3. Eloise
3
ELOISE
T he sound of chimes stirs me awake, and as I open my eyes, it takes me a second to remember where I am. I’m not used to waking up leisurely. In fact, I’m surprised my body is even allowing it. I’m usually up making breakfast, packing lunch, and getting Adler out the door for school, but two nights in a row now, I’ve slept until mid-morning. The travel and the wine haven’t hurt. I love wine, but it can put me to sleep as well as a pill. My phone chimes again, and I’m reminded of what woke me. With a groan, I reach for my nightstand and quickly grab my phone, and the frigid air hits my skin.
“Shit, it’s cold.”
Phone in hand, I pull my puffy comforter over my head and find two texts from Cal.
Callum: Have I ever told you how cute you are when you sleep?
I peek my head out just to see if he left me breakfast again, and sure enough, across the room, on the table next to the chair by the window, is a breakfast sandwich and bottle of orange juice. I pull the covers back over my head and read the next one.
Callum: That idea I told you about last night awaits you. Wake up.
The goofy smile that parts my lips can’t be helped. I like waking up to text messages from him, but another part of me likes knowing he was in my room. I close my eyes and groan. When it comes to Callum Balfour, my motto for the past six years has been: if he wanted to, he would. From the second I saw Blair Wyndham on his lap the night his team clinched a seat in the playoffs, I’ve repeated those words to myself every time I felt weak. Men can whisper sweet nothings in your ear all day. They can shower you with gifts, the whole nine yards, but at the end of the day, I can buy myself flowers. I don’t need a man’s ear to bend, and toys get the job done just fine.
Cal has talked the talk. It’s the walking part he hasn’t seemed to get right. The stunt he pulled this past summer, paying someone to propose to me in hopes I’d realize I only want marriage with one man, and it wasn’t the guy bending down on one knee, was bold and insane. I’m still debating if it was a grand gesture. I mean, who does that? My sanity tells me what he did is next-level crazy, but the girl who’s always been head over heels for him melts.
Madness aside, I’m here now because I’m not without fault. I’ve chosen to stay quiet when I shouldn’t have, expecting him to see the writing on the wall. But the more time passes, the harder it’s getting to stay quiet without regrets. He was right about one thing: I don’t want to look back in five to ten years, see him marry someone else, and wonder what could have been had I just told him everything. That thought has me flipping the blankets off my head and making a call.
“It’s only been two days. Don’t tell me you miss me already,” my older brother, Iverson, mocks as he answers my call.
“Hardy har har, you know why I’m calling, Iverson. Did you talk to Dad?”
He covers the phone as he tells Quinn something, and then I hear a door close.
“I did. Remind me again what you’re trying to piece together with it.”
“Something happened between our parents and the Balfours years ago, and I want to know what. Better yet, I need to know what happened.”
“Have you talked to Callum about it?”
I blow out a breath of annoyance. “No, I don’t want to bring it up until I know if it’s worth mentioning.”
I don’t bother bringing up the fact that Callum’s father threatened me with dirt on my parents years ago. My desire to dig it up went out the window the second I saw his son throw our relationship down the toilet. I no longer cared. The only person I cared for didn’t want the same things when he let another woman sit on his lap in a barely there dress, but now… now I wish I had dug sooner. Just to know why Lucas hated me so much if for nothing else. His hate for me was one of the reasons Cal and I were always off and on again. This goes back to my motto: if he wanted to, he would.
The first time Cal brought me home, Lucas walked into the kitchen while we were grabbing a snack, and if it wasn’t clear by the way his eyes dragged down my form that I repulsed him, his words confirmed whatever uncertainty his glare left behind when he said, “Did the wrong girl climb in your car after school? This isn’t Blair Wyndham.” There were several acceptable defenses Cal could have chosen, but he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he waited until his dad walked out to say, “Don’t let him bother you. There’s nothing between me and Blair.” That day set the tone for us. You see, in my mind, the silence was acceptance. Callum may not have said the words, but allowing someone to speak ugly to me felt equally bad. In hindsight, I should have said something right after his father left the room, but we were in high school. He was my first real relationship, and I was young. I was still trying to figure out who I was. Add in raging hormones, and it was a recipe for disaster. That was the first of many missteps that got us where we are today.
