Chapter 4
CALLEN
I’M NOT HUNGOVER.
My hands are steady, the light doesn’t hurt, and I’m standing in line at a coffee shop three blocks from a hotel I have no memory of checking into, feeling more or less operational.
Which can only mean one thing: I’m still drunk.
The crash is coming. It’s out there somewhere with my name on it, patient, and when it lands it’s going to be of biblical proportions.
But for now, I’ve got a window, and I’m using it to make an apology.
I woke up an hour ago on top of the covers in a room that wasn’t mine, fully dressed, shoes lined up neat by the bed.
Alone. My suit jacket folded over the back of a chair.
A throw blanket half-slid off my shoulder.
And a person-shaped dent in the couch cushions across the room.
Someone was there. Someone had taken the couch and left me the bed.
Kezia.
I remember Kezia. Who could forget a name like that?
I remember her vividly. The one clear thing from a night that’s otherwise underwater.
Deep brunette hair, twisted neatly behind her neck.
A dress so low cut, it looked like two pieces of fabric that didn’t want to cinch together.
And those eyes…emerald under the light, a little swampy when she drank. Hypnotizing in both hues.
And her mouth. Plump red lips, sure, but I was more mesmerized by what spilled out of them.
She slid into my booth like she’d been invited.
I remember telling her to leave, to protect both of us.
I was too worried that my loneliness cocktail might make me say things to a woman that beautiful.
Things that shouldn’t enter a grown man’s mind let alone leave it.
Yeah, I told her to leave, I’m sure of it.
But I remember, as the heat climbs up my neck right here in the coffee line, that I definitely did not want her to leave.
From there, it’s blank.
I don’t remember how the night ended.
My clothes were still on when I woke. All of them, belt included, and I wouldn’t refasten a belt after a sex-filled blackout.
So, we didn’t. Probably. No scratch marks on my back, because let’s be honest, she’s probably the kind of woman who scratches.
There was no discarded condom in sight. But oh, fuck.
What if we didn’t use a condom? Then again, I don’t feel particularly satisfied either.
I’m still craving her. Or maybe I’m craving another round? Shit.
The memory’s a black wall somewhere after the dive bar and before the folded tie. I don’t know what I did or said in that black. How could I be this careless?
Melissa, that’s why.
I’ve lived enough life where it takes more than rejection to wound me. Her lack of loyalty? The guttural truth that the last decade was built on lies? I missed a cheater. I loved a liar. That part’s enough to break me at the knees.
I talk when I drink. That’s why I don’t drink much. Every fiber of my being is praying I didn’t spend all night blubbering to Kezia like a baby over my ex-wife. Lance is right, I am indeed the opposite of smooth. Fuck my life.
“Sir?” The kid behind the counter is waiting.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I look up at the menu like I can process it at the moment.
I have no idea what she drinks, so I solve the problem the only way I know how, which is force.
“Let me get a large drip, a vanilla latte, a flat white, one of those chai things. Two of them. And—” I scan the case.
“The scones. A couple muffins. That breakfast sandwich, the egg one with bacon. Actually, two of those. Extra bacon.”
The kid blinks. “Which muffins?”
“I literally don’t care. Whichever ones you want to get rid of.”
He starts ringing it up, and as I stand there holding my card, I have the grim thought that I’m about to carry an entire bakery’s worth of food up to a stranger I might’ve slept with. And I don’t know one true thing about what she’d want.
It’s not an ideal situation but I’ve always been a gentleman after a night out, or in, with a woman. Kezia has an odd flavor to her—a little danger, a lot of edge, and one might argue, too much sass. But she’s still a lady and deserves a one-night stand who brings her breakfast in the morning.
I’ll just bring her this food offering as an apology and go back to my life before I do any more damage.
That’s the plan. It’s a good plan. I’ve had worse.
I inhale a deep breath, surprised the aromatic coffee shop isn’t making me nauseous. The crash keeps not coming. I take it as a gift and pay for the food.
HERE WE GO. Room 408. I didn’t remember it last night, but I had the good sense to check the door number before I left this morning.
Gun to my head I couldn’t have guessed which door was hers from last night.
Some operative. But then again PALADIN doesn’t really use me for the missions, more the mundane paperwork and insider connections to FBI somebodies.
