The Seasons of Callan Reed: An Enemies-to-Lovers Office Romance

by S. M. Soto

  “If you have any issues, take it up with them. I don’t want to hear it.” He moves on, his long strides too quick for my short legs. I have to practically run in my heels just to keep up with him. “This is the conference room. When I have meetings with clients, this is where you’re expected to bring them and see if they need refreshments or anything else. There are two rooms.” He points to the one on the right. “This one is for a more intimate setting with clients, and this one”—he points at the bigger boardroom to our left—“is for larger groups of clients. Claire has been taking care of it, but now that you’re here, that responsibility will fall back on you. Also, it’s a mandatory rule that you don’t take days off. You’re not allowed to call in sick either. That’s the basics for now. HR will handle everything else.”

  No calling in sick?

  No days off?

  What is this, hell?

  We pause in front of the boardrooms, and I nod, shifting on my feet. “Can I ask a question, Mr. Reed?”

  Callan sighs. “You just did, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  My face flames with heat, and I purse my lips, wishing he would stop making this so hard on me. I get it, he hates me, but this attitude isn’t really necessary. It’s almost like he’s making these tasks impossible so he has a reason to get rid of me. I now understand why so many others have quit. It’s an impossible job.

  “Hurry up and ask me your question so I can get back to work.”

  I wring my hands together, suddenly feeling nervous. “Well, I know you said no days off, but what about for emergencies?”

  “Do you plan on dying sometime within the next week?”

  A frown settles between my brows. “No. It’s not for me. I have a two-month-old, and sometimes babies can be unpredictable—”

  Callan swipes an aggravated hand through his hair. It’s the first time he’s truly shown his frustration with me. His eyes flash with something, but whatever it is, it’s gone before I can process it any further—the muscle in his jaw ticks with annoyance.

  “Your two-month-old isn’t my problem, Ms. Fletcher. Miss any days, and you’re fired. That’s final.” With that, he strides down the hall, and I’m left staring after him, mouth agape. I don’t even have the will to correct him on my last name, again. Instead, I’m just left wondering what happened to Callan over the last thirteen years. What has made him so cold—so angry all the time?

  My guess is the universe hasn’t been all that kind to him either.

  Past

  “Well, don’t you look extra pretty,” my dad comments from the threshold of my door. I glance at him through my vanity mirror. He’s leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Mi Chiquita Bonita. You’re not my little girl anymore.”

  I roll my eyes, smiling fondly at his nickname for me. “I look like this all the time, Dad.”

  He harrumphs because he knows just as well as I do that’s a lie. I’m going out with Dean tonight. On a date. A real date. We’ve been “talking” and hanging out for the past two weeks, and it seems like things are finally progressing.

  “Are you…is he…” he trails off as if he’s trying to gather his thoughts.

  Slowly, I turn to face him, my brows drawn together questioningly. “Dad, what’s this about?”

  “I guess it was only a matter of time.” He sighs, scrubbing a rough hand over his face. “Do you plan on sleeping with this boy? If you are, you need to—”

  My eyes widen, and I yell out for my mom. “Mother! Your husband is being weird again!”

  I hear my mom’s laughter from the hallway. “Honey, are you being ‘weird’ again?”

  She’s mocking me. I frown at the realization.

  “Dad. It’s a date. Not…whatever the hell you think this is.”

  “All right, fine. But you know, if you are thinking about—”

  “Dad!”

  My mom settles against my dad’s side and pats him on the butt. I refrain from gagging. I’ve gotten used to this. Some parents are normal, and others fight a lot, while mine are annoying and affectionate. It’s a wonder they don’t have a school bus filled with children. It’s just me. And well, Skylar. Can’t forget about her.

  “I got this one, honey.” My mom laughs, giving my dad an out. He looks equal parts relieved and concerned.

  Such a father.

  My mom shuts the door and perches on my bed as she watches me finish up my hair. She smiles softly. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

  “You nervous? It’s your first official date as a couple.”

