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

by S. M. Soto

  It feels like someone has reached into my chest and is tearing through the organ with a jagged knife. Sniffing back the pressure in my nose, I plaster a smile on my face.

  “I’m happy for you. You deserve this, Cal.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges as if he’s in pain, but he shakes his head and glances away, still looking deep in thought.

  “This is good news. Why don’t you seem happy? I thought this was what you always wanted?”

  He cranes his neck toward me, and if possible, my heart breaks even further. “I am happy. It’s just…far.”

  I look away, out at the horizon. I have to keep fighting the urge to beg him to stay, but that’s selfish, especially when we’re on bad terms more than we are on good ones.

  “Far can be good. It’s New York. It’ll be beautiful. Plus, it’s not like you have a reason to stay here. Riverbank holds nothing for you.”

  “You really believe that?”

  My mouth grows dry, and my heart does its best to burst out of my chest and into his fist when I look back at him. Somehow, he looks closer, and the air feels thicker. Everything about this moment feels important. Like we’re teetering on the edge of now or never.

  “Maybe,” I whisper. “What’s holding you back?”

  He searches my eyes, and I take this time to drink him in without the two of us bickering. I bask in the soft way he’s gazing at me as though I’m the center of his world. It’s the way he used to look at me before things started to change. His eyes are a light grayish-blue, like that of the crashing waves in the ocean. Blue caps that can be so cold yet so warm, they give you whiplash. I’ve always found myself getting lost in them. In him.

  “It’s not what’s holding me back, but who.” My lips part on instinct, and I feel like the earth, my entire foundation has been tipped off its axis. “So yeah.” He laughs, but it’s without humor. “I do have every reason to stay and every reason to go.”

  “Callan,” I whisper, my voice trembling when he shifts toward me, scooting closer. I want him to touch me. I want his mouth on mine, just like it was that first night he kissed me. But I can’t do that. We can’t do that.

  His nostrils flare, and the muscle in his jaw jumps as if he’s barely restraining himself. “Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me I have to go.”

  My chest squeezes, restricting air, making it impossible to pull in a single breath. His solid form swims before me as I battle my emotions. I want to say so many things, but they’re all too selfish, and none of them would benefit either of us. So, I tell him what he wants to hear, even if it does break my heart.

  “You’re crazy,” I choke out against the thickening in my throat. “You need to go. Don’t let this opportunity pass you by.”

  He fights a grimace. “You and I both know that’s not what I want, Daisy.”

  My heart skids to an abrupt halt, and I stop breathing as I process his words. He can’t mean…no, this is Callan we’re talking about.

  I’m being childish, reading too much into things. I’m wishing for all the things I want.

  Why now?

  Why is he all of a sudden deciding he cares?

  I’m with Dean. I have a boyfriend. I shouldn’t be sitting here with Callan, of all people. They hate each other. And Dean has been nothing but good to me. How can I do this to him? Crave to be with someone else instead of him? The more I think about it, the more I begin to grow angry. The indignation claws its way up my throat, intermingling with the emotion.

  “What do you want from me then, Callan?” I shoot up off the ground, nearly losing the battle with my emotions. “You’ve treated me like shit when I did nothing to you! And now, all of a sudden, you act as if you care about me? Like my friendship means anything to you.”

  “Don’t play dumb, Daisy,” he grits. “You know exactly what you mean to me.”

  I scoff. “Oh, really, do I? Because I’ve spent two years thinking you hate me. I’ve spent the past two years wondering what I did that was so wrong that I’m suddenly not good enough for you!”

  For a brief second, I see guilt flash across his face, but it’s masked by his frustration. “So, what? You’re really going to pretend he makes you happy. I call bullshit. You’re bored, looking for someone to make you happy, and let me tell you something. He’s not the right guy for you.”

