11. Freddie #4
That is top-tier self-sabotage and I need to get a fucking grip.
Callum is leaving. The second this mess is sorted, he’s packing up and heading right back to his actual life.
A life with a sister in Nashville, a shortbread-baking grandma, a seventy-hour-a-week job, and no room for a small-town witch with a volatile magic problem.
He is temporary. A passing storm. And if I let myself fall for him—which is suddenly feeling stupidly easy—it’s going to wreck me.
I’ve had flings. Plenty of them. But I’ve always been the queen of the three-month expiration date, the girl with one foot out the door before the toothbrush even hits the bathroom counter.
Besides, sex was never meant to be heavy, at least not to me.
People act like sleeping with someone is this soul-binding pact, but to me, it’s always been purely electric.
Fun and dirty. I love the thrill of control.
There’s a distinct power in taking a person apart touch by touch, and when the chemistry is right, my magic responds to it like gasoline on an open flame.
But power isn’t the same thing as attachment.
Sex doesn’t mean I belong to you, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean you belong to me.
It’s just an exchange—a wild, intoxicating game where everyone leaves happy before shit gets complicated.
I’ve never needed it to be sacred, I’ve just needed it to feel good.
Commitment was never really my thing. Tying myself down to someone permanently felt like voluntary imprisonment.
But Callum is…different. I like that he’s genuinely polite to people, even when he’s tired.
I like that he stood up for me without making a big production out of it.
He’s ridiculously easy to talk to, far less judgmental than you’d think a man with a badge would be, and he really listens when I talk.
He makes me feel safe. He looks sexy in these fuck ass pants, which seems extremely unfair.
Unfortunately, none of that really matters in the grand scheme of things.
I’m here to help him figure out how to get out of this town, and he’s going to help me pull files on the missing people so maybe, just maybe, my parents and I can stop whatever is happening here before it swallows someone else whole.
That’s the deal. That is the only thing this can be.
I gently slide my foot out of his grip and swing my legs off his lap. “So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Since you’re officially trapped here for a minute, do you want to watch a movie?”
Callum shrugs, his brows furrowing as he stares at the space where my foot used to be. “Uh, sure. Why not? What’s your favorite?”
“Coyote Ugly. Hands down, no competition.”
He arches an eyebrow, his mouth twitching. “Really? Coyote Ugly?”
“Don’t give me that look!” I say, pointing my finger at him. “I became a changed woman after that movie.”
Callum looks amused as he tilts his mouth into a small smile. “Okay, why is it your favorite?”
I start ticking reasons off my fingers. “Besides the obvious? Every person in that movie is hot. Um, it’s way ahead of its time and there’s no way in hell it would get made today.
Women living in their sensuality? Enjoying it?
Finding freedom in it? You might as well throw a brick through the glass ceiling and set the pieces on fire.
Plus, Piper Perabo’s wardrobe? Pure art.
The crop tops, the leather pants—it’s iconic. ”
Callum’s smile widens just enough to show a hint of his perfect teeth, his gaze dropping to my fingers before sweeping back up to my face. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s got all the time in the world to sit here and listen to me ramble on and on.
“A cinematic masterpiece, then,” he says, his deep voice dripping with sarcasm. “Here I thought you were going to tell me it was for the deep, complex storytelling.”
“The storytelling is complex,” I counter, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “It’s about a girl pursuing her dreams, overcoming stage fright, and dancing on a bar in low-rise jeans. What more do you want from modern day cinema?”
He lets out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head.
“I stand corrected. Clearly, I need to re-evaluate my life choices and give it another watch. Isla made me watch it with her when we were teenagers.” He tosses me a quick wink.
“I think I only remember a bunch of hot women pouring water on themselves, though.”
“To be fair,” I say, holding up a finger to concede the point, “that is basically the emotional climax of the film. If you’re only going to retain one piece of cultural history from 2000, a wet T-shirt contest set to LeAnn Rimes is pretty solid.”
He laughs again and then nods toward the small collage of framed movie posters hanging near my bookshelf. “Which one of those is your actual favorite?”
I glance over at the wall, running a hand over my messy ponytail. “Oh, those? I go through phases with them. Right now it’s Velvet Goldmine.”
“Never seen it.”
I gasp, pressing a hand to my heart. “You’re joking. You’ve never seen Velvet Goldmine? Okay, nope. Change of plans. That is what we are watching.”
I stand up, carefully scooping a sleepy Jett off the cushion and relocating him to his bed in the corner.
I fire up the DVD player, pop the disc in, and then head down the hall to my bedroom.
I pull open my nightstand drawer, root past three half-empty tubes of Burt’s Bees and a deck of tarot cards, and grab a small plastic baggie.
When I walk back into the living room, I wave it in the air with a massive grin. “This, Detective, is the only correct way to experience Ewan McGregor in his full glam rock glory.”
Callum stares at the neatly rolled joints in the baggie, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. What are you gonna do, arrest me?” I smirk, dropping back onto the sofa and leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer to him.
Some people smell so good you wish you could bottle up the scent and keep it forever.
Callum is very much one of those people.
“Weed isn’t illegal here. And also, I might actually like it if you put me in handcuffs, so you’re welcome to that. ”
His eyes narrow, pinning me to the couch, and I watch as the flush spreads, creeping right up his neck to turn the tips of his ears a ridiculous shade of red.
Jackpot.
I grin and grab the Bic off the coffee table. I spark the joint, take a slow drag, and blow the smoke up toward the ceiling fan before holding it out to him, letting it rest between us.
Callum stares at the lit end for three full seconds, looking like a man actively debating every life choice that brought him to my living room.
“Fuck it,” he mutters, taking it from my fingers, his knuckles brushing mine. “You’re a wicked little thing, you know that?”
I smirk, turning my focus to the TV as the opening credits roll. “It’s always good to be a little wicked, loverboy.”