by Emma Renshaw
“What’s with you?” James asks.
I swipe the back of my forearm across my forehead and wipe away the sweat. “Brae ignored my calls, didn’t come home. She’s…she’s…” I trail off, struggling for the words for how she’s acting.
“She’s acting like a teenager,” James finishes for me.
I grunt. “She needs to knock it off.”
“She’s been here. Corbin is a good kid. She’s not getting into any trouble. We did a lot worse when we were her age.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“She’s happy. She’s being a normal teenager. That’s a fucking good thing, brother.”
I glance at Brae again. The grin she’s been sporting hasn’t been wiped away. She’s laughing and having fun, something that never happened in Chicago. I continue punching the bag, letting the stress leave my body.
I call it a day when fire spreads through my muscles and they quiver from the work I put them through. James hands me a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge against the wall.
I pull my phone out of my shorts pocket to pause my music and freeze with my thumb over the screen.
“You good?” James asks, staring at my phone. His mouth is set in a tight line, and his brows are drawn in. There’s no way he could know I got a call from Chicago. So what’s the concern for? I brush it off and call to Brae that it’s time to leave.
“Yep. See you later.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk out of the gym feeling James’s eyes burn into my back.
When we get home, I head into the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the shower while queuing up my voicemail. My heart pounds, the rhythm echoing inside my ears.
“I have a proposition for you. You know how to reach me.”
Fuck.
FUCK.
I delete the message and slam my fist against the tile wall. This can’t be happening. I’m out. I’m fucking out.
Luca fucking Mancini, son of the boss, left me a voicemail with a fucking proposition.
Chapter 6
Iris
The end of my blue gel pen taps against the desk calendar lying in front of me. Coral and mint green swirls decorate the edges. My color-coded notes pop against the stark white background of the calendar.
Outside of my job giving me something just for me and having been my secret saving grace during an abusive and unhappy marriage, the best thing about working for myself at home is that I usually set my own schedule.
My time is only dictated by someone else’s calendar when I have a rare in-person meeting or a conference call, like this one.
I grab another color gel pen and a blank notepad. My pen scratches against the paper as I doodle. My air pods are in my ears for the conference call, because I can hardly ever manage to keep my hands idle.
“I can host a meeting next Wednesday,” Savannah, the only other girl on the call, says. I haven’t met her, but her voice never fails to make me smile. She sounds sweet but has taken control of every conference call and delegates tasks. She owns a marketing consultant firm and has taken the lead on this project.
I design and manage websites. I’m not always involved in this level of planning. Many of my clients come to me after they’ve worked with marketing and advertising to rebrand or launch their brand, when it’s all said and done.
“I can make Wednesday work,” I say, as if I have a life I’ll have to schedule around the meeting. I will have to change out of my yoga pants that day.
“Iris. Gentlemen. I think we’re set for today. I’ll send a calendar invite for next Wednesday at 11:30 a.m. with a reminder to send any food allergies to my assistant’s email. See y’all next week.”
“Bye,” I say before pressing end on my phone.
I stare down at the notepad in front of me, groaning. A pair of bright, startlingly familiar eyes stare back at me. Callan’s eyes have been haunting me since I saw them for the first time the other night. My mind is still sorting through blue hex codes I have memorized, but none of them match the intricate swirls of aqua, turquoise, and deep crystal blue.
Even in the dim light from the breezeway, they were beautiful. I can’t imagine what that color would do to me if I saw it under the sun.
My head drops forward, and I hit my forehead against my desk. Callan has entered my mind more times than I’d like to admit over the last week. I haven’t seen him since the confrontation at my front door, but I’ve heard heavy, booted footfalls passing my door. Brae’s laughter and Callan’s low murmured responses have broken my concentration this week when they’ve passed by.
My office is next to the front door, with a window facing the parking lot, right by the stairs to the exit. If I’m in there, I have to grasp the arms of my chair to keep myself from getting up to watch them through the peephole or in the parking lot.
It’s not only his good looks that have infiltrated my mind. The simple act of knocking on my door because I’d scared his sister gave me a glimpse into his protective side. My throat burns with yearning.
My grandparents are the only people who ever loved me. My grandfather died before I could remember much of his love, but my grandmother made sure I knew every single day that I was wanted even though my mother left without looking back. She didn’t even come to Grams’s funeral.
I was the smallest and scrawniest kid in our trailer park. I was all knobby knees and long limbs I had to grow into. Grams would chase some older boys with a broom if they picked on me while getting off the bus. I haven’t felt that type of safety with someone since she got sick and no longer had the energy to be the wily, broom-wielding grandma I knew.
Over the past few days, I’ve kept wondering what it would be like to feel that type of care from a man like Callan. But I wouldn’t want a man with his temper. Protective, but not angry.
My only experience with a man was a nightmare. I escaped that hell two years ago with my life barely intact.
