Chapter Fifteen
Caleb
I was seventeen minutes early.
The Summit was quieter than I expected. A few hotel guests nursed cocktails at corner tables, soft music piped through the speakers, and the amber glow of the bar lighting softened the edges of everything.
Zane was behind the counter, towel over his shoulder, wearing his usual smile.
He spotted me before I’d taken two steps inside and raised an eyebrow. “You here for a drink or a woman?”
“Can’t it be both?”
He laughed and slid a glass of water across the bar without being asked. “She’s closing out her last table. Should be done in fifteen.”
I settled at the far end of the bar where I had a clear line of sight to the floor. And there she was.
Zadie moved between tables with a tray balanced on her palm, her hair pulled back in a low bun that exposed the curve of her neck.
She was wearing the standard Summit uniform—black pants, fitted black top—and it shouldn’t have done what it was doing to me.
But the way the fabric followed the line of her waist to the swell of her hips had my grip tightening around the water glass.
She hadn’t seen me yet. I watched her lean down to hear something a customer said, her laugh cutting through the ambient noise, her hand touching the back of a chair for balance.
She was effortless and warm. Every person she served leaned in a little closer, smiled a little wider, like she was giving them something extra without even trying.
Then she straightened, turned toward the bar, and found me.
Her stride faltered, but she recovered fast, tucking her tray under her arm, and walking toward me with an expression that was trying very hard to be casual. “You’re early.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Her mouth fell open. “That’s not how friends greet each other.”
“Sorry. You’re fucking stunning.”
Zane snorted from somewhere behind me, but I ignored him.
“Give me five minutes,” she said, backing away, her cheeks turning pink. “I need to cash out.”
I watched her disappear into the back, then turned to find Zane studying me with his arms crossed.
“You’ve got it bad.” He smiled.
“Mind your own business.”
“My co-workers are my business. I care about every single one of them.” Co-workers. Like our family didn’t own the place. “Just don’t fuck it up, little cousin.”
Jeremy appeared from a doorway behind the bar, his gaze landing on me with a scowl. His gaze flicked to the hallway Zadie had disappeared down, then back to me again.
He’d been territorial as hell the night I came to pick her up after she’d passed out. The second I lifted her off the break room couch, he’d tried to step in. Like he had any fucking claim to her.
He wasn’t a threat. But he could still be a problem. So, I held his stare until he looked away first.
Zadie reappeared with her hair down, a jacket over her arm, and a softer energy than the one she’d had on the floor. Like clocking out had given her permission to stop performing.
“Ready?” She moved up beside me, close enough that I caught the faint scent of citrus and something warm underneath it.
“Let’s go.” I stood, my hand finding the small of her back as though on instinct. And for once, she didn’t pull away.
We stepped outside into the October evening. The sun had dropped below the tree line, painting the sky in deep orange and purple. The air was cool and carried the faint smell of someone’s fireplace.
“Which way?” I asked once we were in my truck.
“This was your idea. I thought you had a plan.”
“My plan was to be spontaneous.”
Her laugh was surprised and unguarded, and it crackled under my skin.
“There’s a new place downtown,” I said. “Apparently the food’s amazing. We could try that.”
She agreed and we set off for Ember.
It was a small, candlelit restaurant with exposed brick walls and a menu chalked on a board behind the bar. The kind of place that felt like a secret even though it was right in the middle of town.
We got a table by the window, and the hostess left us with water and a knowing smile that I pretended not to notice.
Zadie studied the menu, the walls, the table setting. Everything but me. “This is nice. How have I not been here before?”
“You don’t go out much.”
“I don’t. But I’ve been in this town for two months. You’d think I’d have found the one restaurant with actual ambiance.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been hiding.” She said it lightly, but the honesty underneath it was sharp enough to cut.
“I don’t think I’d call it hiding.” That’s what I’d done when she first shot me down. “You’ve been rebuilding. That takes time. Space.”
She looked up from the menu, and the candlelight caught her eyes in a way that made my chest ache. “You’re right.”
We ordered. She got the largest cut of steak available with mashed potatoes and a salad on the side. I got whatever was closest to my thumb on the menu because I genuinely didn’t care what I ate as long as she kept sitting across from me.
“So…” She settled back in her chair. “We should probably talk about something other than how awkward this is.”