  “He does make me happy!” I yell back, growing defensive. It’s like Callan is seeing into the deepest parts of me. “And what, you are the right guy for me?” I scoff and stomp off, needing to put distance between us. When I’m a few feet away, I skid to a halt and look back at him over my shoulder. “If you really were the right guy for me, you wouldn’t have spent the past two years being a complete asshole to me. The right guy would’ve done everything he could to make me laugh and actually make me feel good about myself for once, and you know who does that? Dean.”

  I spin on my heels and leave, refusing to entertain this conversation any longer. I can’t believe the audacity. I speed-walk down the hill, not surprised when I hear nothing but silence trailing after me. Because I was right. He’s not the right guy for me. The right guy would chase after me and fight for me. Callan Reed will never be that guy. It goes against everything he believes, everything in his genetic makeup.

  Because I’m a sadist, I glance back and spot his figure up on the levy, still sitting there, drinking the rest of the soda I left for him.

  My heart twinges.

  I didn’t realize letting a first love go could be so painful.

  Present

  Callan Reed is a nightmare.

  The man is an absolute terror.

  He’s the devil in disguise.

  And I hate him.

  It’s day four on the job, and when I say I’ve been close to quitting over the past seventy-two hours, I’m not exaggerating. I know he’s purposely pushing my buttons and being a jerk, but sometimes, I think he’s just being his natural self, and honestly, that’s even more frightening than the former.

  I’m having difficulty making the correlation between this man and the one I grew up with all those years ago. They are two completely different people. If I thought high school Callan was horrible, this version makes younger Cal look like a saint.

  Monday was the day from hell. After how semi-smooth sailing Friday was, I wasn’t prepared for how horrible working for a man like Callan could be. I woke up at five a.m. sharp and proceeded to feed Faith before getting ready for work. I was out of Rose’s place by five-fifty and in a taxi by six. I headed to the dry cleaners to pick up three sets of his suits before taking a cab back on the opposite side of the city to pick up his coffee order, then I hailed another cab to take me to the bistro where he orders his breakfast wrap from. I managed to get inside his office with his dry cleaning, coffee, and breakfast with only two minutes to spare, which, in turn, meant I was late. Because, apparently, to Callan, if I didn’t have his coffee and food on his desk by seven-thirty, I was severely slacking. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t on the actual clock until eight. Those were just the rules I now needed to adhere to.

  Tuesday wasn’t all that much better. After a repeat of Monday, I managed to get into his office with everything by seven-forty-nine a.m. That turned into him yelling in my face and calling me incompetent. Without a single apology or a look of remorse, he then demanded I grab him lunch. Not just any lunch. He wanted lunch from an exclusive place, across town, in under twenty minutes. I haven’t lived in New York long, and even I knew the logistics of that were impossible. By the time I hailed a cab, got through traffic, placed an order, and rode back to the office, it would be well over twenty minutes. And the asshole knew that.

  He was purposely fucking with me. Seeing just how far he could push me before I snapped.

  I might’ve been able to make it work had he given me access to his driver, but no, the fucker expected me to get around the city all on my own. When I got back with his sandwich, thirty minutes past the time limit he set, I slid his food across his des
k and waited for his impending wrath. With slow, methodical movements, he opened his lunch, peering down at it. I did the same.

  The urge to spit in his sandwich was all-consuming. Somehow, as if he knew my train of thought, he met my gaze and slowly unwrapped it. Lifting the sandwich’s bun, he took one look inside, then made a “hmm” noise before tossing it into the trash. I bit the inside of my cheek, my only means of holding my tongue. I wanted to scream. To call him a son of a bitch for having me go through all of that for a sandwich—a freaking sandwich, of all things. A sandwich he freaking threw away. A part of me sensed that might’ve been his plan all along. He was waiting for me to snap, and I refused to give him the satisfaction.

  Which now brings us to this morning, right this very second. He’s currently yelling. The deep baritone of his voice is like nails running down my back. I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes as I try to calm the rage that’s boiling to the surface.

