FORTY-THREE
CALLUM
“Do you always have to make everything a grand production?” I ask, sinking into a high-backed leather chair.
Leith’s whiskey room is . . . a lot. In the way Versailles is a lot. In the way a Bond villain’s lair is a lot. Shelves of whiskey bottles that probably have their own offshore accounts. Warm amber lights. Glossy wood surfaces. The subtle scent of cigars and capitalism.
Only Leith would turn guys’ night into a curated experience with tasting notes and atmospheric lighting.
Honestly, it’s probably exactly what I need after being back from Sydney.
Leith levels me a look. “Mate, you know I don’t do anything halfway. I’m basically like Batman.”
I raise my glass; the smoky aroma promising a burn as smooth as velvet. “You have a gold-plated room for whiskey, Leith. Batman doesn’t do gaudy.”
He leans back with a grin, like I’ve just proved his point. “We’re celebrating. Iverton Hotel? Almost The Melissa Pratt Memorial Accommodations.”
“You took Harrow’s board member’s offer?”
He scoffs, tossing back a generous gulp. “Tempting. Until I remembered I don’t get in bed with traitors. Especially ones who eat their own CEO for breakfast. Feels like a short walk to being skinned alive for sport.”
“Still negotiating, then?”
His smile goes razor-sharp. “No more negotiations. By the time I’m finished, he’ll be gift-wrapping that building and begging me to take it for pocket change.”
“And your dad?”
Leith’s expression hardens. “He’s going to learn the hard way that if he sticks his fingers into my empire, he’d better be ready to pull them out in pieces.”
I don’t ask anything else.
He stares into his glass as if it might reveal a better childhood. I let the silence settle.
Eventually, he fills the silence with a profanity-laced rant about Formula 1. Something about Ferrari sacrificing Leclerc’s race. Again. And McLaren bottling P2 because someone forgot how tires work.
I swirl my drink, only half-listening.
My brain is elsewhere. Specifically, tangled in messy feelings for one very emotionally avoidant woman who’s currently dodging me like I’m a census worker.
Leith narrows his eyes at me over the rim of his glass. “You’ve got that look.”
I glance up. He’s watching me like I’m a puzzle he could solve if he cared enough to stop monologuing.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to emotionally derail my whiskey buzz with some deeply personal shit.”
I sigh. Hesitate. Give up.
“Have you ever . . .” The words stick in my throat. “. . . thought about her as more than just a friend?”
He clutches his chest, mockingly dramatic. “Are you asking if I’ve been secretly pining for Jordie Mitchell? Saving our selfies in a folder called My Future Wife?”
“Leith, I’m serious!”
“Relax,” he says. “Jordie’s like a sister. The kind I’d wrestle a croc for, but wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.” He cocks his head. “Why?”
I stare at the whiskey; its amber depths suddenly too revealing. “I think I love her.”
“Think? Or know,” he says, “actually, don’t answer that. I had it figured.”
“Figured?”
“Callum, you look at her like she’s both your emotional support animal and your personal religion. It’s not exactly subtle.”
I let out a hollow laugh.
“My advice? Don’t half-ass it,” Leith says, his voice low but cutting. “She built herself a bloody fortress. And there’s no getting in—or out—without scars.”
It’s the kind of truth that bruises slow, then stays.
“I know she’s complicated,” I say, quieter now.
“She’s not complicated,” he says, tone going hard. “She’s hurt. Alec gutted her. Took her years to rebuild brick by brick. For Jordie, letting you in would feel like handing you the very tools to break her. And she’s already learned what it costs when you give someone that kind of power.”
Leith refills both our glasses, the amber liquid catching the light.
“If you’re not ready to go all out for her, then walk away now. Because she’s already waiting for you to do that, anyway.”
“I’m willing to fight for us, Leith.”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his glass, a short, sharp scoff escaping him that all but says “we’ll see about that.”
“Enough of this heavy shit.” Leith claps my shoulder. “This whiskey isn’t going to drink itself, and I’ve got very important gloating to do.”
