Calliope
Fine, I don’t hate the way he says my name. Because he says it like it means something to him. Like my name is the only one he wants in his mouth. And I can’t like that.
This man took my job. Okay fine it was given to him by Lazarus.
And he bought me pillows. Which I do not like. Really, I don’t.
I love pillows.
“Why are the seats warm?” I twist and turn in his leather seats in his fancy fucking car that I wouldn’t even allow my dreams to conjure up. Except maybe I would. It’s a Subaru.
Damn it, I love Subarus. It’s just newer, and fancier than mine.
But this isn’t the car he originally had. I want to ask. The curiosity demon inside of me almost demands I ask if he bought this because of the one I own. But I don’t because I have self-control.
“I thought perhaps you’d feel cold, with the sun setting.” Soren says it so simply. Just chatting about the sun going down and the logical awareness that that means it will get cooler.
And he just, turned the seat warmer on. Because he was thinking about me.
Who does that?
“Don’t think that means I’m warming up to you.” I tug my seatbelt tighter, just because I need something to do with my hands.
“Of course not,” he counters easily. “I’d assume I have a much harder job ahead of me of winning your warmth than a mere seat warmer can manage.”
“Cheeky.”
He turns to look at me before pulling out into traffic. His tongue pushing against his cheek and those soulful eyes do something to my insides. And when he smiles it’s with actual amusement.
“Pay attention to the road, Marquis.”
“As you wish, Cantemir.”
I groan slapping my palms to my face as he pulls out into traffic, gently. Not like a teenager zooming into traffic because he just learned how the gas pedal works.
No he does everything precisely and with control and damn him.
I peek at him beneath my fingers finding that lopsided smile on his face like he’s actually enjoying himself. So I drop my hands and study him. Because I’ve never spent this long with the man, I never allowed myself to spend this long with him.
I like to think I put my own needs before anyone else’s. So I just… didn’t notice him. I couldn’t notice him.
He has the job I always wanted, and even though Lazarus amended that mistake the pain of his existence still simmers just beneath the surface of my own awareness.
All that to say I notice him now.
The way his dark hair is cut long to enhance the curls on the top of his head. Messy and untamed they absolutely have a mind of their own. To his nose that’s a fraction too large for my own personal preferences.
You aren’t dating him, Callie. You can judge. And look.
I know he can sense me studying him, in the way his hands tighten just so on the steering wheel. The way his chin raises another inch the longer I stare at the stubble on his chin. He’s definitely one of those guys that has a four o’clock shadow the moment he finishes shaving.
And still he says nothing.
When he blinks slowly and those lashes feather across his cheek bones, I finally look away. Mostly because no one should have lashes that fucking long. “Where are we going?” I ask doing my very best not to twitch in my seat.
I’m not very good at sitting still.
“To feed you,” he says enjoying this moment a little too much.
“What if I’m not hungry.” I’m always hungry. That’s the problem.
He takes a moment to look at me with that stupid grin on his face before looking away. “I think you’re hungry.”
What the hell is this?
“Since you know so much about me why don’t you tell me what I’m hungry for.” I cross my arms because he’s annoying me, then I promptly uncross them. No reason to put the girl on display.
“I’m working on it.”
“You’re,” I pause, my brain going completely blank for a moment before it catches up. “Working on it. What does that even mean.”
“It means I’m working on it.” He makes a turn, his thumb tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel. I can’t place the rhythm though it’s familiar.
“You said reservations earlier.” I twist to look at him better. “Are you saying there are no reservations?”
“There are no reservations. Like I said, I’m working on it.” He smirks like he’s proud of himself for lying to my ex. “See I could wine and dine you yeah?”
I wrinkle my nose when he turns to see my expression.
“Exactly.” The thumb tapping starts all over again. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would be impressed by fancy dining. Therefore I’m working on it.”
I refuse to acknowledge his awareness of just how right he is. Furthermore, am I that easy to figure out? I mean, maybe. For the longest time I just didn’t care. About anything. Giving a fuck for so long felt too heavy to even do. Caring feels almost odd right now.
“So, what does working on it look like?”
“It looks,” he pulls into a parking lot. “Like this.”
I turn and look out the window and damn it to all hell, but I smile at his thought process. I hate that he understood an assignment I didn’t think I’d given him. Or maybe he’s one of those guys always asking for extra credit.
It doesn’t really matter in the end.
