Wanderlust (The South Beach Connection Trilogy Book 2) by A.R. Hadley (9)

Annie arrived at Cal's, sweat beading over her upper lip and wetting her thighs, with a brown paper bag full of fresh groceries on a Saturday night in mid-August.

More than two months had passed since they’d first laid eyes on one another, and despite the heat invading the dusk falling over Miami, the summer was coming to a close.

Kids were starting school. Vacation was over. Annie’s display at the gallery would end in a few weeks, and Cal’s apartment lease would expire in September. 

But they went along as always, ignoring questions that needed to be asked. She tried to push the impending conversation of summer’s end far from her mind as she turned the knob and pushed open Cal’s front door.

With her attention on cooking Cal a meal for the first time, Annie entered, made her way to the kitchen, and set the bag on the counter. 

Feet bare, Cal descended the staircase, wearing his metal-rimmed glasses, dark blue jeans, and a white polo shirt. He’d probably just finished placing the needle on a record. 

"Stand by Me" blared. 

As Annie peered at him, she wondered, despite what they’d said that night on the beach — no talking of what-ifs ever — why or how they’d managed to avoid any type of meaningful relationship conversation. She couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that the evening was not going to go well.

She couldn’t do this.

She had to do this.

Her strength became wrapped up in the words of the old song.

Focus on dinner, on the music, and breathe.

But she could barely focus on anything. After weeks of bedding him, looking into his eyes, talking and sharing meals with him — Cal Warner Prescott still made her knees weak.

He was beautiful. Quiet and stealth. Flying under the radar and making a crash landing into the valves of her heart.

The expression on his face was inscrutable, though. And before she knew it, he’d stepped into her space, smelling like soap and wine. He must’ve just showered, and a bottle of something light and golden looked half-finished on the table next to his laptop and folders. 

"I thought you said you weren't working today." She eyed his stuff, then him.

He touched her waist, trailed his nose across her jawline, and inhaled. "When did you get here?"

Had anything changed? He still diverted conversation with the flick of his tongue via kissing or word choice. In this case, his tongue was at her ear. She squirmed, and then she bent — weak in those knees — melting like butter.

Nope, her news wasn't going to go over well.

She wouldn't cave. Couldn’t. She needed to muscle up every shred of strength she could muster.

"You should lock your door." She bumped his hip, then began to take items out of the bag, one by one, while whispering the chorus of the famous Ben E. King song.

After nibbling the corner of her sexy, lyric-spouting lips, Cal stepped back, slapped her ass, and then he went to the table and sat in front of his laptop.

“I bought some local shrimp.” 

“It looks like you bought a whole hell of a lot more than shrimp." Cal typed while eyeing the assortment of items now on the countertop. 

“And it looks like you’re working.”

Their eyes met as he glanced up — his charged with defiance, annoyance, and sex. 

Funny... Annie shook her head while he continued typing. 

After she’d taken out a cutting board and knife and folded up the bag, she made her way, hips bouncing, lyrics still spouting, to the sink to wash the vegetables.

“Do you want some help?” Cal asked over the noise of the running water while continuing to finger the keys. 

“No.” Annie paused. “I'm cooking you this dinner, Mr. Prescott. You just sit and keep … working.” She grinned, fluttered her eyelashes at him, then turned off the faucet. 

He smiled too, minus the eyelash bit. “I'm returning emails.” Cal was intently focused on the screen, his brow crinkled. “These people don't wait.”

Making sure the smile on her face reached her tone, Annie said, “I don’t wait," and then tapped her foot to the song as she began to chop an onion. Her eyes started to water as she tucked her hot-pink bra strap under her green sundress. “Did your meeting go well yesterday?” 

“I thought we were going to close, but they weren't ready. So that's what I'm doing, Annie. Answering questions, more questions, always fucking questions." 

"Damn it!" She held her hand in the air, grimacing. The knife lay on the floor near her feet.

Cal jumped up and met her at the sink. Tears streamed down Annie’s cheeks as the cool water washed over the deep cut on her index finger, but she wasn’t making a sound. She avoided eye contact with the gash, tilting her head to the left, away from the pain as Cal wiped drops from her cheeks. 

