Chapter 10
Ten
CALLUM
W hat the hell?
I stand in a cloud of yellow wings as the butterflies flit their startled way around the warm space, hovering like they’re unsure if it’s safe to come back down.
Not dissimilar to what I witnessed cross Evie’s expression.
Before terror took over her beautiful face, that is.
That shakes me from where I stand. I stalk from the greenhouse and into the house. The living room is empty.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I strain to hear what she might be doing, where she might be.
Hesitating short of the threshold of the bedroom, I run a hand through my hair when I see her on the opposite side of the bed.
Evie sits on the floor, shoulder pressed into the side of the bed, head bent. Her shoulders shake.
Fuck .
I lean on the doorjamb and close my eyes, listening to her ragged, too-quick breaths. Nobody has a reaction to butterflies like that without some kind of trigger. I’m no shrink, but even I get that. What could she possibly associate the tiny insect with?
Her exhales choke out like an old steam train short of coal. Lead sinks in my gut, burning a hole through my chest.
Like that makes any damn sense.
“Evie?” Her name is a low, raw sound.
She hiccups through a rough gasp.
“I-I’m... ” Her head lifts before her hands swipe at her face.
Christ’s sake. “If I’d known . . .”
Head shaking swiftly, she says, “How could you?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I push off the jamb and step into the room. “Need a hug?”
What the hell, Callum? Where in the devil’s diaper did that come from?
But listening to her distress is tearing my insides up something fierce.
I’ve developed a soft spot for this sweet little author.
Which is, by anyone’s count, a dangerous thing to hold when we are literally isolated on this island for months together.
To my surprise, she wobbles to her feet and faces me.
Her face is all blotches and red eyes, and I grind my molars at the sight. Before I know it, my arms open wide and she closes the distance, pressing herself against my body, her head sinking into the crook of my neck. I still at the proximity.
Shit, this wasn’t my brightest move.
I will the blood rushing south to retreat.
She sniffs and her hand lands on my chest, somewhere over my heart, and I can’t help what happens next.
My arms fold around her.
Enveloped in my hold, she softens further.
The overwhelming tangle of need and the desperation to keep her from harm play parlor tricks on my mind.
Her breathing steadies, and we stand wrapped together like it’s the most natural thing in the whole damn world.
The moment burns a little against the memory of the last time I embraced someone I held dear right here.
I release Evie and step back, my breathing now escalated.
“Sorry, I—” I grab the doorjamb, swing through the opening, and plummet down the stairs. A heartbeat later, sunshine hits my face. I suck in air like a drowning sailor with one last hope of survival.
That was way too close. Way too real.
My first plan was the better one. Where I keep my distance. Where she writes her book and goes home.
Where I keep my loner existence. And the rest of the world can keep their grudge.
Hell knows it was well earned.
After a light meal and a sit out under the stars, I rise from the outdoor chair with a groan. This old man is ready for bed.
“I’m calling it a night,” I say to Evie, who is currently reading a novel in the dark outside with a night-light, wrapped in a blanket.
She doesn’t respond, so I head for the house.
“Where are you going?” She looks up, confused.
She didn’t hear me. Must be a good book.
“Bed. You coming?”
As if we’re an old married couple. Not likely, but after that freezing night, she insisted I sleep in the bed and not on the bunk in the hut. I think she felt bad. Hell, I know she did. Who am I to argue? Being back in my own bed is heaven.
Catching the sarcasm, she frowns, staring at me for a beat before saying, “Just one more chapter.”
“Suit yourself.”
When her gaze returns to the novel in her hands, I push through the door and head upstairs. Stripping off, I make quick work of a shower and tug on my boxers and a T-shirt. I grab up the book on my nightstand and open it to the place the bookmark holds.
I start to doze off, and the old tome slides from my hands as I hear footsteps ascending the stairs. With a yawn, Evie walks in, novel in hand.
Hell, we look like an old married couple.
The pillow wall dividing her side of the bed from mine knocks that notion out of the park. And when she pads to the bathroom to change and reappears in a summer nightie, I pluck up my reading material and stare at the black marks over the pages.
Words.
Look at the words, Cal. Not at the nightie that barely makes it past her ass.
The satin material that sticks to her curves.
Christ’s sake, at this rate, I’m going to have to hide a raging erection behind that goddamn pillow wall.