Eden and I don’t see much action, which she’s very okay with. Honestly, I think I am too.
I stand outside the door with a cardboard drink tray balanced on one forearm and a paper bag hooked on two fingers, and I knock, half expecting nothing.
She’s probably gone, maybe checked out. Women like this don’t wait around a hotel room for the drunk they scraped off a bar floor.
After another knock, I realize she’s gone, the room’s empty.
I’ll donate the food to the chirpy receptionist from the front lobby and maybe leave a note for room 408 if she returns later.
And that’s it. That’s the end of such a strange night.
It’s not until my back is turned and I’m a few paces down the hallway that the door opens.
She’s shamelessly in her underwear, hair wet.
Not lingerie, not a production—just a plain cotton set, like I interrupted her morning routine.
Ah, dammit. She’s one of those women who looks even better without makeup.
And that’s saying something because the way she looked last night was hard to beat.
Her freckles are on display and she’s playing hopscotch with the line between scorchingly sexy and adorably cute. I don’t know which I prefer.
When I realize my gaze is lingering where it shouldn’t be—not at her cleavage, a little south of her navel—I throw my head back and fixate on the ceiling like Michelangelo himself hand-painted it.
Then I look at the carpet. I admire the door fixtures.
Basically trying not to assess the outline between her thighs.
“Hey,” she says, folding her arms, a smirk growing on her face. She’s clocking my embarrassment and loving it. “Thought you ran out on me.”
“I did.” I keep my eyes on the number. “But just to bring this.”
She nods toward the bag. “Good boy. I’m starving. What is it?”
“Coffee.”
“Obviously.”
“And in the bag, a bacon and egg sandwich, a couple muffins, scones…and an apology.”
“Callen. Erectile dysfunction is nothing to apologize about at your age.”
My lips fall apart. I thought a bullet would be the thing to take my life, turns out it’s humiliation. I’m only relieved of my painful disposition when she has to wrap her arms around her ribs to keep them from shaking. She’s laughing that hard.
“You’re mean.”
“Oh, that’s the truest thing anyone has ever said about me,” she manages between heaves of laughter.
“So we didn’t…?”
“Have sex? No, Floppy Disk. It would’ve been impossible in your state.”
“Mean,” I mumble again. “Did you look at it?”
She scoffs. “Oh yeah, big guy. Impressive stuff.” She pumps her neat, dark brows but when she’s met with my scowl, she adds, “I had to take your socks and shoes off like a baby so you didn’t ruin my comforter. Aren’t I entitled to some compensation?”
I exhale and dip my head. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t drink like that. Ever, actually. I can’t believe you took care of me. You should’ve left me to my fate at the bar.”
“Take care of you?” She leans on the doorframe. “That’s generous. I threw you on the bed like a bag of feed and hoped for the best.”
“You threw me.” A big grin cracks across my face before I can stop it. “You. Threw me. I’ve got sixty pounds on you, easy.”
“Don’t underestimate me, sailor.” She reaches out and lifts the drink tray clean off my arm and sets it on the convenient hallway table.
There’s a familiarity in her movements, like we’ve been practicing this banter for ages.
Always fear a woman who makes you comfortable and on edge at the exact same time.
That’s how lust and love get all confused.
“Did I tell you that last night? Because I’m not a sailor.”
“Former SEAL, then. Or whatever you are these days.”
Shit. My stupid loose lips. What the hell did I say to her last night?
I talk to exactly no one except Vesper about my time as a SEAL.
She’s the only one who knows the weight I carry, and we’ve made a silent agreement to never talk about it.
The biggest grace she’s ever afforded me, even outside of adopting me into PALADIN, is not bringing up what a fucking coward I am.
“Did I tell you what I do now?”
I’ve got a free hand now, and I don’t know what to do with it, so I rub the back of my neck like a teenager.
“Nope.” The way she pops the p is a clear indication she’s lying. But I don’t know about what. She tips her head back over her shoulder toward the room, an invitation. “Come in. Have breakfast with me. I’m assuming there’s enough for two?”
“Depends on how much you eat.”
“A lot. More than you’d guess.” She pats her stomach before flashing me a grin with too many teeth in it, and I understand I’m being played with. Against all the alarms, red flags, and primitive instinct telling me to run for my life, I take a step forward.
“I don’t know if you like blueberry muffins, but dibs.”