27
27
Callum
“It’s me!” I called.
Kicking off my boots in Juniper’s hallway.
I lined them neatly beside her heeled ones, as I had every day for the past two weeks since our date at the fairy pools – since we decided to take things slow – and followed the scent of burned toast until I found her in the kitchen.
Her fringe fell into her eyes as she scowled at a sizzling saucepan.
Condiments and open jars lined every inch of the countertop.
“Everything okay?”
She looked fucking pretty today, a tight T-shirt tucked into jeans that made her legs look a mile long.
Gold clips held back the top half of her hair.
“I’m cooking for you.” Sauce spat and smoked.
“ Shit. ” She whirled, flipping down the heat.
Her nose wrinkled. “Attempting to, anyway – this is a bloody mess.”
If I’d thought it impossible to be any more addicted to Juniper Ross, I was wrong.
After holding her in my arms almost every night for two weeks, I’d become utterly obsessed.
Consumed.
She was officially, unofficially, mine.
Not that I’d ever say those words aloud to Juniper.
I could wait for her to come to that conclusion all by herself.
She would … eventually , and I’d be right there to comfort her then remind her how incredible we were together.
Because we were fucking incredible together.
Cloistered away in her cottage, a perfect little bubble that threatened to burst every day we kept this from Alistair.
A weird taste filled my mouth every time I considered it.
It wasn’t guilt, the flavour was far too sweet for that.
It was more like … unease.
Jealousy.
Every time he asked about her or his name appeared on her phone, it grew.
Juniper and Alistair’s history dictated he deserved to hear it from me, but Juniper held every scrap of my loyalty.
Until she gave me the green light, my lips were sealed.
When Alistair learned the truth, I’d take the full brunt of his anger and then happily remind him he didn’t get to have it both ways.
He couldn’t break things off only to have a say who she moved on with.
Until then I’d continue to be selfish with her, seizing any scrap of time she offered.
True to my word, we’d kept things purely PG.
Making out on her sofa like teenagers with Meg Ryan’s full filmography playing in the background.
There was that one time I made her come on my thigh.
It had been glorious and purely accidental.
Juniper had been just as stunned as me as she screamed out her release.
Turned on to the point of no return, I’d swiftly excused myself to stroke one out in her bathroom, surrounded by bottles of perfume and body lotion that smelled just like her.
Well aware of my crisis, Juniper had hovered outside the door, teasingly offering encouragement.
Barely uttering the words, “ Want me to choke on it, big boy? ” before I exploded with a hoarse cry.
Quickly setting myself to rights, I’d wrenched open the door to find her biting her lip, a playful gleam in her eyes.
“Never call me big boy again,” I’d growled, carrying her back to the sofa, past the tempting bed only feet away.
When things got hot between us, I didn’t stray from that sofa.
If I got her beneath me on a bed, I’d be fucking done for.
Curling an arm around her waist, I glanced over her shoulder at the brown mushy concoction and asked hesitantly, “What is it?”
The spoon clattered as she threw it down.
“It was supposed to be falafel.”
“It looks more like haggis.” I teased.
Her scowl deepened and I eased the pan from her grip, gave it a stir before adding a little more oil.
“Why the sudden urge to cook?” She’d eat cereal for every meal if she could get away with it.
“Because you’ve cooked for me every night this week.”
I set the pot back on the burner, lowering the heat.
“Because I like cooking for you.”
Her hands flew to her hips.
“Maybe I was enjoying cooking for you.”
“Were you?”
“ No! I bloody hate it.” She rubbed at her temples.
Laughing – I was doing that a lot these days – I lifted her by the hips – something I’d discovered she loved because it made her feel delicate – and set her down on the counter amongst the condiments.
Like this, she was a head taller than me.
“Then don’t cook. We’ll order pizza.”
Not needing to be told twice, she pulled up the only pizza place in the village on her phone.
“Where did you learn to cook, anyway?”
“The army, they train you to be pretty self-sufficient. Not the … what was it you called me? A man baby who hires help to do their laundry. ”
“That was like, seven years ago. I can’t believe you remember that.”
I pinched her waist. “I remember everything you say.”
Her dark eyes scanned my face, weighing the words.
When she didn’t say anything, I brushed a finger along the crease of her elbow, frowning at the fresh welt from Shakespeare.
“Did you wash this out?”
She nodded as I pressed my lips to the sore spot.
Her hand raked into my hair, so fucking tender, I swore I’d spent the last weeks in the twilight zone.
That was the only explanation.
No one got this lucky.
Planting a hand on the counter, I noticed a pile of haphazardly stacked books.
Expecting cookery recipes, I slid the spines to face me.
The Truth About Dementia
What No One Tells You About Dementia
How to Support a Caregiver
I read the titles three times, feeling like someone just punched a hole through my chest. “Where did you get these?”
“The library.”
“Why?” Deep down, I think I knew why.
I needed to hear it anyway.
Her eyes bounced between mine, evaluating the precipice her next words might pitch her over.
“Because I want to be there for you.”
What else was there to say?
I spoke my thanks onto her lips, making certain she tasted every shred of gratitude before I dipped to her jaw.
Her throat. I couldn’t resist hiking her T-shirt up and pressing my lips to the curling tattoo on her rib cage.
Too good for me , I thought, Too sweet.
I was about to speak the sentiment out loud when her fingers tugged my hair.
“We need to take the pizza to go, I have a surprise for you.”