I didn’t have enough experience to see past Pierce’s phony white-knight routine. Grams had been diagnosed with lung cancer when I was fourteen and died shortly after my high school graduation. The four years between diagnosis and death weren’t a walk in the trailer park. I believe she only held on as long as she did for me. I thought Pierce was an angel sent to me by Grams. He was just the devil in disguise, wreaking more havoc on my broken soul.
I lightly bang my head against the desk and groan as I mentally scold myself for letting my mind wander to Callan. Again. He’s a complete stranger, and yet he’s got me wrapped up in a fascination with him.
Pushing away from my desk, I stand and exit the room. I grab my purse from the living room, tossing the strap over my shoulder, and place my hands on my hips, staring at the painting leaning against the wall. It’s still in the original frame my grandmother chose for the piece. The ornate gold and thick wood frame may be out of style, but I don’t care. I don’t want to change it unless I have to. I found a place online that should be able to repair it.
I’m the one who carried Poppy’s paintings up the stairs. I can carry one back down. It seems to have grown since the last time I picked it up. I heave the frame while groaning with the effort. Waddling across the room, careful not to run into any walls and do even more damage to the frame. I stop when I hit the front door.
Waffles.
I lower the frame to the ground to open the door, which I keep propped open with the side of my foot, and I lift it again.
I half walk, half fall down the stairs while carrying a frame that’s larger than I am. I’m sweating by the time I wedge the piece into the back of my Camry. I blast the air conditioner when I sit in the front seat, taking a moment to cool down.
The frame is blocking my view out of the back window. At this moment, I’m really regretting not splurging on the next level car package and getting a reverse camera. Inch by inch, I back out of my space with my limited visibility. A smile crosses my face as I realize I’m in the clear, and I and cut the wheel to the left.
> The smile dies when I jolt forward and metal crushes into metal.
Chapter 7
Callan
Crrrrrunch.
My body rocks forward as a car backs into my truck. Even though I’m stationary and we’re in a parking lot, so the other person could’ve been only going so fast, the metal still crunches. I know before I get out of my truck that I’ll have a dent to pop out and most likely some paint to buff off.
Shit.
It’s the middle of the day. Normally I wouldn’t even be here. I left work early because Brae has a dentist appointment. I ran home, to grab the insurance card she’d left on the counter this morning, before I pick her up at school.
I was tucking the card in my wallet when the car ran into me. I stare up at the ceiling and blow out a breath. This is the last thing I need. I throw open my car door and round the side of my truck to see the damage.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” I look up to see Iris getting out of her car. Her back bumper has a dent that matches mine. Her shaking hands rise to cover her mouth as she stares at the dent on my shiny bumper. A streak of navy blue paint from her car is in the center of the dent.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She swallows. Her entire body is trembling. I lift my arm to tug my hand through my hair. There are three feet between us, but she flinches and steps back when I raise my hand. My arm immediately drops to my side, my hands curling into fists. What the fuck? Did she think I was going to hit her? Why is that her response?
Iris’s arms wrap around her stomach, and she bites her full bottom lip as her gaze drifts off and focuses on something to her side. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles again.
“It’s fine.” The damage isn’t bad. She was backing out, so she was moving slowly. If any guys on the crew have some tools, I can probably remove the dent myself and buff off the paint pretty quickly. We’re finishing off a deadline at the site this week, so it may need to wait until next week, but it’s nothing that I can’t handle. I glance at Iris’s bumper again. Hers has a dent larger than mine and more scratches, even though I should be the one worse off in this situation. If her car bends like that with a little bump, what would it actually do in a wreck?
Worry slithers through me and a ridiculous notion to solve the problem pops into my head. I want to take her to the nearest dealership and put her in the safest car available. I’ve met her once under strained circumstances. I don’t even know her last name.
“I-I-I’ve never been in a wreck before. I’m not exactly sure what to do.” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears and doing everything possible to hold them back. My gaze leaves her car and settles on her. Her entire body is vibrating with nervous energy and her expressive eyes are so solemn and apologetic. I grin, hoping I can pull her from her thoughts.
“Wouldn’t call this a wreck, birdie.”
Her nose scrunches adorably and she raises an eyebrow, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. “My name is Iris.”
“Know that. What’s your last name?”
I fight off a grin—I don’t know where it’s coming from—when her eyes squint and her nose scrunches even more. “Campbell. Then why call me birdie?”
Because you remind me of a bird doesn’t seem like the best response to give her. She does though. Every feature on her face is delicate, and her eyes are large like an owl’s. I’m afraid she’ll skitter or fly away with even the slightest movement from me. The nickname for her popped out before I could even finish thinking about.
Instead of answering her question, I shrug. “This isn’t a wreck.”
“Do we need to call the police?” If her hands weren’t wringing in front of her, I’d want to laugh at her comically large eyes. Her eyes are shifting around the parking lot as if she’s waiting for an officer to pop up from behind the bushes and cart her off to jail for running into my truck. The terror I saw a minute ago is gone, but she still seems shaken up. I can’t imagine what she would be like if she got into a real accident.