Seconds later, he reached over, grabbed a few paper towels, and turned off the water, all while watching Annie pensively, never breaking his gaze.

His quiet strength overwhelmed her. 

He was looking into her guts with those eyes of his, not speaking, conveying with his stare what he wouldn’t say out loud.

Annie loved his quiet. His smell. Loved how every moment between them felt like coming home. Or what she imagined coming home should feel like.

"Hold this against your finger and don't let go," he said, smelling sweet-sweet-sweet, like the wine he’d been drinking.

Nudging Annie along, he walked her to the kitchen table and sat her down. He filled his glass and stroked her chin, and then he pushed the wine toward her. "Drink, baby." 

Wincing, she shifted her eyes in embarrassment, but the stupid things filled with more tears. Was that all her eyes were good for? Manufacturing salt? 

Cal knelt and looked at her sad face. “Don’t worry about dinner." He rubbed a hand over her knee and stood. “I’ll be right back. Don't move."

Annie pushed the paper-towel-covered wound against the cold wine glass, wiped tears from her face, and took a big drink. She took several sips, almost finishing it as the blood oozed from her finger and the alcohol coated her veins. She pressed it harder against the glass, trying not to cry over the ridiculous cut, over the dinner, or over the days leading up to her trip to Seattle, but her thoughts continued suffocating her. Everything she’d tried to bury those last few weeks — love love love love love — tingled in her cheeks.

My God. She tingled.

A fire spread around her jaw akin to hives. The physical hurt opened wounds. Because one hurt, of course, had the ability to open all hurt. Every one of her vulnerabilities would be on display. She was the one who couldn't risk heartbreak all along.

Her.

Supplies in hand, Cal returned and sat next to Annie. Their knees touched. He glanced into Annie's eyes. They were red around the edges, but it only made the green in the middles explode like lollipops. He stared into her Blow-Pop eyes, all damn pensive again, and then he turned his attention to her finger.

Jesus ... his eyes, she thought.

The color ate her alive. The marine green shined keenly through his lenses. In the fervor, he seemed to have forgotten to remove his glasses. 

She watched him carefully. He was so strong and masculine even when doing the simplest of tasks. And she didn't just watch, she studied every move he made. 

Removing the towel. 

Beginning to clean the cut. 

Cleaning, preparing, while she tried to hang on to the emotions the wine forced to the surface.

Reaching up, Annie took off Cal’s glasses with her good hand, set them aside, and peered deeper into his busy, working eyes. 

Music played, a song she didn't know now. It seemed far away. Thousands of miles. 

But Cal was close. 

Time expired on his face. 

Ran out. 

Stopped. 

They shared breath the way they shared everything.

Annie’s throat swelled beyond explanation at his expression, a quite readable one now: vulnerability. His glasses were off, yes, but what she saw was more than just his naked eyes. It was far more than an appearance of Superman behind Clark Kent. 

He cares for me.

He loves me.

Wait.

What? 

Of course she was going to acknowledge it now. Now. After weeks of denial. She’d known it for how long? 

She could see love all over him. Love. She couldn't continue to deny it. The way he cared for her, gentle and strong, and what she meant to him — it was all over him.

Love?

His feelings spilled out onto the kitchen table the way the blood flowed from her cut. It was uncontrollable, real. And the only thing that could stop it was too much pressure … or time or the end of the summer or a million other material things.

* * *

“You changed my album." Cal held the cleaned-up knife and chopped away at the peppers, green and red. 

Annie made her way down the stairs, the green skirt of her dress bouncing with her walk, faint strands of hair outside the clip framing her face. She stopped, picked up her wine — his wine — then emptied the bottle into the glass. “I wanted something different."

“That is different.”

“It's yours. Don't you listen to it?”

“Not in a million years,” he replied, popping a red pepper into his mouth.

“I saw them in concert a couple years ago. They were freaking awesome." Annie placed the wine glass on the counter near the stove. She watched his back, his shoulders. Everything about him moved gracefully with each chop-chop-chop. Graceful and sexy. 

