself. “You love fishing for compliments. You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“I’m also beautiful..” He leaned closer, his free hand coming up to cup my jaw. “And strange. Don’t forget strange.”
“Very strange,” I agreed, my voice barely a whisper.
“Good strange or bad strange?”
“Jury’s still out.”
“Then I’ll have to keep convincing you.” His thumb traced my cheekbone, the movement going straight to my core. “I’m very patient, Riley. I can wait as long as you need.”
I smiled, clearing my throat to distract him from the fact that my breathing was failing me and I was very turned on by his closeness, his scent, his words and the sheer presence of him.
Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice, and the conversation kept going easily until my words started to slur and his eyes started to drift closed mid-sentence.
“You’re exhausted,” I whispered.
“I’m fine.”
“You just fell asleep sitting up.”
He blinked his eyes open. “I was resting my eyes.”
“Sure.” I took his empty plate, set it on the coffee table. “Lie down. Sleep. I’ll get blankets.”
“I… I should go.”
Fuck me, but I really, really didn’t want him to.
“The storm hasn’t stopped, and you’re dead on your feet.” I pushed him gently toward the couch cushions. “Sleep. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”
He caught my wrist before I could pull away. His grip was gentle but firm.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For letting me stay. For trusting me.”
“You ran through a storm for me. Least I could do is give you a couch.”
“It’s more than that and you know it.” His thumb stroked across my pulse point, and I wondered if he could feel how fast my heart was beating. “Goodnight, Riley.”
“Goodnight, Caelan.”
He released my wrist and lay back, his long body barely fitting on my couch, feet hanging off the end, and let his eyes close.
I watched him for a moment longer than I should. His face relaxed in sleep, his chest rising and falling. Surrounded by my candles, in my space, he looked like he belonged there.
I pulled a blanket over him, careful not to wake him.
“Goodnight,” I whispered again.
He didn’t respond, he was already asleep. But even unconscious he looked content, peaceful, like my couch, my blanket, my space was exactly where he wanted to be.
I retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, and lay in the dark, listening to the storm.
He was here. In my apartment. Sleeping on my couch.
I could hear him breathing through the thin walls, and I fought the urge to go back out there, crawl into his arms, press my face against his chest and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
I wanted to kiss him so bad. Had wanted to kiss him for days. Weeks, if I was being honest, since the moment he walked into my book signing. But I was scared of what he made me feel. Of how much I wanted this and how badly it would hurt if it all fell apart.
Damien had seemed perfect too, at first. Charming, attentive. Like a dream come true. And then the dream became a nightmare.
But Caelan wasn’t Damien. I knew that, felt it in my bones. The way he looked at me wasn’t possession, it was wonder, like I was a gift he couldn’t believe he’d been given. And maybe that was scarier. Because possession I understood, I could fight against that, had learned to recognize the signs.
But wonder? Genuine, awestruck, I-can’t-believe-you’re-real wonder?
I had no defenses against that.