He grabs a remote. A massive screen lowers from the ceiling with a hum so majestic, I half-expect NASA to start live-streaming.
I blink. “Of course you have a TV that does that.”
“’Course I do,” he says smugly. “Now shut up. Formation lap’s about to start.”
Leith’s words have been stuck in my skull since guys’ night last week, dragging their boots across the carpet and leaving muddy footprints behind every thought.
They’re more stained now as sunlight spills across the counter in that perfect, buttery glowing way that makes everything look softer than it is.
The room is warm.
Jordie is not.
She moves around her kitchen in my faded Western Sydney University hoodie, as though nothing’s amiss, pouring coffee with a calm precision that feels weaponized.
Like we didn’t spend last night tangled in every way that matters.
Like I didn’t murmur, “Maybe we should just be together,” and she didn’t silence me with a kiss that felt more like a full stop than a reply.
“Coffee?” she asks, too breezy, like she’s hosting brunch and not as if I didn’t emotionally detonate in her bed last night.
“Sure,” I say, watching her closely.
She slides a mug across the counter, then folds into the chair opposite me, legs tucked tight. A barricade of limbs and quiet resistance.
“You seem tense,” she says, her gaze meeting mine over the rim of her mug.
“Funny. I could say the same about you.”
“I’m fine.” Sip. Shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because last night . . .” I hesitate, choosing my words. “It felt like we were on the verge of something.”
Her eyes flick up. Her mouth does this tiny twitch, like she’s about to say something honest but chokes it down before it makes the mistake of escaping.
“It was just a moment, Callum.”
Just a moment.
I let myself believe for one second that we were finally synced up. Same page. Same sentence. Same future.
But maybe I hallucinated it.
“It felt like more than that to me.”
“You’re overthinking it,” she counters.
“And you’re avoiding it,” I say, calm, but no less certain.
Her eyes lift, and for a second, there’s a crack in the wall. Something vulnerable slips through—unguarded, fleeting. Real.
Then she pivots.
“Gala’s coming up in two weeks. Who are you taking?” Her tone slips into something indifferent. A jab dressed as curiosity.
The subject change throws me.
“You.” Because it’s fucking obvious.
“Why?” The incredulous edge in her tone feels pointed.
Is she serious?
“We’ve been spending time together. A lot of it. Who else would I take?”
“Oh, so now it’s implied?” She shrugs, swirling her coffee. “I was thinking of asking Liam.”
“Liam?” The name shoots out before I can temper it. “From the infusion clinic? Mr. Cannula King? Well, then. Maybe I’ll take Lin.”
Her head snaps. Surprise? Jealousy? Annoyance?
But she smothers it fast. “Lin who?”
I lean back, aiming for cool but landing squarely in petty. “Dr. Zhang. She’s starting her anesthetics fellowship next year. Said I’d help her find housing while she’s up here.”
“Nice,” she nods. Her gaze falters just enough to make me wonder if this is strategic or a shield. Probably both. Jordie doesn’t do anything halfway. “Isn’t the apartment next to yours available?”
“What?!”
She smiles, faux innocence dialed to ten, like she’s auditioning for a rom-com meet-cute, if meet-cutes were used to emotionally decapitate people. “Just saying, she might like having someone familiar nearby.”
I set my mug down a little too hard. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” she says, rising from her seat and walking to the sink.
“Jordie.” I follow her. “What’s going on?”
“Why would anything be going on?” she says, rinsing her mug.
I step closer. “You’re pushing me away. And I don’t get it, because last night—”
“Last night was just last night,” she cuts in. Her voice is softer now, almost apologetic. “Callum, can you just let it go? I’m not good at this.”
“At what?” My frustration edges into something gentler. “At letting someone in? If that’s what this is, tell me. Don’t shut me out.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she sidesteps me carefully, as if I’m breakable. Or she is.
“You’re going to be late for work,” she calls over her shoulder and heads for the stairs, effectively ending the conversation.
Leith said there’s no getting in without a few scars.
At this rate, I’m going to come out of this completely fucking maimed.
And somehow, I still can’t walk away.