Chapter Twenty-Nine
The electricity comes back on at some point during the night.
I know this because when I open my eyes, blinking at the rising summer sun, the beaten-up digital clock on Callum’s nightstand tells me it’s sometime after three a.m. Now, I might not have been great at maths in school, but even I know that doesn’t add up.
I reach automatically for my phone and then for my charger when I see it’s completely out of juice, but I’m prevented from moving farther by a warm, heavy arm draping itself across my stomach.
“Don’t move,” Callum murmurs behind me. “You’ll wake me up.”
I smile, settling back into the bed. “Wake you up, huh? Did anyone ever tell you you talk in your sleep?”
He pulls me closer in response, and I shift carefully around to face him. He looks like he’s dead to the world.
“Callum.”
“It’s still dark.”
“It’s not still dark, your eyes are closed.” I peck his lips when he doesn’t answer, and when he still doesn’t move, I free one of my hands and push, turning him over onto his back so I can kiss my way across his chest.
“You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve had dreams where you did this,” he mumbles.
“Oh yeah? And do you always just lie there doing nothing?”
“I’m usually more awake in them,” he admits. “And you’re wearing clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“Lacy clothes.”
“Well, now I know what I’m getting you for your birthday,” I say, and lean up to gently bite his earlobe.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks.
“A little.”
“And yet you’re wide awake.”
I pause at the accusation in his voice and pull back to find him peering up at me. “You’re not a morning person,” I say, delighted with this new fact.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“How are you not a morning person? Didn’t you usually get up at, like, five a.m.?”
“Just because I had to doesn’t mean I liked to,” he mutters. “And we’re going to have to rethink this whole relationship thing if you’re someone who doesn’t have lie-ins.”
“Why sleep when I can do this?” I whisper, finally doing what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw him in my garden. I settle back over him and, with frankly stunning attention to detail, trace his swirling tattoos with my fingers and my tongue, tasting every inch of inked skin.
“Do they have a story?” I ask, as I return to a beautiful interlocking Celtic pattern on his right bicep.
“Yeah. I thought they looked cool.”
I jab him in the ribs, and he grunts.
“You really are awake.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The first time I met you, you yelled at me because you weren’t getting enough sleep and now you’re wide awake.”
“I’m unpredictable like that.”
He sighs, but his gaze is warm when he opens his eyes. Warm if not still very sleepy. “Is the electricity back?”
“I think so.”
“Then I need coffee,” he rasps. “Lots and lots of coffee.”
“Anything else?”
A smug smile pulls at his lips even as he closes his eyes once more. “Thought I said I’d be the one making you breakfast.”
“You did, didn’t you? Then I want French toast.”
“I’ve got no bread. How about eggs?”
“Eggs are gross.”
“Eggs are not gross. What the hell?” He peers up at me, pushing my hair back to see my face. “What other wrong opinions do you have?”
“They are slimy and gross,” I tell him. “Like mushrooms.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Alright, what about pancakes? No visible eggs. Only hidden ones.”
“I like pancakes.”
“Hallelujah,” he mutters and then kisses me in a way that makes my toes curl, slow and lazy and deep. I melt against his chest, practically falling over him as he drags the moment out.
“I should get dressed,” I say, pulling away. “I need to check on things in the village.”
He frowns in disagreement, dragging a finger down my forehead and my nose before tracing my lips. “Or you can stay here.”
“You said we’d have pancakes.”
“Or we could stay— oh, come on.” He groans as I wriggle off him, bringing the sheet with me. I drop it to the floor as I grab my dress instead and head to the bathroom to freshen up. It feels silly to wear it again, but I figure I’ll change properly when I’m home.
When I return to the bedroom, Callum looks like he’s still in the middle of a ten-stage process of getting out of bed, something I find incredibly endearing, so I leave him to it and head downstairs to give him some peace.
My stomach rumbles as I do, and I decide to make myself at home, putting plates on the table and searching through his cabinets to find the necessities to start on breakfast.
Eventually, I hear the floorboard creak and the shower turn on, and I’m figuring out how his stove works when he finally enters the kitchen, shirtless in a pair of loose navy jogging pants and looking so delectable that I immediately regret leaving his bed.
