3. Callum
CALLUM
As Ivy takes a sip of the Long-Distance Lover, I catalog her every move.
The way her lips touch the glass, how she takes a slow and steady swallow, then the delicate tracing of her finger across her mouth when she’s done.
It’s a subtle move, almost like she’s swiping away a drop of gin from her lower lip.
But that’s not what she’s doing.
She’s watching that booth. Watching and maybe, just maybe, wondering.
What that woman feels like. What it would be like if Ivy herself were kissed in public. Kissed by one man. Kissed by two.
She’s not watching purely out of curiosity.
The way her legs are squeezing together under the table tells me everything.
She’s interested for real. And that interests me.
Everything about her preferences interests me.
More than it should, but so it goes.
It’s my job to protect her, but it’s also a privilege, because in the last year, she’s become more than a critical job, so much more than a top assignment.
She’s become a friend. She treats me with respect, and I damn well do the same to her in return.
Sure, I might want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my whole damn life, but I care about her too much to make a move simply because my body tells me she’d be magic to touch, that she’d fit extraordinarily well beneath me, that we’d set the sheets on fire.
I know we’d be like that in bed because of how we are out of bed. Because of the way we tease, the way we speak our minds, how we’ve come to trust each other.
But in the year of this work-relationship-turned-work-friendship, I’ve never known her to take a man home to her suite, much less ask someone else to join them.
That’s why I’m more surprised than anything else to see her enrapt by this throuple , like it’s something she wants too.
But I can’t simply say, Hey, Ivy, what do you think of that table?
We need a distraction. So, I do what we do best. I have a few more minutes before I’m meeting my buddy Stone, so I engage her in conversation, returning to a topic she brought up on her tour.
“You mentioned that you had some plans in mind to make a splash. Anything you care to tell me? Or is that, like so many other things . . . top secret ?”
As I take a drink of my iced tea, she peels her gaze away from the trio once more and back to me. “Callum,” she says, chiding. “I don’t keep secrets from you.”
I scoff. We both know that’s a lie. She’s the boss. She has to keep secrets.
“You don’t?” I say, egging her on.
“Well, not like that,” she says, then takes a breath, running her finger along the edge of the glass.
“So, this is what I have planned. I’ve managed to book a few special one-night-only concerts.
To bring in a new wave of guests to the casino,” she says, then rattles off names of performers, from Jane Black, who won a Grammy for an epic breakup album, to the Heartbreakers, who recently reunited after more than a decade apart.
“Those are great choices,” I say, impressed.
“Are they, Mr. I Follow Music?” There’s a sexy look in her eyes as she gives me some sassy attitude.
But then, I’m pretty sure she always has a sexy look in her eyes, because the woman exudes sex appeal.
She’s a goddess. She’s Venus. A Botticelli—a fitting description, with those long blonde waves and bright blue eyes of hers.
And legs I’d like to feel wrapped around me.
“They’re great,” I say. “And I love that idea. And yes, I mean it. I’m being honest with you, like you asked.”
She arches a skeptical brow. “No teasing?”
“None whatsoever.” I draw a breath, turning over her remarks in my head, then meeting her eyes once more. “But the thing is . . . it doesn’t sound like they’re quite what you want. Don’t get me wrong. They’re great choices. But I hear longing in your voice. Like you want more.”
She hums briefly. “You know me so well,” she says, her gaze once again drifting over to the redhead.
A small gasp escapes her lips when one of the men kisses the woman’s cheek, and Ivy jerks her gaze back to me.
“Do I though? Know you so well?” I ask. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine.” She swallows then takes a breath, almost like she’s pushing away whatever distracting thoughts are in her head.
“And you do know me well. Yes, I am longing for something more. I want to land a bigger fish. Something that people will be talking about for years after. Something like Gaga bringing Bradley on stage, or a much-publicized reunion show, or . . .”
My lips quirk up. I have just the ace up my sleeve. “Or Stone.”
She blinks, her blue eyes widening. “Stone . . . as in Stone ? Stone with the silver Stratocaster and the wild hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed? The ink across his arms? Stone, notorious-for-his-epic-love-life Stone?”
I jerk back. “Whoa. Does someone have a crush on Stone?”
“Only half of America.”
She’s not wrong. My good friend from back in the day is pretty much the definition of sex symbol , with his indie-rock style of music, his broody green eyes, and his voice that seems to drive everyone wild.