“No. The police don’t need to come for a minor fender bender. We don’t even need to exchange insurance information. I can borrow the tools from someone and get the dent out and buff the scratches of paint.”
“I’ll pay for everything.” Her spine straightens a bit, and she stands a little taller.
“No need.” It’s not going to cost me anything to fix and when I have the time, it won’t take me all that long either. Simple and easy fix.
“I really am sorry.”
A breeze blows past us shifting her hair in her face. She brushes it away, but a few strands are still stuck in place. Before I can even think about it, my hand is reaching out to brush the hairs away, but it drops like an anchor when she flinches again. My chest seizes when fear crosses over her features and she sucks in a startled breath. I take another step away from her. Instead of saying the promises of never hurting her that are on the tip of my tongue, I make my excuses to leave. “It’s fine. I’ll handle the repairs when my schedule frees up a little bit. I’ve gotta run, Brae has an appointment.”
The frame in the back seat of her car catches my attention and it’s suddenly clear why she couldn’t see my truck when she ran into me. “Be careful driving with that in your back seat. If you need help unloading it later, you know where to find me.”
She licks her lips and tucks the wayward strands of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Callan.”
I walk backwards a few steps, getting one last look at her in the bright Austin sun before I turn my back and take the last few steps. When my hand is on the handle, her voice stops me from opening the door.
“Callan, what’s your last name?”
I look over my shoulder. She’s closed some of the distance between us and her hands are tucked into the pockets on the back of her tight jeans.
“It’s Fox, birdie.”
“Should I call you Foxy?”
A loud laugh bursts free from my chest. “Definitely not, pretty girl.”
“Bye, Foxy,” she says as she winks and spins around before she can see my reaction and hurries to her car.
Chapter 8
Iris
“Myrtle thought she could beat us. Ha! Just because she has that titanium hip doesn’t mean she’s better on the badminton court.”
Carmen honks the horn and raises both arms in victory. Myrtle is still standing next to the court with her hand on her hip, the side with the titanium. “You don’t belong here,” Myrtle hollers. “It wasn’t a real win because you’re not a resident.”
“Kiss my winning ass,” Carmen yells. I grab the handle on the roof of the golf cart as she floors it across the street with one hand holding up the finger salute. Myrtle and Carmen have been enemies since Carmen started joining in during activities. The real kick in the pants for Myrtle was when Arnie, Myrtle’s long-time crush, took a liking to Carmen. He’s been trying to woo Carmen for years. We whiz across the street in the golf cart and into our apartment complex parking lot. We just finished playing a few games of badminton against some of the residents across the street. “She’s the one that lives in an old folks home, not me.”
“She lives in an active senior community neighborhood, she’s not exactly in an old folks home.”
“Close enough.” Carmen whips around a curve in the parking lot. A small squeal leaves my mouth, and my eyes shut. When these were designed without seatbelts, I don’t think they envisioned someone like Carmen taking it out for a joyriding victory lap after a hard fought game of badminton.
“I already got in one wreck this week,” I yell. “I don’t want to get in another.”
The sound of my car crashing into Callan’s has been reverberating through my mind over the past few days. I cringe as we pass my car and I see the dented bumper. And I’m pretty sure the blue-streaked dent is still in Callan’s bumper. I’m not sure if he doesn’t know anyone with the necessary tools, or if he hasn’t had the opportunity yet. He leaves for work early in the morning and
returns home long after the sun has set. Not that I’ve noticed or anything.
I need to find a way to fix this. I feel terrible. I know what a buffer is. I’ve never used one, but I’ve seen them in use. I don’t have a clue how to get a dent out of a car though.
Shame heats my face. I shouldn’t have let all this land on him, even though he said he’d take care of it. And I can’t expect him to fix my car as well. Especially not after I was such a huge dork and called him foxy. I’ve never winked at someone in my life and somehow my brain decided that would be the perfect time to try it out for the first time. I’m sure it didn’t come across as I hoped, but more like there was a bee in my eye and I got an uncontrollable twitch. I shudder with the memory.
“She’s been out to get me ever since I won the karaoke contest last fall,” Carmen says. “She tried to strip me of my title—she said I’m not a resident.”
“You’re not a resident,” I point out. And, that’s not the reason. It’s Archie. I wasn’t there for said karaoke competition, but Carmen did send me a video and you can clearly see Archie in the front row staring at Carmen like a love-sick fool and Myrtle off to the side ready to beat up the pair of them with a walker.
“I’m close enough! We’re on the same street and I’m of age. I won that contest fair and square. She shouldn’t have tried to sing “Desperado” right after me, mija.”
I’m slightly queasy when Carmen pulls into a parking spot. I stumble off of the seat. It’s a quick ride, but Carmen takes it at an alarming speed for a golf cart, and it’s easy to feel every bump on that thing.
“What are we cooking tonight?” she asks.
My hand presses into my stomach, trying quell the nausea. Standing in front of a stove with steam and all kinds of aromas hitting me in the face doesn’t sound good, but in a few minutes the crazy ride will wear off and I’ll be back to normal.
