5. Freddie #2
“I mean, you can try,” I say, leaning back against the windowsill. “But it’ll end up coming back on in twenty minutes anyway.”
He arches one dark eyebrow high, looking at me like I’ve officially lost my mind.
God, even when he’s thoroughly confused, the man is hot as fuck.
Now that we’re out of the dim lobby and under the golden glow of the bedroom lamps, I can actually take him in.
I stare at his mustache—red, neatly trimmed, resting over full, firm lips—and briefly wonder what it feels like to kiss a guy with one.
I’ve never kissed a man with a mustache. Is it prickly? Soft? A total nuisance?
I notice the faint dusting of freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones, softening the hard lines of his face.
A thin gold chain peeks out from the collar of his faded hoodie, disappearing beneath the damp fabric.
His eyes are striking—a rich, deep navy blue with rings of lighter cerulean right around the pupils, all framed by thick, absurdly long reddish-brown lashes.
He’s got a sharp jawline, anchored by a neat little cleft right in the center of his chin.
“What do you mean, it’ll come back?” he asks, snapping me out of my visual inventory.
I offer him a wide, wicked grin, thoroughly amused by how much this whole night is throwing his grounded brain for a loop.
This is going to be way too much fun. “It’s a part of the magic of this place.
The rooms always stay warm in the fall and winter because a fire charm keeps the hearths going.
And safely contained. I mean, the place is still standing, right? ”
“Magic?” he repeats, his tone dripping with skepticism.
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Don’t you believe in magic, Callum?”
He stares at me for a beat, his jaw shifting. “Why would I believe in magic?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I’ve never seen it,” he says simply, like that settles the debate once and for all. “I believe in things I can actually see with my own eyes. You know, things you can measure. Facts, data, evidence. All that jazz.”
I shake my head, letting out a soft laugh. “That’s a shame, cowboy. Magic isn’t about seeing with your eyeballs.”
“I’m pretty comfortable sticking to the tangible world,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the room.
“I see this desk. I see that bed.” His lips twitch, a tiny, unexpected crack in his stoic facade.
“And I definitely saw the six joints in your car that you tried—and failed—to hide under a crumpled taco wrapper.”
I narrow my eyes at him, pointing a finger straight at his chest. “You didn’t see a damn thing!”
Callum raises his hands in surrender, dragging two fingers across his lips to zip them shut and tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder.
The faint ghost of a smirk lingers on his mouth, but the sheer fatigue hanging off him pulls it right back down.
“I guess I’ve never put much stock in the voodoo bullshit. ”
“Voodoo bullshit?” I echo, leaning my head back against the glass.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling out a couple of folded t-shirts. “Crystals, fortune tellers, houses with self-lighting fireplaces. Life is complicated enough without adding invisible forces to the list of shit that I can’t fix.”
He turns toward the wooden chest of drawers, taking his few clean clothes and stacking them in meticulous, perfectly lined-up piles. Every fold is precise. Every corner aligns. It’s a habit born out of strict, stubborn routine—a man who desperately needs control over the tiny space he occupies.
And then, without warning, my magic reaches out to him.
It’s not something I actively pull trigger on—my magic has an annoying habit of behaving like a nosy barn cat.
It can never stay still for long. A warm pulse thrums under my ribs, stretching out from my chest toward Callum like an invisible tide.
I try to rein it in, try to swallow it back down, but it brushes against him anyway.
The air between us thickens and a sudden wave of emotion washes back into me.
Oh.
My heart gives a small, uncomfortable twist. My smile fades a little. He’s not just worn out from the drive or pissed about his truck. The guy is lonely. Like, deep-down-in-his-bones lonely. And incredibly sad. He’s grieving something. Or someone.
Now that I’m actually looking, I can see it written all over him. It’s in the dark, bruised purple half-moons sitting beneath his eyes, the tired slump of his shoulders, and how his hands pause over a simple folded t-shirt like he forgot what he was doing halfway through.
“A little magic never hurt anybody,” I murmur defensively.
Callum runs a hand through his hair—shaved short on the sides, messy and slightly damp on top—and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Guess I’ve just never seen the need for it.”
I just nod, because arguing the merits of town magic at one in the morning with a guy who looks ready to collapse isn’t high on my priority list tonight.
He rubs the back of his neck, then jabs a thumb over his shoulder toward the bed. “Look, it’s been a long night. I should probably get some sleep.”
It’s a very polite get the hell out of my room, Freddie.
“Right,” I say, taking a step back toward the open doorway. “Well, goodnight, Callum.”
I turn toward the hallway, but my feet stall out at the threshold. A smarter girl would’ve kept walking, minded their business, and went to bed. Unfortunately, my mouth has always moved faster than my brain, so I quickly turn around and say, “I hope it gets better for you.”
His brow furrows slightly. “What gets better? My truck? I’m sure the damage shouldn’t be too terrible, I—”
My eyes flick over his face as I shake my head. “Not your truck. Whatever it is that’s making you so sad.”
He freezes mid-fold.
Before he can rally a defense or say a word, I spin on my heel and walk out, letting the door click shut behind me.