Chapter 1 #2
He wore a T-shirt that hung loose on his torso but tight around his strong biceps, a pair of jeans, and pristine black trainers I knew were Dior because my younger brother, Luke, was obsessed with designer clothing.
Callan Keen could wear a bin bag and make it look sexy as hell.
I could understand why he got so many ad opportunities.
Just over six feet, athletic, wore clothes well. And there was the matter of his face.
That bloody face.
It was one of the many reasons Callan Keen had been my first big crush.
The only difference now was that he sported sexy stubble, making him look a wee bit more rugged around the edges.
Those familiar light green eyes that once looked at me with laughter and tenderness now hardened with wariness.
Callan crossed his arms over his chest, and I tried not to let my attention stray to the flexing biceps.
There was no need for him to know I still thought he was gorgeous. “So. You live here?”
I gestured to his sofa. “So. You paid money for that?”
Baird gave a bark of laughter that he turned into a pretend cough at Callan’s betrayed glare. “Must be dust floating around.” He patted his chest dramatically.
Amusement trembled on my lips. I couldn’t say I didn’t like Callan’s friends.
Callan rolled his eyes as he turned to me. “It is a very comfortable sofa. And unlike some people, I don’t buy things because they cost a lot and look good.”
“Says the guy wearing Dior trainers.”
“I like her,” John told Baird.
Baird nodded in agreement.
I grinned, pleased on multiple levels.
“Don’t.” Callan gestured between us and repeated, “You are not friends.” He turned to me now. “You better go or you’ll be late for your facial.”
He was right. I was so running late for the food bank. “You should know that you are never going to get laid owning a sofa like that.”
“Hey, that’s exactly what I said.” Baird held his hand up for a high-five. I cracked my hand against his, spitefully enjoying how much my bonding with his friends was annoying Callan.
“I’ll have you know that I could be drenched in cat piss and I’d still get laid,” Callan announced with an arrogant tilt of his gorgeous face.
What the ever lovin’… “Ew.”
“I mean, he’s not wrong,” John agreed, “but weird choice, man. Weird choice.”
“But he’s not wrong,” Baird reiterated. “Some birds just want to shag a footballer.”
“Each to their own, I guess.” I grimaced. “But cat pee? Really?”
Callan shrugged.
“Well, I’m choosing to believe you’re wrong.” It made me feel better about humanity. “Anyway, all that to say, I’d still think about having the sofa reupholstered. My pseudo-grandmother is cooler than you, Captain.”
“Bullshit.”
“What’s a pseudo-grandmother?” Baird asked, eyebrows raised.
“Grandma Elodie. She’s not my real grandmother, but she’s like one and the only thing I have that comes close to a grandma.”
“You don’t have a real grandmother?”
I shook my head. Both my maternal grandparents had died when my mum was a teenager, along with her little sister, for whom I was named.
My paternal grandfather died before I was born, and my paternal grandmother hadn’t been in our lives.
Dad had gotten word she passed away a few years ago.
My dad’s half sister, my aunt Ellie … her mum, Elodie, and stepdad, Clark, were the closest thing I’d ever had to grandparents.
They tried to be as good as. But it wasn’t the same as knowing the people who had a part in making me me.
“Sad.” Baird pouted adorably, but his eyes were filled with genuine sympathy.
“I think so.”
“My gran would love you,” he decided. “You should meet her. Also”—he turned to Callan—“Gran’s sofa is well cooler than yours, mate.”
“See!” I gave him an I told you so grin.
Callan gaped aghast at us. “No. No, no, no. She is not meeting your grandmother, and I’m not reupholstering my sofa. It could change its comfort level. Now grab the fucking thing, and you”—he pointed at me—“go away.”
I curled my lip. “Cat pee. Really? Because I’m doubtful they’d touch you if you were slathered in Nutella.”
John chuckled. “I dunno. Nutella, dude.”
“I’d lick that stuff off my own hairy balls,” Baird declared.
Silence reigned as we processed the hilarious imagery he’d created.
And then all burst into laughter.
Wiping tears from the corners of my eyes, I struggled to catch my breath.
Callan noted this and snapped out of his amusement. “No, no, no.” He pointed at me. “No joking with my friends.”
I wiped at the last of my misplaced mascara. “You are such a child. With an ugly sofa.”
“Wow. What an insult. How will I ever recover?” he deadpanned.
“Okay … how the hell do you two know each other?” John demanded.
“And hate each other?” Baird frowned at his friend. “She’s sick. And nice. And did I mention she’s a smoke show?”
“Aye. She seems it. You realize quite quickly, however, that she’s not. For instance, if you two weren’t professional footballers, she probably wouldn’t give you the time of day.”
Hurt pierced me, and guilt. Because I understood why Callan might think that, even though it was far from true.
Baird seemed dubious.
“That’s me.” I glowered at Callan to cover my shame. “If you’re not rolling in it, I’m not interested.”
“Facts.” Callan nodded grimly.
“She was being sarcastic,” Baird pointed out. “Mate, you’ve got to get better at recognizing tone.”
“Will you just lift my sofa?”
“Aye, but you’re telling the gaffer if I suffer an injury.”
Weirdly deflated for reasons I didn’t quite understand, I turned around and walked away.
“Oi, Beth.”
At Baird’s call, I glanced over my shoulder. “Aye?”
“Thanks for the help, gorgeous.” He winked at me.
His kindness soothed Callan’s animosity somewhat. “Anytime. I mean, for you. Not for cat piss over there.”
John and Baird both burst into laughter, and I could hear them ribbing Callan all the way up the next stairwell.
I didn’t look at Callan again. It was so strange to think I might bump into him regularly now.
Eight years had passed between us. We were only kids then.
For a moment, however, it felt like no time had passed at all.
Perhaps for Callan, time didn’t matter. His guarded hostility seemed to be proof of that.