  I shrug. I’m not quite as nervous as I thought I’d be. Don’t get me wrong, my palms are sweating, but I don’t have flutters in my belly, and my heart isn’t pounding so hard I can’t breathe, if that’s what she means.

  “Not really. I’m more calm than anything.”

  She hums. That’s never good. Setting my brush down on my vanity, I turn, lifting my brows in question.

  “What was that for?”

  “What?” She feigns innocence. She knows exactly what she’s doing. As my mother, she knows how to get under my skin like no one else.

  “You think I don’t want to go?” I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes, reading everything she isn’t saying. My mother laughs, leaning back on my bed, making herself comfortable.

  “I didn’t say that. I just can’t help but notice how calm you are about the whole thing. Makes me wonder if you even want to go.”

  I turn around, focusing back on my hair, anything to keep my eyes from hers. My mother knows me too well. I may be dating Dean, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about Callan every day. He’s a nuisance, always in the back of my mind, messing with my head. Since I’ve started “dating” Dean, Callan’s gotten meaner. It’s like a switch has flipped inside him, and all the ignoring he’s done over the years is over. Instead, he takes shots at me whenever he has the chance. It’s almost like he enjoys seeing the pain flit across my face. He wants to see me hurt, and I can’t understand why, for the life of me.

  He’s turned into a bully.

  It’s sad. How shitty he treats me, yet I can still sit and watch him from afar and admire everything about him. I tell myself it’s because I have unresolved feelings. I tell myself it’s because he was my first kiss, one of my best friends. I tell myself it’s because I’m not used to being hated, but I don’t really believe that.

  “Of course, I want to go. I like Dean.” I comb the brush through my hair with a little more attitude than necessary. “A lot.” I feel the need to add.

  “What about Callan?”

  I freeze at the question. The paddle of the brush hangs in my hair as I lock gazes with my mom in the mirror. “What about him?” I swallow.

  She sits upright, still watching me intently. “Daisy.”

  My eyes slam shut at the tone of her voice. “He hates me, Mom. Callan doesn’t care about what I do. Therefore, I don’t care about him. Actually, I would say my feelings are bordering on hate.”

  Her face falls, shadowing with sadness. “You know that’s not true.”

  “You don’t know him like I do. And when I say he hates me, it’s the truth.”

  “I just want to make sure you’re dating Dean for the right reasons and not for all the wrong ones.”

  My chest squeezes as I force the lie past my lips. “I’m dating him because I like the way he makes me feel. I like him. End of story.”

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes like it normally does. That’s the thing about my mother’s smile—it’s the best. It starts in one corner and spreads like wildfire. It’s a contagion, but only the best kind. It makes you feel light and free. It makes you forget all your problems and get lost in the moment.

  “Okay.” She slaps her palms along her thick thighs before she pushes upright, heading toward the door. Before leaving, she pauses over the threshold, her dainty hand gripping the door tr
im for support.

  “I hope Dean knows what a lucky guy he is.”

  My heart cracks, and warmth spills in as I stare at my mother. “I love you, Mom.”

  She blows me a kiss and winks. “Love you, too, baby. Oh, and if your father asks, just pretend we had ‘the talk.’”

  A crease forms between my brows. “But you gave me the talk years ago?”

  She smirks. “Your father doesn’t know that.”

  Laughter bubbles past my lips, and I turn back around, taking in my reflection. I don’t usually straighten my hair, mainly because it takes so long, but it was worth it. My dark brown hair is sleek and straight, where it’s usually filled with unruly waves. I applied a bit of lip gloss and mascara. I look older, a little more mature, but still like me. Keeping it casual but cute, I’m wearing a loose white midi-dress with my Converse again. They’re my go-to.

  When the doorbell rings, my eyes flutter closed, and I inhale a deep breath. I wipe my palms along the material of my dress and glance out my window. My eyes stray toward Rosalind’s house of their own accord. A sharp pang stabs me in the chest when I realize the curtains in Callan’s bedroom are shut. I grab my phone off my bed, not surprised when I see all the texts from Rose, demanding I give her all the details when our date is over.