“Quinn and I went over for dinner Friday night when you left. I figured a family dinner that night instead of waiting for Sunday would be best for Adler to help take his mind off the fact that you wouldn’t be there. He’s a champ, by the way. I think he’s taking care of Dad rather than the other way around.” He pauses, and I hear Zeus bark. He’s probably dropping a ball at his feet for him to toss. “When I brought up the Balfours, I asked why he and Mom stopped hanging out with them. It didn’t seem out of place given that you had just left to spend time alone with Cal.” There’s another pause, and I hear him rub the stubble on his jaw. “You’re not going to like my answer. I don’t think it gives you much, but here it is. He said, ‘Your mother and Keely were friends, and then they weren’t. Lucas and I were mere acquaintances who tolerated each other’s company for the women we loved.’”
I sit up in bed and lean against the tufted headboard. “That’s strange. I didn’t realize Mom was close with Keely. I thought her feud was with Lucas since they went to school together back in the day.” Keely Balfour didn’t grow up on Nantucket. She’s technically not even Callum’s real mom. His biological mom unfortunately died from postpartum complications shortly after giving birth.
“Yeah, I thought the same thing. He didn’t say any more on the subject after that, but, Lou… He had that faraway look in his eye. You know, the one he gets when he thinks about Mom. It felt like he had something on the tip of his tongue. His body language said as much, but then he got up and used Adler as a scapegoat, claiming he needed to check on him, which was bullshit since Quinn was inside with him.”
I pull at a loose thread on the blanket and mull over this new information. Callum thinks I delayed coming up here because of the holiday and Adler. When Thanksgiving rolled around, and I still hadn’t made my way to Toronto, he knew I wouldn’t be leaving before Christmas. I was only partially stalling by that time. Adler and I have our holiday traditions, yes, but I was also looking into Lucas’s threats from all those years ago and trying to find merit. Now I believe I may have been looking in the wrong direction. I thought he was the connection, but maybe it was Keely.
“Do you have a new assignment for me given this information?”
“Not at the moment,” I say, somewhat defeated.
“Lou, was it really that bad? I thought you and Cal had growing pains, typical teenager-type shit. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Even after Adler was born. All this time, you’ve stayed quiet. Why?”
“Was it bad? Not in the way you think. Lucas Balfour was an ass, and he didn’t make dating his son easy, but as for why … I’ve kept it this long, and I feel like when I give it, I owe it to Cal first.” I want things to work out. I’ve always wanted that, which is why I want to enter this next chapter with Cal with eyes wide open. I want all the facts.
“Lou, I’m going to let this go because I’m trusting your word, but if I find out that fucker did something reprehensible, I can’t promise I won’t go after him. I don’t want to mess things up for you, Lou, but you’re my family too.”
“Iverson—” I’m cut off when a text comes through.
Callum: Are you awake yet?
“Hey, I need to jump off. Thank you for volunteering to be my knight in shining armor, but for now, I’m good. I’ll call if I need anything.”
“Or text,” he draws out the T, ensuring I get the hint.
“Yeah, yeah… I’ll text next time. Bye,” I say as I click off the phone and open the text strand from Cal.
Eloise: Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?
Callum: They have these things called water breaks.
Eloise: Then you should probably drink water.
Callum: I’d rather see if my girl found her surprise.
The way my heartbeat quickens when he calls me his girl is stupidly unfair. Last night, he was a gentleman walking me to my door. He didn’t press for that kiss he teased about at dinner, though I know he wanted it. What he doesn’t know is I wanted to give it to him so badly. The problem is kissing Callum Balfour is like a gateway drug. It always leads to more, and when his mouth is on mine, I know my resolve will shatter, and I can’t let that happen. Not yet. I just need a little more time.
Eloise: I’m awake, but I’m still in bed.
Callum: Stop teasing me and go find your surprise.
Eloise: So bossy. First I need to eat the breakfast sandwich this man who likes to break into my room at night left.
Callum: Ticktock, blondie. I’m going to wear you down this time. You’re mine, and when you finally let me have you, you’ll pay for that mouth.
I bite my lip and squeeze my thighs together as a flashback of him making me pay in the locker room quickly flicks through my mind. When he doesn’t send another text, I toss the covers off, grab the sandwich he left me, and go to the shower.
“Time to find that surprise, Lou.”
