Chapter 6
Six
CALLUM
I slide the throttle back, slowing the cruiser as I approach the jetty. The mainland was bustling. Not that Eve would know. She didn’t show... or was late. I left at seven sharp. Now, three hours later, I make out her pacing, huffing figure on the end of the jetty.
I chuckle at the sight of her all wound up.
She could have just showed up. Being on time isn’t hard. Firefly bobs up to the jetty, and I throw a line over and anchor her to the structure. The harsh click of heeled boots flies toward me. I tamp down the smile that wants out at her pouty fucking face. This ought to be good.
“You utter ass, I was here at seven oh five! You left without me!”
The meek, shy girl is nowhere to be found. And I can only assume her permanent state of hangry since she arrived has set in.
She should have been on time.
“I left at seven. Told you that.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You have to go back. I need provisions.” She looks like she’s about to cry.
Fuck.
I toss a bag of provisions at her and she catches it, fumbling the bag a little.
“What’s this?”
“Iris sent some things.”
“Iris did?”
“Yep. Try not to be too grateful.”
Her mouth gapes open but she slams it shut, unrolling the paper top and peering inside. A little gasp leaves her lips, and her eyes shoot back up. The way she goes from night to day in a split second over a chunk of damn cheese is hilarious.
“Tell her thank you... but I do really need to get back there. I have things I nee?—”
“It can wait till Wednesday.”
“No, no, it can’t.”
“Has to.”
Giving me the poutiest twisted face she can manage, she turns on her heel and walks back up the jetty, holding her one paper bag of groceries like it’s her prized possession. I won’t tell her Iris actually sent three bags. I’ll leave them at her doorstep. Ought to light them on fire before I do.
Fucking brat.
At least she’s sticking up for herself. A far cry from the conservative, shy girl that breached these shores that first day.
I kill the engine and secure the boat before hauling the two remaining bags and a few things I needed back up the path.
I drop the bags at the house front door and make my way to the cottage.
My few pickings, grabbed while I waited for Iris to shop for Eve, are wrapped in a smaller bag.
My stomach rumbles as I stash away the few essentials—soap, toothpaste, a new novel. God knows the few on my shelves have been read a thousand times. A small knock at the door sends it creaking open.
Eve stands at the threshold, her hands wringing through themselves.
“Thank you.” The words are too soft.
And the meek, shy girl is back.
I think I preferred her with a little fire.
Hell, I know I did.
The way my gut flipped, the way my cock twitched at her pouty fucking face and blazing eyes trying to shred me to pieces where I stood.
“Nope.”
“Pardon?”
“Not me you need to thank, remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Thank Iris for me if you would, please?”
I move toward the door where she stands, slapping a hand onto the frame. I’m almost in her space. But hell, she’s in mine, so it’s only fair. Her cheeks are flushed as her eyes dart around the small cottage. And her frown deepens with every moment that passes. “This is...”
“My space.”
I slam the door in her face. The echo of a little gasp hits the other side, and I scoff a laugh before turning back to put away my few items. Gravel crunches under her footsteps as she walks back to the house. The last thing I need is for Little Miss Meek-and-Mild to feel fucking sorry for me.
That ain’t happening.
Sand sprays up from each heavy footfall.
Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down my face and neck before soaking into my T-shirt.
The sweatpants I wear are threadbare at best, letting plenty of the wind’s chill through to my skin.
I pump my arms harder. The waves lap at my right, sending me faster.
I’ve run for as long as I can remember. Whenever I have something I need to work through, that is.
Right now, I need to get that meek twentysomething’s pretty face out of my head. Those soul-eating deep browns of hers don’t belong there. She shouldn’t be there. The last time a woman got under my skin, she came off worse for wear.
Understatement of the century.
A familiar burn lances through my chest. I push my body faster through the sand that becomes denser as the tide comes in, but I fail to sidestep out of its way.
Sands and foaming water slosh through my toes.
The sun warms my right shoulder. Its slow rise is the only way to tell the earth is still spinning and the rest of the world still exists.
I have been content living on my own on this small piece of sandy land for over a decade. After everything that happened, it was a welcome solace. It still is, in a way. But having Miss Twentysomething here is a change I thought I’d hate. Surprisingly, I don’t.
Not getting attached to that idea. No fucking way. You get attached; people leave. One way or another.
That’s the only true thing left in this life.
I take a sharp left and power up the slope of the dune that meets the grassy island by the lighthouse.
Air barreling through my charred lungs, I fold over and grip my knees at the top and let each breath sear me however it sees fit.
I like the burn—reminds me I’m still here.
The sun heats my back, the sweat cooling with the easterly, where my shirt clings.
With a long, slow inhale, I stand up and walk toward the hut.
The fragrance of coffee swirls through the air on the breeze, and...
Is that bacon?
Not my bacon.
Not my house, currently.
With a sigh, I push through the small weathered door to the hut. God, I could use a shower. The small, chipped enamel tub I have to fill from the only running water at the vanity stares back at me. The scent of cooking bacon wafts through my tiny window.
“Right, that’s it.”
I grab my towel, toothbrush, and soap and stalk my way to the house.
Without knocking, I stride inside, through the living room, and head for the stairs.
In my periphery, I see a stunned twentysomething with a messy bun, her PJs still on under a long cardigan that reaches her knees.
One of her shoulders is left bare as the cardigan and top slip when she turns suddenly with her mouth agape.
