Chapter 17
“Calvin…” I whine. “You need to put your phone down so I can put the face wash on your face.”
“Hmm, I know, Peach, just one more second,” he says, still glued to his phone.
It’s Sunday morning, and we just finished breakfast on the balcony.
Now, we’re in the bathroom and Calvin is sitting on the toilet lid while I stand in front of him.
I couldn’t help myself; I begged him to let me do my skincare routine on him while I film us.
Of course, I’m not planning to post the video.
I just want to have it, to keep something tangible, some proof that this moment… that we happened.
Because deep down, I know this won’t last. Whatever we’re doing is bound to stop eventually. I might be a terrible sister, but even I can’t keep this up when Abigail comes back.
His face is flawless, with smooth, glowing skin that’s impossible not to touch. All I want to do is cleanse it, moisturize it, and fuss over his thick, soft beard that I can’t stop running my fingers through.
But, despite my efforts, he’s been glued to his phone since we stepped into the bathroom, working even on a Sunday.
I pout and wait for him to finish. “And here, I’m done,” he says, putting his phone on the counter next to us.
I say nothing as I pick up my Youth To The People cleanser.
“Fix your face, Peach. I just had to shoot off a few texts to my assistant, that’s all. ”
“On a Sunday?” I can’t help but deepen my pout. I want all of his attention all day, every day.
“I work every day, baby, and you can’t be mad,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me flush against him. “I haven’t gotten any work done since you stepped into my life.”
I smile at his declaration, my heart doing that stupid skip it always does when he says things like that.
“I know I have no right to demand your attention,” I say softly, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “But… maybe give me Sundays?”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I surprise even myself.
Because as much as we pretend otherwise, hiding behind secret glances and stolen touches, the truth sits between us like it always does.
He doesn’t belong to me.
He’s not mine.
Not my boyfriend.
Not my anything.
He’s my sister’s fiancé.
He’s off-limits.
And yet here I am, asking for Sundays like I have any claim to him at all. But sometimes the heart forgets its place and dares to want anyway.
“Hey, look at me,” he demands so I do. I lock eyes with the brown ones I’ve come to want more than I’d like to admit.
“Give me a kiss,” he says softly. I lean down, pressing my lips to his. It’s not a long kiss, no tongue, no urgency, but it’s enough to make my heart race.
“You want my Sundays? You get my Sundays… well, you and my mom. I try to have dinner with her every Sunday,” he says with a small smile.
I frown, tilting my head. “Your mom? I thought she lived out of the country.”
I know Calvin and his brother were born and raised here in Boston, but when my parents asked Abigail why Calvin’s mom couldn’t come to the wedding, she told us his mom lived in Europe.
“Out of the country? Nah, my mom lives twenty minutes away. Would you like to meet her?”
My frown deepens as confusion sets in. Did Abigail lie to us? Or was she lied to?
Calvin reaches out, his thumb smoothing the lines on my forehead. “Worry me,” he says.
“Huh?”
“It’s something my dad used to say to my mom whenever she was thinking too much.
Worry me, put your burden on me,” he explains.
I fall more in love with his parents’ relationship every time he tells me a story about them.
It sounds like he grew up in such a gentle, loving home.
“Come here,” he pulls me down on his lap. “Worry me.”
“It’s just… Abigail told us that your mom can’t come to the wedding because she lives in Europe, so I guess I’m wondering why she can’t make it?”
“Right.” He frowns. “My mom can’t make it to the wedding because she doesn’t know I’m getting married, just my brother does.” I stiffen and try to get off his lap, but he won’t let me.
“What do you mean she doesn’t know you’re getting married?” I ask. It was my understanding that he is close to his mom, and he doesn’t seem like the type to get married and not tell her. What is going on?
“Things are complicated, and I can’t tell you everything right now,” he says, like that’s supposed to be enough. “But I promise, when the time is right, I will.”
I stare at him, jaw tightening. That exact line. Again. From both him and Abby. I’m so sick of it I could scream.
“What is so damn complicated that you can’t just come out and say it?” I snap, pushing off his lap.
“Blair…” There’s a warning in his tone that I’d give a fuck about if I didn’t feel like I’d wandered into the part of the book where the heroine realizes the love story was just the setup for the fall.