  He woke me up at four a.m., while he was working out, to let me know there were some pressing emails I needed to sort through, and he specifically stated he would NOT be needing his dry cleaning picked up today. Instead, he mentioned he’d be taking his usual coffee, along with five other ridiculously separate lattes. Each one a different drink, made with a different milk, with their own sets of special requirements, I might add.

  Green tea steeped for exactly four minutes with Truvia. (What kind of asshole drinks green tea this early?)

  Black coffee with one sugar and a splash of two-percent milk.

  Four double shots of espresso with a coconut milk latte, light on the foam. (Seriously?)

  Apparently, they were all needed for his meeting at eight sharp with a pair of clients. And, as luck would have it, today was the first day Faith was inconsolable as I left. The nanny thought it was because she was colicky. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what the hell to think.

  Did she think another person in her life had abandoned her, too?

  I hated leaving her.

  I hated the idea of her crying with a stranger and me not being there to console her.

  Then on my way to the coffee shop, I had to order a new Uber driver because the one I was using said he didn’t allow drinks in his car. Drinks in his car! He had a 2006 Mazda, not a damn Porsche or a Bugatti.

  Figures.

  Today was the first day I opted for an Uber instead of a taxi. I should’ve stuck with my regular routine instead of deviating.

  It didn’t help matters that they messed up on a few drinks, and I knew I couldn’t leave until they made them right.

  By the time I said to hell with Uber and grabbed a taxi, I didn’t have an extra hour to get to the office as I usually did. I only had ten minutes, and I was learning the hard way that ten minutes in New York was nothing.

  I ran into the office carrying two cupholders, ten minutes late. I knew this was going to be an issue for Callan. Not only was I late bringing this in for his meeting, but nothing less than an hour early was acceptable or even remotely considered on time. It has become a motto of sorts here. One that I am, quite frankly, sick and tired of hearing.

  “Good morning, Daisy!” Claire hollers as I whiz past her at the front desk.

  Heading straight to the conference room, I set the cupholder on the table just as Callan walks in. He raises his brows at me, doing a slow perusal of my body, settling on the sweat that’s beading on my forehead. I swear, I even spot a glint of satisfaction in his eyes when he takes note of the fact that I’m breathing as if I’ve just run a mile.

  Right when I saw the quirk of his lips and a glint in his eyes, I should’ve known. I should’ve prepared myself for the blow of his words.

  “Where’s my dry cleaning?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. My eyes are drawn to the Rolex glinting there. His words are on a boisterous loop in my head as I work to process them.

  “Where’s my dry cleaning?”

  “Where’s my dry cleaning?”

  “Where’s my dry cleaning?”

  Curling my hands into fists, I finally peel my gaze away from his watch and meet his cold eyes. He’s still staring down at me with a sadistic expression on his face, like he’s enjoying this.

  Oh, I’m sure he is.

  “If I remember correctly, you told me this morning, at four a.m., that today you wouldn’t be needing your dry cleaning.”

  He tsks. “You must not be remembering correctly. Dry cleaning is a daily task, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Callan,” I grit, wiping the amused look off his face. “You specifically told me not to get it.”

  “It’s Mr. Reed. And why the hell would I do that?”

  My mouth snaps shut, and I grit my back teeth together, working to suppress my rage.

  A stare off ensues between us that could open the gates of hell, start World War III, cause Armageddon, you name it. The sound of approaching footsteps is the only thing that breaks the trance. Claire smiles at the both of us, clearly not sensing the tension, or maybe she does, and she’s ignoring it.

  “The Charlestons are running a bit late due to traffic.”

  After she walks away, I’m still standing here fuming, trying not to throw a punch at my boss. I’m just talking myself off the proverbial ledge when he opens his big mouth and pushes my buttons some more.

  “There better be a good reason you’re still standing here and not getting to work.”

  I plaster on the fakest smile I can muster and shoot it his way. “Of course, Mr. Reed.”