The thin material covering her chest doesn’t put up much of a fight as the cold morning finds her skin, and her nipples pebble.
Eyes anywhere else, McCreary.
Fuck me.
Taking the treads two at a time, I pull my shirt off with one hand as I ascend. It clings to me, and I bump into the rail as it snags on my head and one shoulder, my arm up as I traverse the last few steps and make the landing of the first floor.
My house, my shower.
It’s been too long since I had a hot one. Despite being sweaty from the run, I could use the heat on my muscles. The bedroom door is open, and I stride through and into the bathroom. Kicking the door mostly closed, I lose the rest of my clothes and dump the towel and toiletries where they belong.
The taps relent and, soon enough, steam curls through the small space.
I can’t help the long, weighted breath that falls away.
My shoulders are a little lighter, even with just this, a simple hot shower.
Being back in my bathroom. I’m surprised by how much I missed it.
But logical thoughts of funding and needing to start somewhere new douses the kindling of yearning I have for my house.
I won’t have it at all if I can’t raise the funds for repairs and the new Fresnel lamp.
I step into the tub, and the instant the hot water rushes my head and shoulders, I groan. God, who would have thought something so simple could mean so much to a man.
“Hello?”
“Fuck,” I mutter, double-checking the curtain is closed well enough.
“I-I... Did you need something?” A huffy, strained sound filters through the steam. “I mean, other than a shower?”
What the hell?
“I think I’m out of shampoo, just so you know,” she adds.
“I’m fine.” The words are short. The sentiment is true, if not a little loaded.
“Okay . . .” Footsteps fade away, then stop.
A moment later, they return, coming to a halt at the bathroom door. “Are you hungry?”
Letting the water wash over me, I rake my hands through my hair. Willing my mind to go anywhere but where it’s currently headed—the twentysomething barely feet from me. In the fucking shower. I obviously did not think this through.
And I’m hard.
“Shit,” I utter, turning toward the wall a little, like that will damn well save me.
“Sorry, is that a yes?” She steps closer.
I drop my forehead to the tile and send the worst thoughts I can muster through my mind. Rotting fish. Errol’s naked body, as I imagine it . . .
“Callum?”
I tilt my head. My name on those elegant lips is not helping my current problem. Instead, I pluck up the soap. “Aye, gimme ten.”
“Good, okay. See you downstairs.”
She sounds fucking happy.
Dammit.
My body latches onto her floaty words, wringing them out for what they are—feminine and sweet.
It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid. That has to be it.
No other explanation is going to fit. Not her. Not now. Not here, and certainly not with me.
Something bangs downstairs. A small cry winds up the stairs, barely audible over the running water.
I kill the water, standing dripping, and listen.
“Shoot!” A pained whimper follows.
Good lord, what now?
I snap the curtain to one side and step out. Drying off quickly, I wrap the towel around my waist and run downstairs. The last thing I need is a hurt tenant. They don’t tend to stick around.
At first, I don’t see her. Then, my gaze catches onto scrambled eggs scattered over the floor. A foot sticking out from behind the small kitchen counter.
Jesus Christ.
Rushing around the counter, I find her sitting up against it, nursing her hand. The pan, which I am assuming she cooked the eggs in, lies beside her on the floor.
“I burned it.” She nods to her hand. It shakes as she holds it.
“Christ, lemme see.” I crouch at her side and take her hand.
Her eyes wander my face before falling to my bare chest. They widen, and I remember I’m only covered by a towel.
And by the look on her face before it turned bright crimson and quickly snapped to the side, the towel isn’t doing much to cover me.
Standing, I adjust the towel and drop my hand down to help her up.
She slides her good one into it and pushes to her feet as I take her weight on one fucking arm.
“Sorry, I get a little lightheaded on low blood sugar. The pan was heavier than I thought. Then I tried to save it mid-fall...”
Even injured, she’s apologizing. I grind my molars at her lack of self-preservation.
“Here, under the running water.” I turn on the tap and she moves to the sink with me as I slide her hand into the cold stream of water.
So close, her scent clouds around me. Her upper arm presses to mine, her fine collarbones still exposed, her sleeve hanging off her shoulder.
The slight curve of her upper breast pushes out the soft fabric.
Damn, this close I . . .
Evie closes her eyes, leaning on the sink, her good hand grabbing the edge.
“Eggs looked good,” I grunt, desperate to focus on anything but the way her body molds against mine.
She huffs a shy laugh through a slim smile before opening her eyes. “Yeah, I’m starving.”
“Keep your hand in here. I’ll make eggs. But you eat them how they’re made.”
She nods and I clean up the eggy mess before working my way through the kitchen. I return the pan to the heat and add a wad of butter. Cracking four eggs into it, I shunt them around when they start to cook. It’s only when I turn back to plate the food that my body washes with goosebumps.
Hell, forgot I’m only wearing a towel.
As the chill sinks in, I adjust the only cover on my body.
Evie’s gaze hasn’t left me. Her hand is still in the sink, but it’s moved out of the water stream, like she’s forgotten about it.
I clear my throat. “Think you can manage to toss this lot onto a plate while I get dressed?”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
I turn off the heat and give the eggs one more push around.
“Yes, I can do that,” she finally says, her face gone from slack to all business.
“Back in a minute.” I leave her with the food. By the time I make it to my hut, I’m hard as a fucking rock again.