“ W here is this so-called surprise, Cal?” I say to my empty condo after I’ve showered and dressed. Don’t tell me I shoved my egg sandwich down my throat instead of enjoying it with a cup of coffee for nothing. I hate rushing to eat my food. It may not look like it, but I actually love food. I’ve just always been thin. I spin around my condo again, scouring every surface for a note, only to come up short. I anxiously tap my thumb on my phone. The last text he sent was his threat to correct my mouth. I consider replying with a sarcastic remark about how his nonexistent surprise sucks, but then it hits me. “It’s not here.”
I look down at my outfit. My high-waisted jeans, knit sweater, and flats aren’t enough to shield me from the cold outside, but they should suffice to walk across the hall. Cal has made it clear he doesn’t care for the fact that I’m across the hall instead of at his place, but temptation aside, I had other reasons for not staying at his place. For starters, it’s his bachelor pad. I pull the door to my condo closed, only to fall back against its front and stare at Cal’s door across the hall. However, it’s not the women who may have frequented his condo that give me trepidation. It’s Lucas Balfour.
“He’s not here, Lou.” I push off the door and enter the code to Cal’s condo. The second the door opens, the anxiety I felt washes away when I see what awaits me in the corner of the room. My condo has a view, but he has a corner view showcasing the lake and the city. It’s wondrous. A painter could sit here for hours, days, weeks even and never run out of inspiration. The view is constantly changing, the colors in the sky, the seasons, and the people below. There are limitless stories to capture from this very spot. My phone vibrates in my hand.
Callum: You found it.
Eloise: I did.
I slowly step around to the stool in front of the easel, and the second I do, I know exactly what I want to paint. Painting frees my mind, and though I escape with a brush in my hand, I’m not painting my dreams; I’m painting my reality. I didn’t have a bad life. I grew up beyond privileged, with two loving parents, one softer than the other, but the weight of my birthright felt heavy the older I got, and that’s when I picked up a brush. When most people look at art, they see a pretty picture, but to the artist, it’s a diary, a reflection of our souls, or at least that’s what it is to me. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never cared to share it with the world.
Every brushstroke I leave on the canvas feels like a thinly veiled-looking glass tethered to my innermost thoughts. When I was young, I threw out many paintings for that reason. I didn’t like staring at the dark. The problem is when I’m creating, I don’t see light or darkness; I let the brush guide my way. Art is getting lost as much as it is getting found. My father is a craftsman using his hands to build boats, my brother is a writer, and I am a painter. Getting lost runs in the family.
“I love it,” the man I used to spend hours getting lost with says, startling me from my painting as he squeezes my shoulders. “If this is the piece you were making for the charity auction, you will have to make another.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I snap my head back and try to see what he sees but come up short.
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.”
I spin on my chair and slightly regret my choice to face him. He just got back from the rink, and it’s clear once again he skipped his shower there because his dark blond hair is still damp with sweat, and the gray shirt he wore under his practice gear is still partially saturated in all the right places, only highlighting his stacked physique. There’s no way to look at him that doesn’t twist me up inside.
“Do you care to elaborate on what it is about this painting that won’t be suitable for the auction?” He knows I had reservations about sharing my work at all, so the fact that he’s planting a seed of doubt is perplexing.
He crosses his arms and rubs the stubble on his chin. “Yep, if anyone gets to keep the painting of the spot where we shared our first kiss, it’s me.”
I turn back to the portrait. “That’s not… What are you talking about? You couldn’t know that from what I have on this canvas. I’ve merely started shading the background.”
“That wasn’t a no,” he counters as he reaches in front of me and points to a shadowed object I have in the foreground. “And that’s a bench.” Again, I stare at the picture. Art is subjective. That’s the beauty in it. Everyone sees something else. But a bench? I stare harder and envision the park and the spot where we did indeed share our first kiss. There weren’t any benches. We walked through the woods until we reached the beach.
“You’re thinking too hard, blondie.”
“Well, for one, you couldn’t know what I’m painting, considering I don’t even know what I’m painting, and secondly, there were no benches.”
“You’re right. That’s not a bench.”
I turn in my chair, ready to deliver a smart-ass remark about him remembering a first kiss with the wrong girl, only to catch him smiling like a Cheshire Cat.