The car jerks a little as he throws it into park. “How’d I do?”
Cocky bastard.
I suck on my front teeth and get out of the car without saying a damn word because he did well. Very fucking well.
It’s a parking lot with six different food truck options. Twinkle lights strung between them and across. It looks like a magical buffet and it is absolutely perfect for a first date.
Not that this is a first date.
But if I were to go on a first date, I’d love this.
“I did good,” he says slamming his door and walking around the car to lean on the hood.
“Plenty of options. You have tacos.” He doesn’t even look at the vendors, he keeps those soulful eyes on me as I spot the taco truck.
“You have chicken sammiches, burgers, one with only fries. You have your drink options, all lemonade I’m afraid. And my personal favorite, cupcakes.”
“You come here often.” I finally look at him knowing very well that I just used a really shitty pick-up line. Not that I wanted to use it but that I just did.
By the smile on his stupidly handsome face he’s all too aware of it.
“Yes,” he says simply. All proud of himself and shit.
Rolling my eyes and hating myself I ask, “What’s your favorite.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He loops his elbow in mine like a goddamn gentleman and steers me to the center of the parking lot.
“I do like a good burger but,” he leans in close to me and I swear he’s sniffing my hair.
“You cannot beat Skip’s Chicken. And a strawberry lemonade.
” He pauses as though he’s thinking if he wants more.
“And then a chocolate raspberry cupcake.”
“I hate how good that sounds.”
“Perfect, find a spot and I’ll order.”
I blink at him as he walks away, confused by the hatred I’ve harbored for this man for years now. I watch him walk to the food truck, order confidently, tap his card, then move to the next. All while all I can do is stare at him in confusion.
He isn’t… he isn’t what I expected.
Though I’m not really sure what I expected. This isn’t it though.
My thoughts swirl while I find a small table set back behind the half circle of food trucks. The wrought iron is still warm from the sun earlier. Soren meanders to the cupcakes and I can’t keep my eyes off of him. He leans on the counter, his eyes browsing the menu as the cashier browses him.
He has no idea either.
She’s biting her bottom lip doing everything to get his attention. But he’s way too focused on the cupcake menu. Finally he sighs and shakes his head like the menu is just too great for him to decide now. He grabs the menu and walks back to me.
As soon as he sees me watching he smiles. Always fucking smiling. It makes me grouchy. Then the closer he gets, he laughs.
“What?” He taps the menu on the table between us.
“She was into you.” I say the words, but I don’t feel them. Because if I feel them then it will give away that it means something. It doesn’t in fact mean something. It doesn’t mean anything.
I swear it.
“Was she?” He looks back at her, and hums before turning back to me. “Didn’t notice.”
“I can tell.”
“It bothers you.” He tilts his head. “It bothers you.” When he repeats it, it is definitely more for himself than anyone else. Definitely not for my benefit.
“Why would it bother me.” Also why am I twitching in my seat. I should have worn pants. My thighs keep sticking to the seat. That’s all.
“Because you’re into me.”
“Excuse me.”
“Soren!” a guy calls from behind us.
“Food’s up.” He leaves me the cupcake menu. “This conversation isn’t over.”
It’s so over.
I ignore him to browse the menu. Of which I see nothing because my focus isn’t on the damn cupcakes. It’s on him. It’s on the way he walks in that suit. The way he greets every single person with the same smile. Like he oozes happiness.
No one is ever that fucking happy.
Except Soren Marquis.
He brings back food and drinks and I dig in, because the other option is talking and I don’t want to do that.
I try a fry first because they’re my favorite. His eyes track the movement. Just watching what I pick up first.
“You know,” he says. “Fries are my favorite meal.”
How dare he.
“I can see from the contempt on your face that fries are your favorite meal as well.” He inhales his fries first, eyes closed, those lashes feathering over his cheeks. Then he gives a little shiver before popping one in his mouth.
Maybe I could be not so closed off. Maybe. Just for this one time.
Just one time.
“Fries were Calypso’s and my comfort food.
” I grab a chicken sandwich and cut it in half.
They’re huge. I dump BBQ sauce all over the sliced portion.
“Every Saturday Mom would treat us. Daddy was fishing or hunting or who knows on a Saturday.” My face twists up as I arrange my pickles, so I get one in each bite.
Then this fucking goldendoodle of a person places one of his pickles in the center.
“For equal bite distribution,” he claims.