Chapter Thirteen
Max
By Saturday morning, I have learned three things.
One: telling Callan Reed that yes, he could call it a date, did not kill me, even though my nervous system seemed deeply committed to making me believe it might.
Two: once the word date is out in the open, it becomes impossible to shove our time together into the little boxes labeled coffee, breakfast, lunch, dinner or two adults with unresolved history discussing wrongful convictions while pretending not to stare at each other’s mouths.
And three: Bart is a traitor.
Because it’s barely seven in the morning on a Saturday and he is currently sitting by the front door, tail thumping against the wood floor like he’s waiting for someone.
“No,” I tell him as I walk into the kitchen in my pajama pants and Boston University sweatshirt, waiting for the coffee machine to decide for the second time if it deems me worthy of another cup. “Absolutely not. I am not taking you out right now, give me twenty minutes and one more coffee.”
I’ve been up since six-thirty because I love mornings. I would love to be mysterious and sleep until ten like a woman with interesting secrets. Instead, I open my eyes at sunrise and my brain starts making lists, and Bart expects a walk before most of the town has even realized the day has begun.
I set my cup down and walk to explain to the fluffy dog that he is waiting for nothing when the doorbell rings.
I freeze.
Bart does not freeze. Bart leaps to his feet like this is his expected development for the morning.
I eye him suspiciously and whisper, “Who did you invite over?”
He wags.
A soft knock on the door and my stomach dips. Because my body has learned recently that unexpected doorbells in the early morning hours can mean men from my past showing up with coffee to bring up emotional trauma.
I point my finger at Bart as I walk towards the door. “If it’s Patrick, you need to find a new home.”
Bart sneezes.
I pull the door open.
It is not Patrick.
Callan Reed stands on my porch holding two coffees, wearing a smile and looking entirely too awake and too handsome.
He’s in dark jeans, a black thermal under an open jacket, hair a little less controlled than usual, curls falling forward like he doesn’t realize he’s weaponizing them.
There’s a faint shadow under his eyes, but the curve of his lips lights up his face.
My heart does something stupid.
“Morning, Sims.”
I stare at him.
Then at the coffees.
Then back up at him.
Too many men have shown up on my doorstep with coffee this week, but I do prefer this one.
“What are you doing here?”
I realize quickly that I could have said hello, or something equally warm and welcoming. But I’m in fuzzy socks and he looks like that, so really, everyone should lower their expectations.
His eyes flick down, not in a gross way, but in a slow way as he takes in my outfit and decides this is the opposite of a deterrent from whatever he came here to do.
“I knew you’d be up.”
“Congratulations on remembering my deeply uncool personality trait of being up too early.”
“Oh, I remember a lot more than that, but I’m choosing to use this one to my advantage this morning,” he winks and lifts the coffee. “Ridiculously offensive to order this, since it’s more sugar than coffee; truly offensive to coffee as an institution.”
I take it from him and sip. “Correct coffee order, incorrect commentary.”
His smile widens, and for a second, I forget about the coffee and the fuzzy socks, and the way Bart has been sitting between us staring up at Cal like he hung the moon. Because it’s not fair that a face can do that—do that gorgeous thing with his lips and eyes and—
“I was going to text,” he interrupts my irresponsible thoughts.
“But?”
“But then I thought about you opening your phone, reading it, trying to decide how to respond, overthinking it, possibly asking your friend what to say, then maybe convincing yourself I didn’t really want to come see you.”
My mouth opens.
Closes.
That is rude.
Accurate. But rude.
“Wow,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear. “Bold of you to show up at my house at seven in the morning and immediately read me for filth.”
He leans against the door frame, hand going down to absentmindedly pet Bart. “So I just came instead.”
“Why?”
The question comes out softer than I mean it to and his smile shifts. It doesn’t disappear but it’s quieter, warmer. His eyes hold mine in the morning light and my fingers tighten around the cup.
“Because I woke up and all I could think about was that if I didn’t come see you, I wouldn’t see you today. And that was unacceptable.”
Oh.
A shiver moves up my back before I can stop it, delicate and traitorous and totally his fault.
His eyes drop to my shoulders like he notices.
Because of course he does. Callan Reed notices everything.
It’s one of his most annoying qualities, right after the face and the forearms with the painted lines twirling around them and right before the thing where he says exactly the right thing at all times.
“You could have texted that,” my survival instinct forces me to say.
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
I sip the coffee just to have something to do with my mouth.