  I hear the soft lilt of laughter and conversation as I pad down the hallway toward the front door. Dean is all smiles, chatting with my dad, and my mom is smiling from the kitchen, prepping dinner. Skylar, for whatever reason, is pouting on the couch, glaring daggers at me.

  Since I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with her today, I choose to ignore her. She’s been following Callan around like a lovesick puppy for the past week, so it’s safe to say she’s been on my shit list. Dean’s grin grows when he sees me. It makes me feel good, like I’m worth something.

  “No later than ten o’clock, Daisy,” my dad says sternly as we’re leaving. It’s almost like he’s just now realizing he’s allowing his daughter to go on a date with a senior. Dean slides his fingers through mine, taking my hand.

  “No later than ten, Mr. Casillas. Got it.”

  I can feel my father’s gaze on us the entire way down our porch. Dean laughs, nudging me lightly in my side.

  “He’s still watching us, isn’t he?”

  “Yup.”

  We share a look with each other and break into laughter. I silently hope he opens the door for me if my dad is still watching. I’ll never hear the end of it when I get home if he doesn’t. On our way to his truck, an awareness slides down my spine, and when I glance to my left, I find out why. Callan is standing there, shirtless, his broad chest heaving and glistening with sweat after his run, as he stares at Dean and me. Something uncertain settles in the pit of my gut as I take in his expression. His gaze narrows, and it’s hard to tell from here, but I swear I see him grinding his teeth together, his jaw growing tighter with each second. There’s something there in the depths of his eyes. It’s way past the point of rage. Whatever it is, it’s unsettling.

  “He still giving you shit?” Dean asks, his tone hardening at the mere mention of Callan.

  I shake my head and avert my gaze. “No. We haven’t spoken.”

  “Good,” he murmurs as he—oh, thank God—opens my door for me. I glance at the front windows of my house and laugh when I see the blind drop back into place. I’m still looking that way when Dean slides his hand around my waist and kisses me on the cheek, catching me off guard. I freeze for all of two seconds, feeling eyes on us, but finally, I soften in his arms and crane my neck ever so slightly, kissing him back on the lips.

  “I forgot to tell you, you look beautiful.”

  I grin, trying to ignore the heat blooming on my face and neck. I’m all too thankful my olive complexion hides the blush that is staining my cheeks. “You didn’t forget.”

  “I know.” He winks just before shutting my door. As he rounds his car, I sneak a glance back at Callan’s house and frown when I realize he’s gone.

  I trudge up the hill to the water. It has been a while since I’ve found my way up here. To get to the levy, you follow a narrow trail behind our town that brings you up a small hill. Just beneath that hill is a creek of sorts that flows with water.

  This has always been mine and Callan’s place. Rose hates it here. Over the course of our friendship, she mentioned that it smelled like nature and ass out by the water, so she prefers not to come. I could never really tell if she was telling the truth or if she was just saying that to give Callan and me some privacy. I honestly wouldn’t put it past her.

  As I travel down the narrow, rocky trail, my heart aches. I’ve missed it here. It’s where I broke my first bone, learned to ride a bike, and it’s where I fell in love. Strangely, it’s also the only place in town I think of when Callan comes to mind. I used to come up here hoping Callan would be hanging around, but he never was. I hoped maybe if we were alone, I could talk to him without prying eyes and get to the root cause of his coldness. The reason he no longer wanted me in his life. The reason he suddenly had such abhorrence for me.

  What did I do that made him hate me so much? I just wanted to understand.

  Eventually, I gave up coming and decided to let him have this place if he ever did show up. This place reminds me too much of him, anyway. When Rose started catching on to why I was coming here so often without her, I decided it was time to pretend I didn’t care. Even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure it didn’t bother her, I didn’t want to be that friend—the one who ditched people over a guy.

