21. Callum #3
I can see the moment reality crashes back into her.
I watch her naked body tense and her breathing change from desire to something closer to panic.
Her hands flatten against my chest, not pushing me away yet, but preparing to.
Her eyes shift from mine to the window, then back, then away again.
I watch as she processes where we are, what we’re doing, and all the reasons this is complicated.
“I should —” she starts, and her voice is shaky. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, holding on even as she’s pulling away. “I should —”
“Don’t,” I say desperately, my hands tightening on her waist, not enough to trap her but enough to ground her. “Don’t run.”
She looks at me, and I watch the fear flash across her face. I watch her throat work as she swallows. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, holding on even as every muscle in her body is tensing to flee.
We stay like that for a long time. Her on the counter, me between her legs, her completely bare and me still half-dressed, both of us breathing hard.
Her hands slide from my shoulders down to rest on my chest, right over my heartbeat.
I wonder if she can feel how hard it’s pounding.
I can feel her pulse hammering in her throat where my hand has moved up to cup the side of her neck, my thumb resting against the rapid flutter there.
We’re staring at each other like we’re trying to figure out what happens next, both waiting for the other person to make the decision. Both terrified of making the wrong one.
Another crack of thunder splits the air, so loud and close it feels like it’s directly overhead. The overhead lights flicker again, the kitchen dimming to near darkness, throwing shadows across her face before buzzing faintly as they struggle to stabilize.
“I really should go,” she whispers, but she doesn’t pull her hands away from my chest.
“I know.” My hands slide from her waist down to her hips, thumbs tracing the bare skin there.
“The storm.” She glances toward the window, then back at me, and I can see her mind working, finding excuses. “God, I hope it passes before Saturday. We sold all those patio seats. If we have to cancel them —”
“I know.” I lean my forehead against hers.
Her hands finally slide from my chest, and she braces them on the counter beside her hips, creating space between us.
Physical distance that feels like miles.
But she’s still close enough that I can feel her breath on my face and see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
But she’s pulling away. I can see it happening. I watch her rebuild the walls I just managed to break through, brick by careful brick.
“Vivi —”
“We have so much to do before Saturday.” The words come out rushed at first, tumbling over each other, before her voice evens out into something more controlled.
“Chef Singh arrives tomorrow morning, and I need to pick her up from the airport, and we have the final prep meeting with the staff, and the photographer needs to do a walkthrough of the space, and —”
She’s rambling now. Using logistics as a shield and throwing up barriers made of schedules and responsibilities. Deflecting from what just happened between us.
I step back, my hands sliding from her hips as I give her room to slide off the counter, even though everything in me is screaming to pull her back, to kiss her again, to make her stay.
She slides down, her feet hitting the floor with a soft sound that seems too loud in the quiet kitchen. Immediately she’s moving, looking around with quick, jerky movements like she’s trying to find her bearings.
Her leggings are somewhere near the prep table, and she snatches them up, stepping into them fast, almost losing her balance.
Her sweater is crumpled on the floor near the walk-in, and she crosses to it in three quick steps, scooping it up and pulling it over her head.
The fabric is inside out, but she doesn’t fix it.
She just tugs it down roughly, smoothing it over her hips with hands that are still shaking.
One shoe is near the door. The other has somehow ended up under the prep table entirely, and she has to crouch down to retrieve it, which under any other circumstances would be funny.
Her hair is a complete disaster, tangled and wild from my fingers, and she tries to fix it with trembling hands, raking through it, pulling it over one shoulder, then the other, like she can’t decide, and she just needs something to do with her hands that isn’t reaching for me.
I grab my shirt from where it landed near the prep sink and pull it on, the fabric sticking slightly to my still-heated skin.
When I look up, she’s stopped moving. She’s standing by the door to the dining room, one hand on the frame like she needs it for support. And she’s watching me.
“Cal —” Her cheeks flush pink, the color spreading down her neck, disappearing under the neckline of her sweater. She stops and swallows hard enough that I can see her throat work. “I should go.”
“You keep saying that.” I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest, making myself stay put even though I want to close the distance between us. Even though I want to kiss her again until she stops thinking about leaving.
“Because I mean it.” But even as she says it, her hand tightens on the doorframe. She shifts her weight like she’s about to move, but her feet stay planted.
I take a step toward her, unable to help myself. She takes a step back immediately, her hand coming up between us like a barrier. Her back hits the doorframe with a soft thud.
Like she doesn’t trust herself to be close to me right now, and she knows if I touch her again, we’ll end up right back where we were.
“Are we going to talk about this?” I ask, stopping where I am, forcing myself to give her the space she needs even though it kills me.
“Not tonight.” She shakes her head, hair falling across her face. She pushes it back with fingers that are still trembling.
“When?”