Chapter 11
Eleven
EVIE
H ell will freeze over before I find myself in another relationship. At least, that’s how I’ve seen my life for the last five years. My fingers sweep over his short beard. The tips hover over his mustache. I’m like a little girl exploring her father’s face for the first time after a long time.
No, Evie.
We are not creating a daddy kink.
Crap on a cracker.
I mean, Callum is older than me. To be fair, age has never bothered me before. Our family has their share of age gap romances. For a while, when I first started writing, it was one of my favorite tropes.
And with him in front of me, I don’t see age. I don’t see older. I see a stoic, grounded man who may have rough edges, but they soften for me. They have begun to...
At least, I think they have?
Maybe that’s the hopeless romantic in me.
Or the fact I’m the only person he’s ever around.
We’ve gotten comfortable .
His head dips, as if too impatient, with the barest hint of restraint. My fingers curl around his jaw before they slip away.
“I need a minute,” I whisper.
His eyes turn darker, desperate almost.
Struggling through the next breath, every inch of my body warms. Even this small distance between us is too far. Callum’s throat works as he runs a hand through his messy hair, his biceps flexing. The doubt, as if worried he misread the signals, flickers through his eyes.
That ghost of an expression steals the last of my air. It creates an ache between my ribs seeing this steadfast, amazing man crumble in the slightest. I can’t take it?—
I eliminate the space between us and pull his face to mine.
Automatically, his mouth responds. This time, there isn’t one sliver of indecision.
The self-doubt I usually carry around like a set of Gucci luggage falls away instantly.
He’s hungry, not gentle. His hands slide under my butt, and I’m hoisted up to his hips.
Wrapping my legs around his waist, I let my hands wander through his messed-up, unruly hair.
Nipping my bottom lip, he groans. I open and he plunders his way in, and it makes my head spin. His touch. His body tangled with mine. His taste. Mint and coffee.
Heart slamming in its cage, I push back.
I pant, trying to steady my breaths and my heart rate. His eyes are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen them. That snaps me from this lust-infused moment. “Callum, we shouldn’t.”
His forehead presses to my own as his eyes close. “I know.”
It’s then I feel his hardness beneath me. Hell, my panties are the slickest they’ve been in forever.
I’m not saying the release wouldn’t be worth it. But we have to coexist for months to come. We can’t complicate this. Still, his arms hold me firmly to his body. And I realize I don’t want to be put down. I don’t want him to let go.
Right here, I’m safe. I feel wanted.
Ridiculous as that sounds for a five-minute fling that only consists of one almost kiss and one hot-as-hell, soul-shattering one.
He studies my face. “I’m sorry, I got carried away with your rant and?—”
My fire is what got him all riled up?
Interesting . . . and noted.
I chuckle and lean back, face tilting to the sun.
His hands rise behind my shoulder blades.
Still keeping me safe. Meeting his gaze when my laughter peters out, I suck in a wobbly breath.
The things we’re learning about each other.
Some of this feels like I’m giving away parts of me I can’t get back.
Maybe I don’t want them back?
It could be possible.
“You good?” he says, eyes crinkling with amusement and confusion.
Oh crap. Guess my inner monologue got away with me again.
“Yeah, I’m good.” Releasing my legs from his waist, my feet hit the warm ground a second later. I dot a peck to his cheek. “Sorry.”
Too chicken to stand this close to him any longer, I turn back and head toward the house.
When I reach the front door, I can’t help myself.
I glance back. He stands where I left him, hands hanging by his sides.
The look of disbelief flattening his face sends my heart racing again.
He’s probably regretting what just happened.
That look of shock will most likely fade to one of annoyance when his brain reunites with sufficient blood flow.
I putter around the kitchen, and my stomach grumbles.
But my head is still lost back somewhere in the very close proximity of Callum.
Absentmindedly, I throw together a salad, chopping up last night’s left over chicken breast and adding it into the mix.
I tug the refrigerator door open and hunt down the Italian dressing.
Movement from outside catches my eye. Muscle-bound arms swing an axe over his bare chest, slamming it into the unsuspecting stump on the block. It shatters into little pieces. The growl he looses drifts through the open window on the ocean’s light breeze. The poor stump didn’t stand a chance.
Fancy that. A little sass and this man is wound up like a mid-June twister.
I flip the lid on the dressing, still watching Callum as I pour the liquid over the salad leaves.
He raises the tool again, turning to the side as he lines up his target.
The blade descends at a lightning pace, and the timber cracks right through.
He tosses one half from the stump and glances toward the house.
I squeak out a sound.
Something cold and wet splashes my hands.
Shit!
Dressing douses the counter. My salad is drowning in the briny liquid. “Shoot. Ugh.”
I flip the lid closed and return the dressing to the fridge. Great, that flavor’s going to keep coming back up all afternoon. But with all food accounted for with our trips to the mainland still only every fortnight, I can’t waste it. Who knows when Emmett will be back to fix the boat.
I find a fork and sink into a chair at the table. It takes some effort to push it down, but I finish the salad. The door swings open, and Callum strides in, arms loaded with wood.
“Just in case,” he says, not looking at me. He marches to the fireplace in the living room.
Great. Now he can’t even look at me.
The weather has been nicer. I wonder why he thinks I need a restock? I assume he understands something about the way weather works on the island I haven’t learned yet. Why else is he still bringing firewood?
“Going up to the lamp today?” I ask, trying to sidestep the elephant in the room.
As he bends down and starts unloading the wood, I take my plate to the sink to wash up and wait for him to answer. To look at me. For this to not be incredibly weird.
I mean, that kiss was . . .
Straight outta some epic romantasy.
I run the hot water, adding the soap. Distracted, I pour too much into the water, and it bubbles over.