“I saw them at Lollapalooza.”

“You went to Lollapalooza?” she asked, knowing he had to have heard the choke of surprise in her throat. 

“Yes.” He peered over his shoulder at her.

“I'm sorry." She laughed and moved toward him. "I'm just having a hard time imagining you there. 

“I went in '92.”

“1992!” 

Cal glanced at Annie again, scolding her with his eyes. "Yes. Not 1892." He threw a pepper at her chest. 

"Hey." She pushed his knee from behind with hers, causing him to buckle. 

“I'm having a hard time imagining you at all in 1992. Were you even walk—”

“Stop it." Her chest at his back, she covered his mouth, silencing his tongue, and wrapped her other arm around his waist. 

“Do we need to open a new bottle of wine?” Cal asked, his voice muzzled through Annie’s hand.

“What? What was that?” Annie asked near his ear as she removed her hand from his lips. She pressed her body into him to make the perfect indentation against his skin — the place meant to hold her form. A perfect Wilton cake pan. 

“Did you like it?” Inching away, she stood at his side, arms folded, watching his profile. 

“Like what?”

“Cal…”

He smirked. “My girlfriend wanted to go.”

“Ahh.” Not surprising.

“There were too many damn bodies everywhere for my taste.”

“I'm sure there were."

“The music was good. I've never forgotten it or the experience.” 

“How old were you when you went?” Annie calculated his age in her mind. 

“Mmmm, I think I was about twenty-three.”

“That's how old I was,” she said, marvel in her voice. 

“What are you talking about?”

“When I went to the concert in 2012. I was twenty-three," she said, full of nostalgia and coincidence.

“Holy shit, Annie.” He laughed. “Are you trying to make me feel old?”

“No, I'm trying to make you see how special it was that we were the same—”

“We went twenty years apart," he said, attempting immunity to her serendipitous suggestion. 

“So. It's a moment we both experienced at the same age, with the same..."

“The same what?” he pressed. 

“I don't know. With the same wanderlust. The same — don't you remember what it felt like to be twenty-three?" She squeezed his butt cheek. 

Cal gave her the sexy I-am-so-spanking-your-ass-tonight eye as he walked the vegetables to the stove and slid them into the waiting skillet. They popped in the pan, and the savory aroma filled the air in an instant. Wiping his hands on the towel hanging below him, he then pushed the sizzling mixture around with a wooden spoon.

"I didn't know you could cook." Annie handed him the wine glass, and he took a generous sip. "Is it going to be edible?" 

"I cook well." He met her eyes, his indicator blinker on. "But if you're worried about my ability in the kitchen, we could just skip dinner and go straight to bed." 

"I've seen your ability in the kitchen," Annie said with a seductive lilt, arching a brow. "I'm not worried."

Cal smiled as he tossed mushrooms into the pan with the onions and peppers. 

“And, yeah right, we’re skipping dinner. I was excited about this all week. Maggie has been giving me pointers. I couldn't wait to make—” Annie stopped short, her voice cracking.

Damn it. Stop.

She placed a palm over her damp upper lip. Her injured finger protruded out. It was a stupid football-game souvenir finger, large and pointy. 

“It's okay, Annie." He stirred the vegetables. "We’ll make it together." He kissed her temple. 

A wicked smile spread across her face. “What can we make together? Dinner or it?” Her eyebrows danced.

Cal smiled, this time showing teeth. His dimples manifested too. "I can arrange it right now."

How did he do that? Ooze sex while stirring vegetables. Controlling what was inside him perfectly. She needed lessons. 

He handed her the wine glass, insisting she drink using only the look in his eyes. Then they both were silent for several seconds. She liked the quiet. The rumble of contentment. 

“Thank you for taking care of me." Annie placed her hand on his collar, grazed her fingers over his neck, and felt him tense. "And thank you for cleaning up my mess … and for cooking."