  That wasn’t me, and it never would be.

  I forgot just how peaceful it is up here. Being able to see a portion of the city, the tranquility, the sound of the water moving through the levy. I could definitely do without the smell, but I’ll take what I can get.

  For whatever reason, I just felt the need to sit up here today and think. I’m craving the silence. I need to be alone with my thoughts. For the past few weeks, I’ve spent so much time with Dean, and double dating with Rose, that I feel like I haven’t had a single moment to myself. Luckily, Dean was busy today, and Rosalind wanted a private date with Ryan, so that gave me a clear schedule.

  I pause midstride, completely shocked when I reach the top of the levy, and see who is already sitting there.

  Blowing out an aggravated sigh, I turn, about to head back down, but the voice stops me. It rolls through me in waves, and I swear, I feel it in every orifice of my body. And I hate it. I hate the way he makes me feel. I hate the way I feel when I’m around him. It’s like my heart isn’t my own. It chose who it belonged to years ago, and I’ve just been lying to myself. Pretending these feelings aren’t here. Chances are, they’ll never go away.

  “Stay.”

  My heart thunders in my chest, and those pesky flutters deep in my belly that have been dormant for these past few weeks I’ve spent with Dean suddenly roar to life. As if they have a mind of their own, my feet lead me back to him. I drop down on the dirt and the deadened grass, leaving a wide berth of space between us. I stare out at the city, watching as the sun starts to set.

  I hear a clink, then a carbonated sound. It prompts me to shift toward Callan to examine what’s going on. He passes a bottle of Jones soda toward me. That must’ve been what I heard; he was popping off the cap.

  “Thanks?” It comes off as more of a question when I say it, but I still take it. Blue Bubblegum is my favorite flavor. Well, it’s both of ours, but I won’t read too much into the fact that he came up here to drink Jones Blue Bubblegum on his own, only to offer it to me.

  We sit in silence for an awkward stretch of time as I drink the soda. And, of course, because I’m such a nice person, I save the other half for him in case he wants it. He was the one who bought it, after all.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I rake my gaze up and down his broad form. He seems deep in thought as he stares out at the horizon. His brows are pulled in, just like they usually are when he’s concentrating or when he’s
upset about something. I hate that I know that about him. I hate that I also know he makes this exact face when he’s drawing something. That’s one of Callan’s many talents, his ability to draw. He can sketch just about anything, buildings he creates in his mind, historic landmarks, or sometimes, sketches of random things. He’s insanely talented and athletic. You have to wonder how much God gifted him with before saying to Himself, “I should probably stop here.”

  On the other hand, while I do love to paint, I can’t draw to save my life. I’m more of an abstract painting kind of girl. I like looking at a picture and interpreting its meaning, rather than looking at a specifically designed picture with a single purpose in mind. I enjoy the chaos while Callan needs the structure. That is us, complete opposites, yin and yang.

  I drag my gaze down his body to his thickly muscled arms that are hanging over his knees. While I’m secretly admiring the veins in his forearms, I notice the letter he’s gripping in his hand. Without much thought, I reach for it.

  “What’s this?”

  I’m even more surprised when he doesn’t fight me on it. I expect him to snatch it back from me and spew some hateful words, but he doesn’t. The letter is already ripped open, so I reach in and unfold the paper, my eyes widening when I realize what it’s for. The insignia at the top left corner gives it away.

  My eyes begin to water as I read.

  Callan E. Reed

  1864 Amaretto Dr.

  Riverbank, California 95367

  USA

  Dear Callan:

  Congratulations on your acceptance into the College of Architecture at Cornell University. We are very pleased to be welcoming you to the Cornell Class of 2014.

  I can feel his gaze on me as I read. It’s almost as if he’s anticipating my reaction. I’m happy for him. So goddamn happy for him. If there’s anyone who deserves this, it’s Callan.

  Then why does my heart feel like it’s being ripped in half?

  Why does it suddenly feel like all the air has been sucked from my lungs?