  By the time Friday rolls around, I don’t know if I want to rejoice or barge into his office and quit. I’ve made it a full week. Even though it hasn’t been smooth sailing, I’m still alive, and miraculously, so is he.

  I’ve been sitting in the conference room for the past ten minutes, waiting for Callan. Recently, I’ve noticed he prefers meeting with me in the conference room instead of his office. It’s almost like he thinks the space of his office is too small for us. We’d both suffocate with all the tension that surrounds us whenever we’re in close proximity. I suspect today he’s either going to tell me I’m welcome to stay on as his assistant or that they’ll be tossing me out like last week’s trash. Either way, I’m getting a substantial amount of money in my check for the week. If need be, I’ll make it stretch.

  According to Rosalind, I’m Callan’s tenth assistant this year. To really put things into perspective, it’s only February. Callan claims it’s because all of his other assistants were incompetent. After working here for a week, I can assure you that it is not the issue. It’s him.

  He’s impossible.

  Incredibly infuriating.

  Callan suddenly enters the room, taking all the air from my lungs with him. The hardest part of this job is seeing him every day. Seeing how much he’s changed as a person. It’s heartbreaking. Realizing the boy with a heart of gold that I was once head over heels in love with is now a cruel bastard.

  He’s dressed in an impeccable three-piece navy suit and matching tie, and the diamonds in his newest designer watch gleam against the room’s soft light. His painfully beautiful eyes meet mine only briefly before he takes a seat at the head of the table. It’s just the two of us, so I’m not sure why he feels the need to sit here and assert his dominance as though he plans on addressing the entire room.

  His flawlessly sculpted face with those piercing eyes have me pinned to the spot while he regards me. I fidget on the leather chair and wring my hands beneath the table. Moisture coats my palms, a direct result of my anxiety, and my heart is banging like a steel drum in my chest. Unable to handle the intensity of his gaze, I make the mistake of glancing down at his mouth. His lips look as if they’re handcrafted for kissing. If I close my eyes and think about it, I can still, even now, after all these years, feel his lips against mine. His light brown hair is cut long enough to drag my fingers through it, and the way his suit fits over his muscles consistently invades the deepest corners of my mind. He’s obviously well built. Even when we were younger
and in high school, he was always in impeccable shape because of sports, and it seems that hasn’t changed. If anything, everything about Callan Reed has gotten better with time—everything except his attitude. It doesn’t matter how much of an asshole he’s turned into; I can’t seem to turn off my attraction to him.

  I haven’t been able to since we were kids.

  “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I clear my throat and dip my chin in greeting. “Mr. Reed.”

  He rests back in the winged-back chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. “I gave you one-week trial run, and if it wasn’t obvious, you failed.” My heart sinks at his words. The dry tone and the cold look plastered across his face are the nails in the coffin. The long-sleeve blouse I’m wearing suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me. “Not only were you late every single day, but it also seems even the easiest set of instructions are impossible for you to follow. I need a competent executive assistant, not someone who doesn’t have a single clue what the fuck she’s doing. As promised, you’ll still be receiving your check for the subpar work you put in. Once you clear things up with HR, you can see yourself out of my building.”

  I’m stunned into silence. I splay out my sweaty palms on my cotton-clad thighs, digging my nails into the flesh there, working out how to respond cordially. I knew working for Callan wasn’t going to be easy, and sure, things didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped, but I did the job he asked me to do. If he would just give me another chance, I can do this. I know I said I’d be okay with that one check, but how long can I really make that money stretch? At some point, the money from Dean’s life insurance policy will run out, then what am I going to do?

  I take in his passive expression and feel a surge of anger envelop me as realization settles in.

  “You never intended to let me stay, did you?”

  He lifts a broad shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “I gave you a chance. You didn’t meet the standards.”

  Rage boils in my veins. “That’s a lie, Callan, and we both know it. Do you think I would’ve taken this job if I didn’t have any other option? You think I want to work here with you? I don’t. This is the very last thing I want.”