“But now you’re thinking about our first kiss. Which means you’re thinking about my lips on yours.”
I roll my eyes at his antics. I should have seen that coming. “Tell me, do women actually fall for these cheeky one-liners?”
The childlike smile that graced his lips is gone, replaced with a furrowed brow and a frown. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever said them to you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to call him out. There’s no way Callum Balfour has been celibate since the last time we were together, but something in the way his face dropped and the tone in his voice tells me his words are true. I leave it alone. I’m not trying to hold him to the fire; for years, we haven’t been together.
“I’m going to shower,” he says, stepping around my chair.
I watch his retreating form as he crosses the living room, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. This thing between us is wearing on him as much as it is me. It would be so easy to fall into our old ways. To let his swagger and playful quips whisk me off my feet until his lips are on mine and my body is beneath his. But a warm bed doesn’t fix a broken heart.
“ Y ou’re still here?” Cal questions, walking back into the living room, and I look up from my painting just in time to catch a glimpse of his chiseled stomach and perfectly manicured happy trail that dips below the belt of his jeans as he pulls on a V-neck.
When his hands land on his hips, I realize I’ve stared too long. “Did you expect me to leave?” I question as I clear my throat.
His amber gaze narrows as he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth before saying, “I didn’t know if you’d stay.”
I rub my hands on my jeans, uneasy about broaching the topic but wanting to clear the air. “Callum, I know you’ve been with other women. Acting like you haven’t is insulting.”
He crosses the room to where I am, his imposing size dwarfing me as he stands in my space. “I’m sorry you felt insulted. That wasn’t my intent, but I wasn’t lying. I haven’t chased another woman. It’s only ever been you.”
I lay my brush down. “Yeah, I suppose you don’t need to chase girls when there’s an endless supply of puck bunnies everywhere you go.” I shouldn’t have said those words. Nothing good comes from accusing him of being a man whore. They’re a low blow, but ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you. I have a tough time keeping my mouth shut even when I know better. I suppose it comes with the territory of wearing my heart on my sleeve. Either way, my comment is vile and more offensive than whatever double meaning I read into earlier with his.
“This is a subject I don’t care to talk about, but it seems like one you need to hear so we can move past this.” His hand reaches for my chin, and he tips it up, bringing my eyes to his. “I fuck Eloise, that’s it.” I swallow hard as a place that doesn’t deserve to hurt aches. A tick in his jaw tells me he hates the admission as much as I dislike its existence. “The women I’ve been with knew the stakes. They understood what I wanted and what I didn’t. I’ll say it as long as it takes for you to believe it. I’ve only ever wanted one girl. She’s stubborn as hell; her head and her heart are always fighting for the last word, and neither is rarely in my favor, and I am but a fool hooked on being the trouble that fuels her flame just so I can stand in its light.”
The ice around my heart thaws at his words. How could it not? “Cal, I?—”
“You don’t need to say anything…” He runs his thumb along my jaw. “I just wanted you to know.” His hand falls away, and he nods to the painting. “Do you want to stay in and paint, or would you like to go out?”
“If we stay in and I paint, what will you do?”
“Grab a beer, flip on the fireplace, and sit on that couch and live out a dream I’ve been praying for—for far too long.”
The smile that tugs at my mouth can’t be helped, especially when I see it mirrored on him. He picks up one of my brushes and hands it to me.
“Would you like me to bring you a drink while you perfect that bench?”
“Stop…” I draw out as I swipe the brush from his hand and swiftly swat him in the stomach. “I’ll take a vodka and cranberry juice, and no more antics.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he smarts as he starts toward the kitchen. “Your wish is my command as long as it keeps you in that chair and under my roof.”
I shake my head. He can’t help himself, but damn if I’m not a sucker for every word.
Two vodkas and cranberries later and an hour past a majestic sunset, I’m hungry. I spin on my stool. “Do you want to grab something to eat around the corner? I noticed a tapas bar on our walk home yesterday.”
Cal tosses his phone on the cushion beside him. “You want to go out?”
I lift my hands above my head, pulling my fingers back to stretch my wrist. The move makes my shirt rise, putting my stomach on display, and he notices. I quickly drop my arms and tug at my shirt.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, blondie. Relax. I might not be able to touch you, but I can’t help but look.”