“It’s not awkward.”
“It’s a little awkward.”
“Only because you keep calling it awkward. Ask me something. Anything you want to know.”
She picked at her napkin, her mouth tightening for a second before her eyes lifted to mine. “Why did you drop out?”
“That’s not a light opener.”
“We’re past light.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “You should know that by now.”
She wasn’t wrong. We’d skipped small talk the night we met and never looked back.
“I was on the wrong path. Or maybe it was the right path for the wrong reasons. Either way, it wasn’t what I wanted. So I left.”
“That’s brave.”
“It was impulsive. There’s a difference.”
“Not always.” She traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip. “What do you actually want?”
You. But I wasn’t going to say that over appetizers. “I’m still figuring it out. But I’m closer right here, right now, than I was in Toronto.”
“Your turn,” she said, clearly wanting to redirect.
“What’s your favorite color?”
Her eyebrows shot up and she laughed so loud, people at the nearby tables glanced over. “Seriously? That’s your question?”
“I thought I’d give light a try. To help balance us out.”
“Okay. Red.” Something sparked in her eyes. “I’m obsessed with it. It holds so much in one color—passion, rage, ambition, suffering. It’s the color I reach for first when I paint. It’s the one that feels the most honest.”
The way she said it, like color was a language she spoke fluently and the rest of us were just learning, made me want to watch her work. To sit in a room while she painted and see the world through her lens.
“Why don’t you believe in love?” The question came out before I’d decided to ask it.
Her fork hung in mid-air, halfway to her mouth, but she didn’t say a word.
“What? You said we’re past light.”
“Touché.” She set the fork down and met my eyes.
“Kindness, compassion, devotion…I believe in those things. They’re real.
But romantic love? Soul mates? I think people convince themselves they’ve found it because the alternative is too lonely.
They settle for whatever’s in front of them and call it love because it’s easier than admitting it’s not. ”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s experience. People fall in and out of love so easily. If it’s not equal, if it’s not permanent, then what’s the point?”
That wasn’t cynicism. That was fear. Like she’d been burned too many times to risk it again. Not because she didn’t want love, but because she didn’t trust it to stay.
“Everything in life is a risk, Zadie. Better to take the chance on the wrong thing than miss out on what could’ve been the best.”
She stared at me. “That might be the most hopeful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Or the most na?ve.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you’ve been hogging all the questions. It’s my turn.”
“Go ahead.”
“What do you normally do for fun? Besides taking women to candlelit restaurants and pretending it’s not a date?”
I let my grin spread. “This isn’t a date. You said so yourself.”
“Answer the question.”
“Skateboarding. Horror movies with reluctant cousins. Stalking beautiful women through kitchen windows.” I held her gaze. “The usual.”
She shook her head, but the smile she was fighting was winning. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” I leaned forward, bracing my arms on the table. “Your turn’s over, by the way.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is now. So tell me something real. Something you haven’t told anyone else.”
Her smile faded, the mask she wore for the rest of the world slipping.
“Cal.” That name was like fucking butter in her mouth. Every time she said it, something in me shifted and settled. Like the name had been waiting for her voice to make it real.
Cal wasn’t the kid who’d been sick. Cal wasn’t the dropout or the youngest brother or anyone’s charity case. Cal was who I became in her presence—sharper, steadier, certain of exactly one thing.
Her.
“Can we talk about you instead?” she asked. “I feel like I’ve been doing all the sharing.”
“No. I need to hear what’s making you blush and hide behind your hair.”
She dropped her hands from where they’d been fussing with her curls and pinned me with a stare. “Most men aren’t like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re a good guy. Genuinely good. And I haven’t met many.” Her eyes dropped to my mouth, and her tongue slipped out to wet her lips. “At least, none who’ve kissed me the way you did.”
My blood heated, and I leaned closer. “Did you like the way I kissed you, Zadie?”
She swayed toward me. The candlelight danced across her face and for a second, the restaurant, the other diners, the music, all ceased to exist.
“You know I did.” The words were barely a whisper, but they roared through me, setting my body on fire.
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were cool and slim, and they curled around mine like they’d been waiting for the invitation.
I turned her hand over in mine, tracing the line of her palm with my thumb. “Good.”