“Fuck that, uncomplicate it now,” I yell, throwing my hands up. “Because I’m not playing these fucking games with you.”
The instant the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far.
Calvin rises from his seat slowly, and it’s so deliberate it almost feels theatrical. I’d roll my eyes if not for the hair prickling at the back of my neck. Sometimes I forget just how much bigger he is than me, how easily he could take up all the air in the room if he wanted to.
Every line of his body goes taut, his expression shifting from warm to lethal in an instant. That calm, dangerous silence settles over him like a second skin, and it makes something deep inside me clench.
He towers above me now, still, composed, but radiating quiet menace.
Every instinct I have screams at me to step back.
But I don’t.
“You’ve got one more fuck left in you,” he says in the kind of voice that makes the air feel thinner, the room smaller. It would make anyone else back down.
But not me.
Because apparently, I have a death wish.
I step closer instead, chin tilted, eyes defiant.
“Or what?” I ask sharply, though there’s a tremor beneath my voice I can’t hide. “What the fuck are you going to do about it?”
He drags his thumb slowly across his bottom lip, eyes raking over me like he’s already decided my fate. Then his lips curl into a cold smile, void of mercy.
“You’ve got five seconds,” he says, “to get your ass in the playroom and assume the position.”
My stomach drops. I open my mouth. “Calvin, wait…”
He cuts me off with a look that strips the rebellion right out of me. “If I have to repeat myself,” he says quietly, “your punishment will not be merciful.”
That tone lights me up and terrifies me all at once. Every nerve hums. My pulse pounds. Desire and dread twist into something molten and electric.
I swallow hard. Then turn. I start to walk, cautious, calculating, but I don’t get far.
“If I were you,” he says, voice like thunder, “I wouldn’t walk.”
I freeze.
“I’d run.”
And that single word run hits me like lightning.
I don’t think.
I sprint.
Once I reach the playroom, I move quickly, slipping out of my clothes and folding them with the precision he drilled into me.
My fingers tremble, but I make sure each piece is neatly stacked, aligning the edges just like he likes.
I sink to my knees, facing away from the door, spine straight, hands resting on my thighs with palms up, exactly as he taught me.
My heart hammers with fear and a flicker of excitement, but I don’t dare look back or shift my weight.
And then I wait.
At first, I’m determined, keeping perfectly still, letting him see I can be obedient, that I can take whatever he decides to dish out.
But minutes tick by—maybe hours, I can’t tell anymore.
My neck aches and my muscles are burning from holding this position, but I grit my teeth and stay rooted.
The silence presses in around me, stretching on and on, and the uncertainty gnaws at me.
How long does he plan to make me wait like this?
I squirm internally, itching to move, to adjust, to even glance at the door just to see if he’s watching.
But I don’t. I hold on, swallowing back my impatience, refusing to give in.
He knows how much I hate staying in one place for too long, how much the unknown messes with my head.
I think that’s exactly why he’s making me wait like this, testing me, seeing if I’ll crack before he even lays a hand on me.
Finally, I hear the soft click of the door and his slow footsteps as he steps inside.
I force myself to remain still, my breathing shallow, my pulse spiking with both dread and desire, but he doesn’t come to me.
He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t even speak to me.
My skin prickles. I’m desperate to know what he’s doing, but I know looking around would only make things worse.
My impatience gets the best of me. “Calvin, I… I know I was out of line. I’m sorry,” I try to sound apologetic but I can’t help the teasing edge in my voice, a bratty tone I know he won’t ignore.
He stays silent, and my frustration bubbles up.
“Calvin, come on. Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? ”
Silence.
When I think I can’t handle another second of this, he steps closer, and I feel his strong hand grip the back of my neck. The heat of his touch shoots down my spine, and I stifle a gasp as he pulls me to my feet.
“Unless you’re about to use your safe word,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “keep that mouth shut.”
My lips part, but he raises an eyebrow, daring me to defy him. I close my mouth. He gives me another second to maybe see if I’ll defy him, and when I don’t, he guides me over to the St. Andrew’s cross, securing my wrists and ankles until I’m spread out and utterly vulnerable.