Dammit.
The overwhelming desire to write slides through my veins, infiltrating my mind. My daydreaming whirs to life like a long-suffering diesel engine at the end of the hardest winter.
Good lord, Evie, enough with the analogies.
I roll my eyes at myself and take the dish rag and swirl the suds through the bowl.
The heat of the water sends tingles through my hands.
My fingers ache with the heat. I make quick work of it, setting the bowl and fork on the rack to drain.
After I’ve wiped down the suds and dried my hands, I spin around and lean on the counter, hands gripping the edge of the sink.
Callum’s gone.
Footsteps shuffle upstairs. Pursing my lips, I decide to confront the elephant.
Even if I can’t say anything in the moment, at least I can get some spicy words in.
It occurs to me that the kiss, those fleeting minutes of his hands on my body, on my face, was the best inspiration—or research—I’ve had in a long time.
Yep, that’s what I could put it down to. Research...
I find Callum in the bedroom, restocking the woodpile by the smaller fireplace by the bed. Now it’s my turn to lean on the doorjamb and stare at him. And I do.
“Needing something?” he grunts out, losing the last log to the pile.
He’s sweaty. Which again raises the question of the need for firewood now.
“I have a question. Well, many, but one is whirring out my head more than the others?—”
“Spit it out, Evie.” He stands and brushes his hands on his jeans. The T-shirt is now stained with sweat, a little dirt, and sawdust. He sets his jaw, and I swear that does something to me, low in my belly.
The thrilling yet unsettling feeling grows wings, flying off with the question I thought of a second ago.
“What did you want to ask?” Callum says, his eyes glancing from me to the bed.
His bed.
The one I am currently occupying as he tries to stay out of his own house to accommodate me during the day.
Sleeping on one half every night—with a literal wall of pillows I insisted on.
Guilt weaves a gnarled path through me, and my gaze follows his as it tracks to where I stand.
Despite his gruff demeanor, Callum has been looking after me since the second my feet touched this island. In one capacity or the other.
“Can I cook you dinner?” I blurt out. Not the question I originally wanted to ask. But the one that fits now.
He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.
“I want—I mean, to say thank you and sorry?” I cringe at my own stupid words.
Writer who?
“Eve—”
I hold up a hand. “Please, let me make it up to you for...” Unable to look at him as my neck and face heat fast, I whisper, “God, I’m so embarrassed.”
He folds his arms over his chest, brows lowering. “Crawling all over me like a cat in heat, you mean?”
His face cracks, the biggest shit-eating grin struggling to stay restrained.
Oh. My. God.
If I wasn’t mortified beyond repair, this could be funny.
A laugh rumbles from him, and I can’t help but scoff one of my own. I hide my face in my hands. Footsteps pad to where I stand. Warm hands peel my hands from my face.
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m a grown man, Evie. If I didn’t want it, I would have walked away.”
He drops my hands and walks from the room.
I turn, mouth gaping, as he makes the staircase. Reaching it, he turns back, one hand on the railing. He stares at me for a beat as if considering the words he’s going to use next. “Dinner sounds nice.”
The rumble of a boat engine drifts in on the breeze.
“Emmett’s here. Back to work, mo nighean,” he says, disappearing down the spiral stairwell like he didn’t just chip ice from my heart with something I’m sure is Gaelic.
With hours before the sun starts its descent, I do as I’m told.
I write. This time, the chemistry is radiating off the page.
Any minute now, my laptop screen is going to melt from the intensity of it, I’m sure.
All the while, the phrase Callum used plays over and over in the back of my mind.
I would love to google it, but no Wi-Fi means that’s not an option.
Finishing up the scene I’m working on, I have an idea. Maybe there is some reference to the phrase in his journal.
Oh, that’s right, the one I threw at his feet.
Shit.
The voices of Emmett and Callum tangle up to the lighthouse on the warm afternoon air.
They sound like they’re knee-deep in boat mechanics.
Maybe I could go and see if it’s in his hut?
A quick flip through those weathered pages wouldn’t hurt, surely?
It’s not like I haven’t read it before. And it’s not like he doesn’t know I’ve read it. ..
I’m rushing down the stairs like a thief on quiet feet before I can formulate a reason not to. I push through the front door and walk around the house, checking they are in fact at the dock.
Emmett laughs, shaking his head as he sits on the deck of the fishing boat. Callum squats beside him, his face showing no sign of the joy capturing Emmett’s. What are they talking about?
Remembering my task, I crunch over the gravel and let myself into the small hut.
Inside is neat, with so few items it hardly looks like anyone lives here.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think nobody did.
But I do, and Callum does. Apart from sleep, that is.
I find myself frowning as I take in the bareness around me.
The journal is on the small table I guess he eats at when he’s not in the house with me.
I can’t take it. He’ll know it’s missing. So, I sit at the table and open the leather tome, willing each page turn to quiet down. Guilt amplifies every tiny sound the book makes until it roars around me.
Heavens, I hate this.
My skin heats, and I swear it crawls its way along my bones.
I hunt for the reference. The words mo nighean .
Skimming and scanning as fast as my writerly brain allows, I come up empty-handed.
Those two words are not on these pages. Anywhere.
Another burst of laughter carries from the dock, and I startle.
That’s it, I can’t do this.
I am no villain. It’s evident by my squishy insides that can barely tolerate this small breach of privacy, even after that particular horse has bolted. I close the journal and tiptoe from the hut, like somehow he will hear me in his space.
Chastising myself for the stupidity of my thoughts, I cross the threshold into the house. With a sigh, I pad to the kitchen and start another type of hunt.
The kind that ends with a meal shared by two people.
One edible and within my limited culinary abilities.
It can’t be that hard, can it?