Cal continued to watch the stuff in the pan. Why? He didn't know. Or maybe that was a lie. Because he was well aware of the look in Annie’s eyes as she stood close to his face, breathing near him and on him. Her damn skin, smelling like cool, crisp wine mixing with citrus. A solid lump formed in his throat. Sure, you know, the same lump he’d experienced from the first time they’d met — the one he couldn't swallow or suppress no matter how loud the voice became inside his head, the one reminding him — it's only a summer, asshole.

Honesty poured from Annie’s greens. Comfort. A constancy, sincerity, and truth he’d only seen in one other woman. It was near, over him like … steam.

What the fuck?

It had to be the rise of heat from the skillet making Cal’s eyes water, but he knew it was Annie.

She made his eyes wet with sheen. 

He turned the burner down and looked at her with a perceptiveness he could feel in his bones, speaking to her — always speaking his sentiment without words — silently telling her how much she meant. 

His silence always stifling. 

His presence never dull. 

After taking the glass from Annie and placing it on the counter, Cal took the clip from her hair and watched as the beautiful pieces fell around her face. He touched it, put his fingers into it, and ran his nose into the strands, breathing in tangerines until they reached his hippocampus. 

Pressing his body against her, careful not to touch her bandaged finger, he cradled her face and looked at every inch of her — her soft features, her freckles, her shoulders, belly, thighs, back to her magnificent eyes, and then he began to kiss her mouth as though he hadn't already done it hundreds of times over June, July, and August. 

She tasted like the first time. 

The only one. 

She made all other women, everything, obsolete. 

"I do want to eat first," Annie whispered against his lips. "I'm hungry."

Ignoring her, he wet her cheeks, her eyelids, her jaw. He rubbed his face over her skin, moving his lips toward her chest. His body maintained its hold over hers, immobilizing her hunger for food, making her forget. 

A flash of fire smothered Annie, running through her from head to toe. The stove. The wine. Him. All heat. All overwhelming. 

He picked her up, set her on the counter, and said, “I want you now,” as she wrapped her legs around his waist and mussed his hair.

He rested his head against her breasts and allowed her lungs to move him slowly up and down. Turning his head from side to side, he nuzzled her bosom with barely a five o'clock shadow. Still, the scrape of his skin awakened every nerve ending on her chest and in her body. 

Squeezing the nape of his neck, she pushed his face and barely-there scruff deeper into her breasts as she began to move her hips and upper body to the crashing beat of the drum break in the Chili Peppers' song.

The sounds were like nothing ever synthesized. Phenomenal and recorded using a variety of items — pans, pipes, a wide-mouthed barrel — that were timed just right. Perfection. Harnessing raw emotion out of inanimate objects until the sound bled out of the speakers, out of the musicians’ carefully placed hands, and here, now, in the kitchen through hips and muscles. It all impeccably wound through the two of them, bringing them closer together, mind and body, in an amazing sensual rhythm. 

The tribal, naturalistic, and infectious sound ascended the earth. It lifted Cal and Annie off the planet. 

And then … the doorbell rang.

The break in the song ended.

But Cal continued his exploration, still kissing Annie as if nothing else existed but the two of them.

“Are you expecting someone?” Annie broke the kiss for a mere second, lost her breath as she slid her hands under Cal’s shirt, rubbing her fingers up his chest. 

Cal didn’t answer. He kept worshipping her body without stopping, insisting, pushing his nose into her breasts, sliding his face toward her shoulder and kissing her all over, wetting her neck, ear, knocking the shoulder strap of her dress off as he thrust his clothed body against her pelvis. 

The damn bell rang a second time. 

“Go see who it is,” Annie moaned, grabbed his wrist, and held it, stopping his fingers from inching farther up her dress. 

He kissed her cheek and put her on the floor. Her skirt fell as she bit a thumbnail and shook her hair, trying to gather herself together. 

“Breaking the Girl” came to an epic conclusion as Cal opened the front door and attempted to hide his rather epic erection from the delivery driver. 

Annie picked up the white, paper-covered package on the counter and unwrapped the large, freshly caught Florida shrimp in front of the sink. Adrenaline high, she began rinsing handfuls of them, a little wobbly on her feet.

