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"Maybe we can spend a little of it together?" Callan said, the hope in his voice making my heart leap. I wanted that—more than anything—but having time with him, without the distraction of work would make it all more real.
I nodded, my mind whirling.
"Not quite the enthusiasm I'd hoped for," Callan said, setting his bourbon on the table. "What's going on up there?" He lifted a hand to touch my temple and smoothed the hair away from my face. "Have I been reading things wrong?"
I sighed and then forced my eyes to Callan's, which were deep and smoldering as ever. "No, you haven't," I assured him, though such honest talk about feelings was hard for me. My family was all about shoving things down and ignoring them—the good, the bad, the ribbon-festooned and glittery. "I guess I'm just feeling like I've gotten kind of involved in something here, with you, and maybe thinking it wasn't very smart since I'm going to have to leave soon."
"Not for a couple weeks still," Callan pointed out, his brow lowering as a little wrinkle appeared between his eyes.
"True," I agreed. "But still."
Callan nodded. "So you're thinking it might be better not to get any deeper."
That was exactly what I was thinking. But with Callan's hand weaving its way through my hair, massaging the round of my skull, and those deep glittering eyes on mine in the firelight, it was hard to remember why.
"We don't gain anything in the world without risk," Callan said softly. "And sometimes," he added, stretching out his leg and wincing as he straightened his ankle, "sometimes we lose everything. But even the few moments when we have it all—those are worth the fall."
I knew he was talking about soccer, but he was talking about us too. Would it be worth the risk? Hadn't I already taken the risk without really ever deciding? "I just don't see where it will go," I whispered, knowing my defenses were weak, and that I was only fighting because I felt like I was supposed to resist.
But it was already much too late for that.
The electric cord that bound us together pulled and tightened between us, crackling and popping with tension, and when Callan leaned his head in, my body responded, leaving my mind a step behind. My lips met his, and I felt something inside me give as our tongues met. My rigidity turned to softness, my hesitation to relaxed acceptance. This was happening. And as our tongues tangled, seeking and teasing, I felt heat rushing through my core, pooling low in my belly.
I sighed, breaking the kiss for long enough to lean back into the plush rug, pulling Callan Whitewood down over me. And I gave myself over to sensation and emotion, leaving my rational mind standing in the dark distance, shouting things I couldn't quite make out in the rush of making love with the man in my arms.
16
Bathroom Business
Callan
Eventually, we worked our way upstairs, but not before I’d explored every inch of her soft golden skin in the light of the fire, kissing and licking, rewarded by her soft moans and gasps. We’d wound up wrapped in each other's limbs, her seated on my lap, her legs and arms holding me tightly as we’d exploded together in a burst of shimmering sparks.
April was like an unpredictable firecracker—the kind they didn't sell in California. Once lit, she burned slow and uncertain, but when she went off, it was thrilling and more exciting than anything I’d ever seen or felt. I liked the slow burn, the anticipation of the reward. With my ex, I’d never had that feeling. She responded to me exactly as she'd thought she should, like she read a book or just took her cues from movies showing men and women making love. I didn't like to think she'd been faking it all along, but she'd had none of the surprised gasps, the almost pained little moans April let out that set my skin blazing.
Maybe it had never been real.
Maybe nothing in my life had.
Soccer had been though, I thought wistfully as I held a hot cup of coffee between my palms the next morning and stood in front of the big windows looking out over the back porch. My ankle twinged, reminding me how real it had been. When I closed my eyes, I could still hear the crowd screaming at a low roar as I took the field, could hear Trace Johnson's bellow from the other end of the pitch whenever I scored. I could still feel my teammates clapping me on the back, the impact of them throwing their bodies at me in celebration. I missed it. All of it.
"Silver bell for your thoughts?" April picked up one of the decorations on the little wall shelf behind me and offered it to me with a smile. She wore a pair of my flannel pajama bottoms and a hoodie I’d pulled from the closet for her with the Sharks logo on the front. It was a strange combination of past and present, and it made my heart ache for some reason.
"Sorry," I said, turning and bringing my mind back to the present. "I was just thinking how the weather has changed." A cold wind was whipping down the hill behind the house, pulling tiny whitecaps from the surface of the Potomac and sending naked branches arching and swaying overhead. Winter had arrived.
"I'm not buying it," April said, the corners of her mouth lifting as she looked up at me. "But I'll take it." She bumped her shoulder gently into my side, careful not to spill the coffee we each held, and I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"I'm glad you stayed," I said, my voice growing rougher as my mind flashed through images of April by the fire, and later, in my bed.
"Me too," she said, and it felt like an admission. April was struggling, I knew. I sensed she had some inner monologue going on, telling her that getting involved with me was a bad idea. I couldn't promise her it wasn't, but I wished I could silence that little voice, for now at least. I wanted to revel in this thing we’d found. I didn't want to worry about the future. But maybe that was unfair. A guy who'd had no future for the past year probably worried a little less about that kind of thing than a girl in the midst of saving her career.
"Annabelle's going to wonder what happened to me," April said. "I should let her know I'm okay."
"Probably should," I agreed.
April went back to the front room to find her phone, and returned a few minutes later, setting it on the table nearby after sending a text.
"What's your plan for the weekend?" I asked her, angling my head back toward the kitchen where a timer was signaling that the cinnamon rolls we’d put in the oven were done.