He’s saying that now, but from this distance, he can’t see that I’m not the girl he remembers. I may not be curvy, but pregnancy didn’t come and go without leaving its mark. I tuck my hair behind my ear and act like I suddenly need to find my phone, which I know is sitting right beside the glass I’ve been sipping, in hopes of evading his knowing glare. “Going out sounds good. I could stretch my legs.” I shove my phone in my back pocket before capping some of the paint tubes.
When I reach for one of the brushes, his hand covers mine. “Don’t worry about this. Let me take care of it.” My entire body freezes as my skin pebbles from his touch. There is no hiding the effect he has on me, and when my eyes trail up his thick, muscled arm, it’s clear he’s not immune to me either. Our eyes meet, and he picks up my hand. “Eloise, I need you. It’s a cruel form of torture being alone with you in the same room and not feeling close to you.” My tongue darts out, and I moisten my lips, but before I can respond, he pulls me against his front and wraps his free arm around my waist, making my breath hitch.
“Before you tell me no, just hear me out. I know your boundaries. I’ll respect them, but please have mercy on me and let me touch you…” He releases my hand and brushes my hair back, his eyes never leaving mine. “Let me hold you. Trust me to be what you need and nothing you don’t.”
My eyes hold his a few seconds longer before I nod my consent. The second I do, both hands wrap around my waist as his head falls to the crook of my neck, and he inhales deeply.
“I’ve missed you so damn much,” he speaks softly against my neck, his lips so close I can almost feel their softness as his warm breath washes over me, and a delicious trill runs down my spine.
He pulls me closer so I’m flush against his front, and I allow it, relishing the comfort I’ve always found in his arms. Even when I was blinding mad at him and knew I had pushed him well past the point of no return, I’d still choose these arms over another. He just didn’t know it. I let him hold me for long moments and slowly forget about all this madness and let myself fall, but only for a few short seconds because anything more is too dangerous.
I run my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck as I get ready to let go, and a muffled groan rises from the depth of his chest as his fingers press into my hips a little harder, his embrace tightening. “I should go if we’re going to grab something to eat. I need to get my purse from my place.”
“I just got you. I’m not ready to let go.”
“I’m not asking you to let go forever, just for five minutes while I grab my purse,” I tease lightheartedly. I’m not lying. As much as touching him burns, I welcome the flame. It reminds me that the fire that existed once was real.
“Your money isn’t good here. You don’t need it.”
My sweater rises and his bare arm brushes against the skin on my lower back; his earthy scent wraps around me, threatening to steal my resolve. I know he’s not pushing me. He’s not breaking his promise, but instead, it’s me who cannot resist him. It’s why I set boundaries to begin with. I unwrap myself and brace my hands on his biceps.
“Cal, please don’t make this harder on me than it already is.”
His hold loosens as he relents. “I should tell you I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not when hearing that letting me go pains you at all.”
“You want a truth? I’ll give you one, and maybe with it, you’ll understand why I have to set boundaries.” I take a step, and he sets his jaw, his eyes warily studying mine. I clench my fist and find my nerve. “Not one day of leaving you has ever been easy.”
“Then—”
I hold my hand up and shake my head, knowing exactly what his next question will be. Why? “We have time. Can we just have this for now?”
His eyes soften before he runs his fingers through his short blond locks. “Sure. For now, but, Eloise, not for long. We can’t move forward if we’re still holding onto the past and all the hurt that lives in it.”
“I know.” I nod in agreement as I slip my hands into the front pockets of my jeans.
“Get your stuff and meet me back here.” He starts toward his room. “And don’t forget your gloves this time.”
I smile. “I thought you enjoyed warming my hands.”
“I do, but it’s cold as fuck outside, and I don’t need your fingers getting frostbite because there’s something I want more.”
“All that talk about wanting to touch me, and now there’s something you want more than that?” I cross my arms as I make my way toward the front door.
“Yeah, that painting.”
“My painting… seriously?” I curiously tilt my head to the side.
“I don’t tend to joke about things I want. The last time your brush touched that canvas, you were thinking about me and our first kiss.” I shake my head with a smile. He’s not wrong. “Gloves,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the master. He’s digging a hole, and it’s deep. He wants me to fall. All he’s doing now is ensuring I don’t want to climb out.