Sitting at the table, Cal opened the legal-size envelope he’d just signed for containing what looked like important documents. Annie wondered if they’d been overnighted as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was distracted, reading. 

“What is it?” she asked, shaking the hair out of her face, trying to remember where she’d left her damn clip. Ah. The countertop. He’d removed it. Right. Imagining the look that had been in his eyes when he’d taken it out caused a chill to skirt up her spine. 

Cal glanced over the papers in his hand, glasses on his face. “Annie, turn the water off. I'm going to do that.” 

“I can do it.” She flicked the sheet of hair again, not wanting to touch it with her shrimp-soaked hands. 

With reluctance, Cal put his papers and laptop aside and removed his glasses. “You're going to make it worse.” He came up behind her, tucked those annoying strands of hair behind her ear, and kissed her temple. 

“It's fine.” After rinsing her hands, careful not to wet the wound, she dried them just as carefully.

He took over. “It's not fine. If you bump it or wet it, it’s going to keep bleeding.”

“I wanted to be the one to make you dinner.”

Cal readied the plump shrimp for the pan, seasoning them. “We’ll do it together. Don’t be so stubborn,” he said over the sound of Annie’s phone ringing. 

"Me?" She smacked his bum, then made her way toward her purse. She grabbed the phone but missed the call. “It's my mother." Annie returned to the kitchen, the phone in hand. “Again.”

“Take a picture of that almighty finger and send it to her. I’m sure she would tell you you’re being stubborn.”

“God, Cal, then you know she’ll just start asking me all kinds of questions.” Annie blurted the words without thinking, and then she avoided looking at him.

Heat crawled up her cheeks. She could feel Cal glaring at her face as she typed a text to her mom — her ankles crossed, biting her lower lip, knowing what his stare meant — hoping he couldn’t see her trepidation, denying he’d seen it many times before. 

“She is your mother,” Cal said with disapproval.

Hence the reason Annie was biting her lip … and avoiding his judgment.

Yeah. Okay. My mother.

Annie set the phone aside and walked toward the fridge with a huff. Cal disapproved because she hadn't told Beverly about him yet, but he knew what it all meant anyway. Annie had told him plenty of Bev stories. Hard truths.

He knew what it meant, but he didn't know what it meant to live it.

He hadn’t been there to witness Annie taking care of her mother day in and day out. The months which turned to years. The postponement of college. The resentment that grew into dysfunctional branches in the Baxter family tree. The responsibility. The sacrifice. The alcohol. The dependence. 

“Yes, but she is … she is…” Annie trailed off, looking into the fridge for a lemon, but she spotted a bottle instead. Grabbing it, she examined the label on the Chardonnay.

“She is what, Annie? Incorrigible?” 

Annie smiled — perfect, yes — incorrigible. As she looked up from the Chilean wine at Cal, their eyes met, and she laughed. 

Even though he was amused at his own ingenuity, Cal glanced away, sure to keep his true emotion from his face. He hid it from his eyes, disguising the familiar fear, the familiar sting, the self-inflicting prophecy he thought would come true.

She would leave. 

Travel. 

She would find someone new.

She needed to. 

Someone young. 

Someone who wasn't fucked up and unable to tell her all the things she deserved to know. Things about his own mom. Constance’s disease made him weak, undone, out of control.

He needed control.

How long had he covered wounds and searched for an obscure nothing? Years. Not just since he’d met Annie. Being afraid was unacceptable. So, he shoved it down. Taking risks never worked. Only in business. He would keep covered up, bandaged. He would flash a smile, fuck like a king … only a little longer because the summer wouldn't last forever.

The dream of her eternal comfort would die like everything else did. 

They both finished preparing the meal, together, which included lots of laughing and talking. They worked well, were in sync, and were proud of their accomplishment.

Then they sat at the table and enjoyed eating their creation — shrimp fajitas smothered in sweet onions, green and red peppers, and mushrooms. Rosa’s homemade tortillas lay on the side, along with a generous bowl of freshly smashed guacamole, the green of the avocados brilliantly speckled with red onion and tomato. The food was fresh, delicious, and consumed rather quickly. 