Add in the album he released a few years ago and the face that’s been on tons of magazines, and yes, millions have a crush on him.
I nod. “Stone.”
“One-name-only Stone?” she asks, repeating, like she has to make certain who we’re discussing.
I laugh. “That’s the one. Though he has a last name.”
“Do you know it?” Her tone is dripping with curiosity. “No one knows Stone’s last name.”
I shrug, smiling. “I do.”
She grabs my arm. “Spill, Callum. Spill.”
I crack up. “Your nails are digging into me, woman.”
She growls like a cat. “Don’t try to pretend I’m hurting you. You know I’m not. But you’re hurting me now, since you know Stone and never told me.”
I shrug, loving this little game. “Grew up with him. We’ve been friends since way back when.”
“You and Stone on the mean streets of San Francisco?”
“We didn’t live in Cow Hollow or Pacific Heights growing up. We were in the Mission, making ends meet. I had to look out for him.”
“How’d you look out for him?” Her eyes widen in question, but his secrets aren’t mine to share.
His childhood was rough. His dad was a closed-off, small-minded asshole who didn’t understand, or even try to understand, the artistic soul inside him.
One of the many reasons he dropped his surname, and changed his first name.
“I’m a couple inches taller. A little broader. And I didn’t study music. Kids were assholes, so I looked out for my friend.”
“That’s sweet. You’ve always been a protector,” she says, and there’s a momentary lull in the conversation when the redhead and her guys stand and leave. Ivy watches them for a few seconds, then pulls her gaze back to me. “But you never told me you were friends with him. You’re in trouble.”
I laugh. “It never came up.” I look at my watch again. “He’s in town for a family thing. I’m seeing him tonight. Meeting him at a bar off the Strip.”
Her eyes pop this time, and she sputters, “ He’s the buddy you’re having drinks with?”
“He is indeed.”
She draws an excited breath, then brings her hand to her mouth and whispers reverently, “Rumor is he’s almost done with his new album.
But he’s so notorious for his personal life that sometimes people forget he hasn’t actually put out new music in a couple years.
I would kill to have him onstage for our kickoff concert.
” She takes a beat, her lips curving up in a grin.
“But you have to know a guy to get a guy like him . . .” She drags her finger across the table, her eyes twinkling. “And do I know a guy, Callum?”
“Ivy Carmichael, are you saying you want to have drinks with Stone and me?”
She tries to school her expression, maybe to momentarily hide her excitement as her eyes spark with possibility. “Callum Blackwell, are you saying you’re going to introduce me to Stone tonight?”
I lean back in the booth, tempted, so tempted to slide an arm around her, to loop my hands through her hair.
Instead, I keep things on the level. “I’m saying that Stone and I grew up together and I’m supposed to be meeting him after I get you upstairs to your suite.
But maybe I could text him to meet us here for an introduction first? ”
She lets out an excited breath. “I could kiss you.”
Just like that, all my thoughts return to kissing her. To the way I want to kiss her. To how I want her to melt under my touch, to succumb to my lips. I want to know how she tastes, feel the way she moves, discover who she is behind closed doors.
Because I have a feeling . . .
Trouble is, all these feelings might take over my sense of right and wrong, my duty to look out for her—and that is my priority. It has to be.
I try to erase the look of hunger I know is in my eyes right now as I text my longtime friend.
Callum: I’m at Speakeasy. I’m with Ivy Carmichael, and she wants to meet you. Yes, she owns this hotel.
His reply is immediate.
Stone: I love meeting new people. Especially women you have a thing for.
Callum: Did I say I had a thing for her?
Stone : Let’s call it a lucky guess. And since you just sidestepped but didn’t deny it, I’m right.
Callum: Asshole.
Stone: Back atcha. See you soon.
I set my phone down. “He says he’s looking forward to it.”
She smirks. “That’s a lot of texts for a few words, Callum,” she says, and this time my name sounds like an invitation on her tongue. I’d like to RSVP with a hot, wet kiss.
But I focus on business, on helping Ivy. Because if I can help her arrange a show with Stone, it’ll help her with the new marketing campaign she has planned.
And that matters to her heart—because all of this , the revamp, is her way of honoring her parents, who died far too soon, before they could do all they wanted with this hotel.
She’s taken that on with her sister, carrying it out.
And maybe, just maybe, I can help.