Or use the book for a tent. She climbs into bed, rubbing moisturizer over her arms. Setting my novel on the nightstand, I get up and shut the door, not wanting the cooler morning air to tumble down and roll into the room tomorrow.
Half-erect, I shoot back under the covers before she can catch a glimpse. Sitting up, I lean my head on the headboard as she dons more lotion. Grinding my jaw shut and closing my eyes, I think of every horrid thing my mind can drag up.
Something drops. The mattress moves, and I open my eyes. She’s leaning over, the nightie ridden up to display the lacy red panties that cover her ass.
Sweet Christ above.
“You good?” I rasp.
“I dropped the lid... I think it rolled underneath?”
I slip out of bed and round the end. Dropping to my knees beside her, I duck down, searching for it. Sure enough, it’s sitting under the bed, right in the center. Swiping at it, I manage to grasp it. Ducking back up, I smack my head on the frame.
“Fuck!”
I rub a hand over the spot, the ache blooming.
“Oh, are you okay?”
Something red and silky comes into view. A hand brushes my forehead. Brown eyes laced with worry drop to find mine.
“Fine,” I rasp.
She’s too close.
“You want me to go grab some ice?”
“Nope, all good.” I go to rise, but her hand settles on my shoulder. We are inches apart. The lace-trimmed V-neck of her nightie and spaghetti straps expose her. But it’s my chest that’s plummeting with every fall. She’s too sweet. Smells too fucking good and...
She is far too close. I wrap my fingers around hers and remove them from my shoulder. “Go to sleep, Evie.”
“Oh—yeah, sorry.”
A nervous laugh slips past those delicious lips of hers.
I clear my throat, desperate to put distance between us.
“Here’s the lid.” I hold it out, and she takes it from my fingers. The slightest touch douses my lungs in fire before the heat dives lower.
I round the bed and crawl into my side. Patting the pillow wall for good measure, I lie back and get comfortable.
Satisfied the blankets are hiding my rock-hard cock, I slide a hand under my head.
The other is still draped over the pillow wall.
Like even my body can’t stand the idea of not being near her.
She turns the lamp off and we lie in silence, listening to each other’s labored breathing.
Fine fingers lace through my hand. “Sorry about your head.”
I want this pillow wall to fuck off for good so I can rip that scant little nightie from her body. Instead, I give her fingers a squeeze before reclaiming my hand. “Forget about it. Night.”
She sighs, rolling over. “Night, Callum.”
Legs for days, crossed one over the other, lie bare in the spring sunshine.
Evie lounges on the outdoor Adirondack chair, her laptop on the small matching table beside her, sunglasses on her face, and arms draped over the sides of the chair.
Her eyes are closed, her music so loud I can hear it over my own hard breathing as I chop wood.
I ignore her.
The threadbare T-shirt she’s wearing may as well be nonexistent. Those tiny fucking shorts...
I swing the axe above my head, trying to get my mind homed in on the task at hand before I lose a limb.
The price you pay for being distracted around a sharpened tool like this one is high.
My tools are always kept in pristine condition, like my dad did before me.
With that memory, a thought flicks through my head. What would he think of Evie?
Why am I asking that metaphorical, pointless question?
She’s far too young.
She’s leaving.
She’s better off far away from Fire Island. And its damn lighthouse keeper.
I swing the axe into the stump, as if to prove my last point.
A soft moan sounds from behind me. I miss the block entirely, and the head of the axe ghosts past my leg with a brush of air.
“Fuck me.”
I let the axe hang in my hand, my head doing the same as I swipe the other hand through my sweaty hair. Dropping the axe, I tug my shirt from my back and pluck up the tool, not bothering to look over my shoulder at the cause of my distraction.
“Get your shit together, McCreary,” I mutter.
“Did you say something?” Evie calls, too loud. My guess is her headphones are still on.
“Nope!” I grunt and shake my body out, as if that will dislodge the pent up whatever-the-hell-it-is that’s eating at me today.
Well, that’s been eating at me since that fucking hug, if I’m honest. Every night I’ve slept beside her. With the goddamn pillow wall.
Knew that nice-guy bullshit would come back to bite me in the ass. Should’ve let her cry alone.
That’ll be the last time I fall for those pretty brown eyes. That soft smile. The elegant shape of her?—
Nope.
Shut it down, bud.
I all but groan at myself. Christ, this is pathetic. I’m forty-fucking-three years old and I’m up in my head like a teenager with his first boner over the girl next door.