Annie finished first. Pushing away her plate, she set her arms on the table and leaned forward, watching Cal dip the last bite of his stuffed tortilla into the guacamole on his plate. A nervous smile spread across her face.

"I need to talk to you about something." Annie slid her index finger down her water glass while looking up at Cal.

“I know." 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … I can tell something has been on your mind all night.”

Flinching, Annie placed her palm on her chin and looked away for a moment, then she looked back at him. Her next words chartered a supersonic jet plane from brain to tongue. Sentences came out without periods. 

"I'm going back home next week I have to make plans for the fall and winter for my work and I need to be with my family I'll be gone at least a couple of weeks."

"You already booked a flight?" His eyes sliced her in two. 

"Yes. I leave a week from Monday." 

"Mmmm. And you were avoiding telling me," he said, peering into her spleen or kidneys or all her organs. 

"I was scared."

"Of what?" he asked, intimidating her further.

And the way she felt as he looked at her was precisely why she’d been scared. She didn't know what he was thinking or what he might say. 

"We've never talked about this before."

"About what? You're just taking a business trip.” 

"We've never talked about the future." 

"We have. You want to travel. I have business and family to return to. I came here for the same reason you did. To work and forget. You made it clear you didn't want to talk of plans.” He flicked imaginary crumbs from the table. His eyes were stones. “Ever."

"You listened to me? I didn't think you did that." She gave him stone eyes too. Jade. "Ever." 

He leaned back in his seat. "Okay, Annie."

His stare, smooth as ice, gouged her. She thought he did his best to act devoid of emotion, but she knew him better now. His impervious nature was an act. He was full of shit-shit bullshit.

"What about the future?" 

"Our future." Asshole. "I want to move back home, and I know your lease is up at the end of September," she explained, a lump in her throat, contempt in her eyes.

“Oh, you want to move back home. A minute ago, you said you were going home to set up work.”

Annie picked up the empty wine bottle and set it down again. She drank her water instead, avoiding his question and looking into his eyes.

Cal was silent for several seconds. Something forbidden pained his chest. He hurt. Still, he moved his chess piece. He spoke his next words with his typical bridled control. He spoke his next words without thought or with it. He didn't know anymore. Annie made him fucking out-of-his-mind crazy with need and passion and things he couldn't pocket and order and label. 

"Annie, when you moved here, you knew it was temporary." He pressed his fingers against his palm, his face looking like a rubber band being stretched and stretched. "When I moved here, I knew it was temporary." Stretching. Ready to slingshot. "This whole damn thing is just temporary.”

Zoom… 

Although he’d spoken the last sentence with the most harshness and insensitivity Annie had ever heard from his lips, she knew deep down he was fiercely protecting his heart from pain. The way she did. But it was too late.

He would feel the pain. 

Just. Like. Me.

Pressing her lips together, Annie stood from the table.

“It's all just temporary. That's right, Cal." Her voice increased in volume with each word. Pain unlike any other throbbed in her chest. She picked up his plate and stacked it onto hers. Clank! She wanted to cry but didn't. Anger fought tears. "So why actually give a damn about anything or anybody, right?" She stared down at him. Hard. "Don't be such a prick." 

"I am a forty-five-year-old prick. Did you expect something different? Didn't Maggie give you fair warning?"

Annie had never expected him to be anything other than himself. Fuck age. She wanted him. The prick. The man whose heart was bigger than he ever gave himself credit for. 

"What did she say about me the first night I met you?"

Annie clanged stuff onto the plates — silverware, bowls, whatever. "I don't want to do this. I'll go home like I planned. We’ll have one more week together — to fuck — and when I get back, we’ll both be packing all our temporary shit up." 

"Annie ... stop it with the fucking dishes." He stood. "I'm sorry we avoided this discussion for so long. My business is in L.A. You know—"

"So, this whole thing is just temporary, right? Then congratulations to Maggie. She earns the gold for I-told-you-so's, Cal. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to fulfill some self-inflicted prophecy about yourself, or do you want to prove everyone wrong?"

Everything. Is. Temporary!

