18. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
I follow Brant inside his house, the reclaimed wood walls of the living room greeting me at my right. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks, walking us to the kitchen.
“Yeah, water would be helpful,” I say.
I place my crossbody on the butcher block counter, briefly admiring the maple wood of the flat-panel cabinets.
When I swivel around, my palms curl around the edge of the counter.
I stare at his backside across the room, and Brant’s already filling a glass with water in the stainless-steel fridge door.
My throat rolls through a knot. He turns to offer me the drink, our eyes locking as I take it. “You’ve done a great job with the masculine décor,” I offer.
“Thanks,” he sighs, slipping his hands in his jeans pockets. Then his chin slopes toward the chandelier made of black metal. “We try to personalize as best we can without going overboard.”
My attention drifts as I sip the cold beverage. It lands on the slim hallway that’s perpendicular to the kitchen. I assume it leads to the bedrooms. “Where’s Sean?”
“Fishing trip with his dad for the weekend.”
I return my gaze to Brant’s. “Oh. I assumed that was Sean’s Honda Civic out front.”
“No, Honda isn’t his preferred brand,” he teases. “He owns a pickup like me. He just gets dibs on the garage considering it’s his uncle’s place.”
My lip tips up. “That’s fair.”
“Yeah, I thought so too.”
A tent pitches in my stomach across the silence. “Can I get a tour?”
“Come on.” He cocks his chin before walking off.
I follow him back down the corridor we came from. We land in the living room, beige furniture positioned along the reclaimed wood walls. A low-rise coffee table residing in the center of the floor.
My eyes scan the wall décor, parking on a white canvas above the sectional. There are a cluster of about five pine trees, half their silhouettes layered with a sunset in a double-exposed image.
My legs carry me forward. The hues of yellow and burnt orange coat the tiny, black branches, and suddenly I’m entranced. “You chose this?” I ask.
“What kind of question is that?” There’s a humorous edge to his answer, but he remains rooted at the threshold of the room.
The station wagon. Hummingbirds. Italian ices. All of it revolves in my mind like a carousel, and I bore my stare into the minimal painting. “I take it things are getting serious with her,” I blurt.
When I rest my drink on a coaster on the coffee table, Brant quips, “That depends on your definition of ‘serious.”
I inhale, straightening my stance. I run my fingers through my tousled waves, pinning my eyes to his. “Sex. I would consider sex serious.”
He still stands at the entry point. One of his hands is cradled between his thumb and fingers. “I wouldn’t.”
I can’t ignore his pinched gaze, noticing the way his eyes are more brown than hazel tonight. But that beautiful green still peeks through. Hints of his youth still embedded in the man standing just a few feet away.
His stubble is slightly thicker and darker. Framing his full lips that look as kissable as they once were. They’re still that special shade of peach. Perfect. Only now, I wonder how expertly they would massage mine.
Just like his fingers absently stroking his nestled palm.
My eyes sink to the rough digits, and it’s such a pity they’re not caressing my body right now.
I swiftly rotate my attention from him, stationing my eyes on the painting again. “Does she know that?”
“What’s your problem?” he asks.
“I don’t have a problem,” I counter, shrugging as casually as possible. “I just find it a little awkward that I interrupted you. Let alone the fact that you asked her to leave.”
“Then you should’ve texted or called me to warn me you were coming by,” he shoots back.
A snarl crawls its way onto my face. “Well, that’s a shitty thing to say. I don’t know why you insisted on me staying if I ruined your—”
“I’m not mad that you interrupted my night.”
I whip my head to him. He briefly flips his palms out before sliding them in his pockets. “I just want to know why you did.”
My eyes roam over him. I notice his appearance is still mildly chaotic, and there are so many horrid images racing through my mind. “Did you sleep with her?” I ask. “Just now?”
“No.”
A tinge of relief spreads from my belly.
“I brought her here. We cuddled a bit. But we didn’t.” My eyes drift away from him, the relief vacuuming out just as quickly as it entered. “Now answer my question.”
The next words exit me as easy as air. “Sorry,” I counter, “I’m a little hung up on the fact that you brought a woman here to potentially fuck.”
“I had no intention of fucking her. Just wanted some company,” he says. “Haven’t fucked anyone since you arrived, actually.”
He slowly strolls deeper into the living room, my eyes angling up as he draws closer.
“Just seems stupid when we could be the ones fucking,” he rumbles lowly. His comment is crass and casual, breathing a tingle along my flesh. “But you want to make things difficult by parading that engagement ring and shit, so I don’t know. I’m kind of at a loss, Cal.”
There’s a dash of humor sparking his delivery, but a dangerous bite that sinks its teeth into me. His woody cologne invades my space, and I’m instantly flung into his orbit.
“You want details? I can give you those,” he says, stopping a mere inch away from me.
“No thanks. I’m good.”
His brows delicately draw in. “Are you?”
“Peachy,” I annunciate.
His eyes volley between my lips and eyes. A firestorm brews beneath my flesh, my chest pumping deeper with every second I anticipate his rebuttal.
“To tell you the truth, I couldn’t tell you what she looks like when she comes. Just like the rest of them.”
I stand unblinking, my brain repeating his words over and over.
Until I’m sure I heard him correctly.
He squints, his long fingers wagging beside his ear like he’s trying to make sense of what he’s saying.
Almost like he’s talking his inner thoughts out loud to himself.
“There’re all these sounds, but I never see them.
I always hear them having a grand fucking time under me.
On top of me …” His words trail off until he’s shaking his head. “But I never see their faces. Never.”
I sweep my eyes over his expectant stare, heat sweltering my body. A mild sigh wanders from my lips, and my fingers fiddle with the buttons of my long-sleeve crop top.
“What?” he asks, his brows jerking as he leans in an inch. “Does it turn you on when I say that?”
“What?” I breathe. My chest jaggedly pumps as I blink rapidly, his proximity lighting another match to my skin. “N-no.”
“Knowing I have to pinch my eyes closed to keep your face from slipping away. Otherwise, the moment’s obliterated for me.”
My composure withers as the sultry flame expands. “What? No. Bra—”
He straightens, inhaling slowly while our eyes lock. My pulse accelerates, fluttering against my neck when his finger reaches for my denim belt loop.
I swallow thickly, our gazes dipping to where his digit is hooked. He gently tugs me, my feet shuffling toward him when I say, “I should get home to Jesse.”
My eyes pop to his, his Adam’s apple cocking as he assesses the conviction in my voice.
There is none.
His stare sinks to my lips. “But that’s not what you’re gonna do.”
It’s not a command.
He’s calling my bluff.