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“You okay, Caitlin? You’re looking a little pale.” Bellamy looks concerned as I close my eyes.
“I’m fine. My stomach has just been off today. The smell of your latte made it worse,” I admit as I break off a piece of the scone in front of me, hoping maybe it will settle my stomach, but no such luck. Damn it. “I think I’m gonna go, guys. I’m not feeling so good.”
“Cait. You really need to consider going to the doctor. You may have a food allergy or have developed a sensitivity to something. This keeps happening.” My bestie is an incredible nurse. She’s also got shit timing because right now, with Callen not ten feet behind me, I don’t want to be lectured about the possibility that I’m allergic to gluten.
I grab my purse and force a smile. “Talk soon.”
And then I’m gone before I can possibly run into Callen.
That doesn’t mean I can’t feel his eyes on me as I walk through the door.
Fuck you, Callen Sinclair.
Icurl up on the couch at my parents’ house when I get there on Thanksgiving, opting to take a nap instead of helping to make the fresh ravioli Mom and Nonna make each year. I vaguely register my brothers coming in and out of the room and choose to ignore them when they turn on the Kings game. Because why wouldn’t Callen haunt me here too?
“Move down, Cait,” Lucky bitches as he sits by my feet, and maybe I kick him before I make room for him. Little brothers are dicks.
I pull the chunky red cable-knit blanket off the back of the couch and roll away from the television, not in the mood for this torture. Unfortunately, it only takes a few minutes and a ridiculous amount of yelling at the TV by all three of my brothers before I get up, deciding I need to find a quieter spot.
Like I said . . . dicks.
When I wander into the kitchen with the thick blanket wrapped around my shoulders, Nonna immediately stops stirring the sauce with her wooden spoon and presses her lips tomy forehead. “You’re not warm, principessa. Why do you look sick?”
“Thanks, Nonna. I didn’t think I looked sick. Just tired. I’m fighting a bug I can’t seem to shake.”
“You should have your iron levels checked. They gave me a pill for that.”
I kiss my great-grandmother’s cheek and smile as she lifts the sauce spoon to my lips.
“Yumm. That’s really good.”
Mom walks into the kitchen, her dark hair pulled back, dressed in a black sweater and black leggings. If you didn’t know she was in her fifties, you’d never believe it. She’s as beautiful now as she’s always been. Yay for good genes. “Of course it’s good. It’s my sauce.”
She’s cocky too.
“Are you sick, honey?” She looks me over and furrows her brow. “You look pale.”
“She needs iron,” Nonna tells her, and I shake my head.
Everyone thinks they’re a doctor.
“I’m fine. Just tired. I can’t shake how tired I am,” I complain, not bothering to tell her it’s been months since I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep. That would only lead to questions I can’t answer.
“Sit, principessa. Tell us about all the exciting things you’re doing. In my day, you got married and you had babies. You didn’t design dresses for singers and dress athletes for interviews. I was listening to that Lilah Ryan on the Alexa this morning. I like her music.”
“Nonna . . .” I laugh. “You listen to Lilah?”
Nonna refuses to tell us her actual age, but we’re pretty sure she’s at least ninety, considering she’s Dad’s grandmother. According to her, age is a state of mind, and she refuses to admitshe’s any older than fifty, even if Dad is older than that. The idea of her listening to Lilah makes me smile.
“She wears your dresses, so I listen to her music. It’s as simple as that. And that brother of hers is so cute,” she adds with a wink.
“It’s the Sinclair genes,” Mom agrees, and she’s not wrong. “They all had gorgeous kids.”
I’m pretty sure a growl slips past my lips before I can stop it, and judging by the looks on Mom and Nonna’s faces, they heard it too.Oopsie.
“Caitlin...” Mom corners me the way only she can. “Your brother mentioned you seemed upset with Callen last month. Is everything okay? Or has a different Sinclair made you growl like that?”
“Maddox’s friend?” Nonna asks as she drops fresh pasta into boiling water. “Why would he make you growl? That boy is so sweet.”