Death. Death. Death. Life circumventing death until it jumps from the shadows and stabs you in the fucking heart. All of it one big three-ring circus that comes to town for the night and then picks up and leaves. Gone. Poof.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this. 

Annie walked over to the sink with the noisy dishes, set them down, and stood with her hand under her nose, ugly souvenir finger sticking out, as she tried to pull herself together.

"Annie, don't clean up, or your cut might start to bleed again." His voice, it had switched. It held the undeniable concern she knew he felt in his very bones, not just for her souped-up finger, but for all of her. Me.

"What do you care?" She turned on the sink. The water masked the sound. Anger had lost. Tears had won. 

He was at her backside in an instant. He shut the faucet off. But she would not turn around. She sucked the sobs inside with all of it: the temporary, the bullshit, the summer that was supposed to be hers. 

Mine!

And now it was over.

He put his hand on her waist, but she pushed it away, then crossed her arms. He reached for them, trying to gently pull them down by her elbows, but she stiffened, fought him, so he gripped harder.

Annie wanted him with the same intensity with which she despised him. His harshness, his conflicting bullshit, his need. Maybe she needed him to bury himself so far inside her she wouldn't be able to breathe or cry or fight. 

He slipped his hands around her waist and spun her around to face him, but she kept her chin to the ground, eyes on the floor. Both of his hands held her hips. "Look at me.”

It never got old. The look at me shit. Those three words were so powerful, but they couldn't stop the tears tonight. If anything, they came faster now, dropping from her eyelids like hail.

He lifted her chin and saw the devastation. The storm. His eyes transformed into those of a million different men on a journey from prick to prince. A prince with his foot shoved so far up his ass he couldn't speak. He stepped away, took out a bottle of Crown and a glass, and began to pour himself a drink. 

 Bandaged finger jutting out, stomach a pretzel, Annie shook. Great. No talking. No angry fucking. She could’ve used a drink. God, even the whiskey looked appetizing to her cracked throat. 

"Don't you have anything else to say to me?" Her damn words rattled as they flew from her mouth. 

He slammed back the liquor. "I have plenty to say to you," he replied, disguising his true hurt, his real fear. 

If he couldn’t drown it in her pussy, then he sure as fuck wanted to drown it in the drink.

But Cal was quiet. Silent. His lack of words had never been more deafening than at that moment. He picked up the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other, and went toward the stairs. Alone. 

Like a drone, Annie stood motionless, watching him as he moved along with effort, walking as if he was treading up the steps against his will. After he reached the loft, she stayed in the kitchen for several more minutes. Her stomach churned, and the room seemed to move as though she were drunk or inside a kaleidoscope, spinning. 

Everything was clear, and everything was hazy. 

Her feelings for Cal became clear the way a blue sky appears after fog parts. His body as he’d walked up the stairs … it belonged to her. His understated ways, his concern, his regrets. Hers. They fit together, Cal and Annie. Somehow, they fit. His company never got old.

Old… He wasn't old. Not to her. Ever. They could talk about anything. He supported her. He listened. He made her feel safe.

But he wouldn’t let her in. Not all the way. Did she open herself up to him?

Still...

She loved him.

What was she supposed to do with that? 

Deny it forever. 

Call it temporary. 

Go ahead … take the Crown. No amount of alcohol will change it. 

No more doubts. 

No more fucking running, Annie. 

Or hiding. 

Truly. 

Then what am I doing? 

Leaving?

Working. 

Living. 

I am done running.

He can follow. 

I've loved him all along. 

From the beginning. 

From the very first time he kissed me in the rain … on the sidewalk. 

Annie could no longer pretend she didn't want more of Cal, that she didn't want all of Cal, and that she didn't want to really be with Cal for more than just their summer of whatever, no plans, and what-ifs.

Annie knew now she could no longer pretend she didn’t love Cal.

But she knew she would continue to pretend on the outside, in front of Cal, for as long as she could stand. Because what would he do with her words if she proclaimed them aloud? Squash them? Pulverize them?

They were her words. Hers. She owned them. She could love him quietly — for a few more weeks at least. Until her heart became a grenade. 

Cal held the pin.