Bart stands up and wiggles himself closer to Cal, leaning his body against Cal’s legs.
“Bartholomew, you traitor,” I say in mock anger.
“I think he wants to go for a walk,” he says it to Bart more than he says it to me, which elicits even more tail wags.
His eyes burn into mine and the dog whines.
I roll my eyes and grab the leash from behind the door, slipping my feet into boots.
“Of course he does, and now that his favorite person is here, he’s ready to go.”
His laugh is low and warm and curls around me as I grab my keys off the table and hook Bart’s leash on. I lock the door and try not to think about how this feels like something.
A real thing. A normal thing.
A dangerous thing, maybe.
But not dangerous in the way Patrick was dangerous. Not sharp and small. This feels dangerous like standing at the edge of something beautiful and deciding if I trust my feet.
We make it halfway down the block before I realize Cal has taken Bart’s leash without asking.
Or maybe I handed it to him without realizing.
Either way, Bart is trotting beside him like the world has given him the missing puzzle piece. Cal holds his own coffee in one hand and the leash in the other, walking at a slower pace than I know he naturally would, because my legs are much shorter than his.
“So,” I say, because silence with Cal is no longer awkward but it is incredibly loud in a different way. “Do you frequently show up at women’s houses with coffee before the day begins?”
“Just one woman.”
My eyes cut to his.
He is looking straight ahead, the corner of his mouth doing that almost-smile thing.
My face heats.
“Smooth.”
“Honest.”
“Worse.”
His smile breaks loose at that, and I have to look away before I do something deranged, like tell him that smile has lit my world up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
The leaves are doing their early fall thing—gold and orange and little piles along the sidewalks. It’s cold enough that steam rises from each of our cups, but not cold enough to regret leaving the house.
It’s quiet and Cal glances over at me.
“What?”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?” I immediately change my face.
“The one where your brain is running three separate arguments at once.”
“It’s two, actually, and my grocery list.”
“I stand corrected. But this is why I didn’t text.”
I roll my eyes and my phone rings from my sweatshirt pocket.
There are very few people who would call me on a Saturday morning and only one of them does it frequently enough for me to expect it.
Becca.
I swipe to answer. “Are you dying?”
“Are you?” she asks immediately. “Because I woke up from a dream that you were wearing a pilgrim dress and marrying a viking in a cranberry bog, so naturally I called to make sure the universe hadn’t shifted.”
I close my eyes. “What is wrong with your brain?”
“So many things. Where are you? You sound outside.”
“I’m walking Bart.”
“At seven in the morning? Disgusting.”
“I do this every day and you know it,” I turn my head as I say it, falling a step behind Cal.
“And every day I choose not to think about it because I love you. Wait,” her voice changes; sharpens. “Why do you sound weird?”
“I do not sound weird,” I whisper-yell.
Cal looks over with obvious amusement.
Becca gasps so dramatically I hear fabric rustle and imagine her sitting straight up in bed. “You’re with someone!”
“No!” I snap.
Cal raises his eyebrows.
“Maxine Simmons! You tell me who you are with right now!”
“I am walking Bart,” I repeat, and turn my back to Cal, which is pointless because his six-foot-something frame towers over me.
“With who?”
“Whom,” I automatically correct her as one does when they feel cornered.
“With whom are you walking your dog at seven in the morning, you evasive little goblin?”
I sigh. “Cal.”
There is silence.
Then a sound that can only be described by what I imagine is the screech of fighting bobcats.
I pull the phone away from my ear.
Cal’s eyebrows climb higher and a stupid grin plasters itself to his face.
I mouth sorry. But I am not sorry, because this is his fault.
“Becca.”
“Coffee?” she demands.
“What?”
“Did. He. Bring. You. Coffee?” She punctuates each word.
I look at the cup in my hand. “Maybe.”
Another squeal.
“Bec, you’re being weird now.”
“Oh, I’m going to be so normal about this. Put me on speaker.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Put me on speaker so I can thank him for his service.”
“His service to what?”
“It’s seven in the morning and you’re together. So I guess his service to yearning. To his forearms. To being tall near you. To the way his ass looks in his jeans right now, probably.”
My face burns hot as I pull my gaze from Cal’s butt and focus on a mailbox shaped like a barn across the road.
Cal, unfortunately, has very good hearing and the volume on my phone is not low.
He coughs once, suspiciously close to a laugh.
“I hate you,” I tell her.