I think he’s thinking the same thing too, heat filling his gaze as he takes in my dress and bare legs.
But then he sees the spatula in my hand.
“What are you doing? Sit down.”
“I can make—”
“You’re not making me breakfast,” he says. “I will make you breakfast. What did you want? Pancakes, right?”
“You know how to make pancakes?”
“Do I know how to beat eggs, milk, and flour together? Yes.”
I bite my lip, enjoying this way too much. “You’re grumpy in the mornings.”
He just presses a button on the coffee machine and gives me a look. A whirring noise fills the kitchen along with a delicious smell and, when I don’t move, he pushes me toward a chair, kissing me soundly before taking up my position by the stove.
He is not a good cook.
And he does not know how to make pancakes.
But I indulge him, content to sit with my coffee and watch him move about half-naked as he googles recipes and burns the butter, and accidentally makes double the amount of batter because he added in too much flour and then too much milk trying to balance it out.
He doesn’t have maple syrup, but he does have a lemon and sugar and he even grudgingly lets me set the table when he’s distracted trying to make the perfect circle.
When he turns around with the first stack, he gives me an unhappy look and grabs the chair I’d placed opposite mine, dropping it with a bang right next to me. The plate and orange juice I’d set out for him are next, and when he finally sits down, we’re so close that our arms are touching.
“What?” he asks, when I just stare at him.
I somehow, against all odds, keep my smile to myself. “Nothing.”
I like grumpy morning Callum.
In fact, I think I could start every day with grumpy morning Callum.
“What’s the plan for today then?” he asks, gulping back his coffee.
I blow out a breath. “Damage control, I guess. Though hopefully not too much.” It had seemed like the worst thing in the world last night, but Callum’s right. The festival was mostly over, and we might be able to move the fireworks to tonight.
“Maybe we should…” Callum trails off, as he pops a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “Oh, God. Oh, this is not good. This is…” He swallows, grabbing both our plates. “Don’t eat that. We’ll have cereal.”
“I’m sure it’s fine!” I say, laughing as I try and take my food back.
“I’d like you to maintain any attraction you have toward me for a little while longer,” he says, dumping everything in the sink.
“And whatever the hell I put in front of you is not going to help with that.” He opens a cabinet, scratching his abdomen with an absent hand.
“I’ve got granola? And some fruit. Correction.
I have a fruit.” He starts taking things out of the cupboards, narrating as he goes, but I’ve stopped listening, too distracted by the sight of him moving around the kitchen.
The thought of spending more mornings like this makes me unusually giddy. The thought of being domestic with him. Of knowing where he keeps his dishes and where he keeps his cups. Of what milk he likes to buy and how he takes his coffee or how burned he likes his toast.
I feel like I’ve spent the last few weeks snatching moments with him, each one exciting, maybe even a little confusing as we test and learn each other.
But it’s only now that I realize we’re entering the next stage of what we have between us.
The boring stage of chores and schedules and routine.
Of meaningless texts and shared jokes and touching him whenever I want to.
And I can’t wait for it.
I rise, padding over to him on quick, silent feet, and wrap my arms around his stomach. His hands drop to mine, gripping me tightly as though I’ll pull away.
“Hey,” he says, amused, and I rest my forehead in the space between his shoulder blades, inhaling deeply. He smells like coffee and cotton and minty shower gel, and I want to bottle it up and spray it everywhere.
When I don’t move away, he turns to face me, careful not to break contact as he bundles me into a giant man hug that I now want to spend the rest of my life getting.
“You good?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
I nod into his chest, not able to answer otherwise because I don’t know how to explain just how good I am right now.
How it’s the most good I’ve felt in a long time and how even better I feel that he seems to get it, not questioning me any further, and just holding me for as long as it takes for my stomach to rumble again and ruin the moment.
* * *
It takes more effort than it should to leave him.
After I make another round of pancakes, Callum decides to make up for his lack of cooking skills with his many other talents and insists on showing me in detail how the shower works.
He offers me his clothes when we’re done, but I decide to get back into my dress, and head straight home to change properly before dealing with everything else.
I can already tell it’s going to be a long day, which means a sports bra and another cup of coffee. Maybe two.