by Cate Cameron
“For pushing. Making you race.”
“Oh my God, do you really think you have that kind of power over me?” She snorted. “I make my own decisions, Calvin!”
“Cal,” he said quickly.
There was a moment when he thought she was going to make one of her own decisions right then and there, and it might involve her struggling up and trying to stagger away. But finally, her shoulders lowered a little and she quietly said, “Cal.”
They sat there for a while, not talking until she slowly leaned forward, got her feet underneath herself, and rose. There were twigs stuck to her butt, but Cal managed to resist the urge to brush them off. Instead, he climbed to his feet and stood next to her, ready to catch her if she fell.
“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow,” she said, her voice low and level. “They’ll check me out. So I don’t really need to hear anything more about this from you. Understood?”
“Will you tell me what the doctors say tomorrow?”
“If I feel like it.”
“You don’t give an inch, do you?”
“Give? Like, charity? You need me to give you things?” Her voice was edgy, but teasing rather than vicious. She was obviously feeling better.
“Hell, yeah. I could use a little charity around you.”
She looked at him, assessing. “Nah, I don’t think you need it.” Then she nodded down the path. “Does this come out by the old church?”
He tried to catch up with the topic change. “They tore that church down years ago.”
“Really? That’s too bad. I liked that church.”
“They weren’t still having services there when you lived here, were they?”
“No, I didn’t, like, go to the church. But the windows in the back were broken, so we used to climb in sometimes and hang out.”
What a different childhood she’d had from his. What had he been doing while she was breaking into abandoned churches? Golf lessons? Ski trips?
She started walking down the path toward the church site. He jogged a few steps to catch up. “I think it’s probably closer to go back the way we came. Or we could cut through the woods there, and you could sit by the road until I brought the car around. Would you feel okay doing that? It’s a safe town, and maybe you could stay in the trees?”
She turned and stared at him. “Really? You think I’m going to hide in the trees? In Lake Sullivan? At, what, seven thirty at night? Jesus, Cal.”
Okay, good point. But what was she doing . . . was she starting to jog? “Hey! Where are you going?”
“Down to the church. Then we can circle back and go home along the road. Right?”
“You want to keep running? You almost passed out!”
She’d broken into a slow jog now. “No, I don’t think so. I was just a bit dizzy. It’s gone.”
“You don’t think so? Well, then, let’s add memory loss to your list of symptoms! You were on the ground!”
“I sat down!” She was running faster now. Trying to get away from this conversation? Was he making things worse?
Probably. So he stopped talking, and ran along just behind her, hoping to drag her down to a lower speed. Possibly a walk. Best-case scenario, maybe she’d let him carry her.
But his wishes did him no good. She kept jogging, and he ran on, his heart in his throat.
“What are you doing back there?” she asked as they rounded the corner at the churchyard. “Oh my God, are you waiting for me to fall, and then planning on catching me?”
“Maybe.”
“You are so annoying!”
“Yeah, I’m the annoying one here.”
She stopped running and turned to face him, her hands on her hips, her jaw jutted out in challenge or warning.
He spent a moment wishing he could take back his words, then decided that he didn’t want to take them back. And if he wasn’t going to retract them, he might as well enhance them. “You snap at me whenever I express natural human concern. You pull me in and then push me away. You do things that are stupid and maybe even dangerous and just expect me to be okay with them. I understand that these are your decisions to make, but I think it’s pretty damn selfish of you to make them without even taking a second to consider how they might affect people who care about you!”
“People who care about me? Like who?”
It stopped him for a moment. What must it be like to go through life thinking you were completely alone? And how sad was it that Zara was thinking like that even though she wasn’t alone? “Your roommate. Bonita? I talked to her a bit when you were avoiding me, and she seemed pretty concerned about you. Zane loves you—” He raised his hands and nodded quickly in a sort of combined acknowledgment and dismissal. “He’s going through his own shit and has no idea how to relate to you as an adult, but he loves you. You’re not going to stand here and tell me he doesn’t, are you?”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze right away, but finally looked at him and shrugged reluctantly. “No, I won’t tell you that.”
“Okay. And I think Ashley likes you pretty well, from what I’ve seen. I’m sure there are others that I just don’t know about. And, Zara, there’s me. I’m the one you’re ignoring right now, right? You clearly don’t care how I feel, watching you run yourself ragged.”
“Do I look ragged to you?”
“No, you look gorgeous to me. But it’s possible that I’m a bit biased. Because of the ‘caring about you’ thing.”
She stared at him and he could see the struggle playing behind her eyes. It would be so much easier for her to stay remote and untouched and safe. So hard for her to accept even this slight intimacy. She frowned and said, “So, what, do we make out now? Is that the plan?”
He snorted. “No way. I don’t make out with annoying people.” He turned and started walking along the street. And he let himself grin, since she couldn’t see his face, when he heard her walking along behind him.
“You made out with me the other night! In the parking lot!”
“You weren’t being annoying then.”
“Oh. So it’s not so much that you don’t make out with annoying people. It’s that you don’t make out with people when they’re being annoying.” She was dancing around to the side of him now, trying to catch his eye.
“Do you think you’re going to seduce me with nitpicking? Really?”
“Seduce you! Oh my God, as if that’s what I’m doing!”
“Well, what’re you doing, then? You’re the one who keeps talking about making out.”
“Oh, Cal, Cal,” she said, her voice high-pitched enough to make it clear she was joking. “I feel so faint. I think I might swoon. Please, Cal, save me! Catch me!”
Well, she might just be joking, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. He turned, leaned, wrapped one arm around her back and caught her under the knees with his other, and lifted her lightly off the ground. One of her hands instinctively wrapped around his neck while the other hovered indecisively in the air. They stared at each other and then slowly, carefully, she brought her free hand to his jaw and guided his mouth toward hers.
The angle wasn’t right, but Cal took what he could get. And when she squirmed a little, trying to improve things, he let her slide gently to the ground, balancing her as she went, and not breaking the kiss for even a moment.
He pulled her unresisting body in against his, deepened the kiss, and lost track of everything but her warm skin, the faint, healthy smell of her sweat, her soft lips, and then, oh, God, the tiny, breathy sound she made when their lips parted for a moment.
He didn’t notice the headlights until he felt her body stiffen and pull away from him. He let her go, watched the car pass, and then they stood there, both of them catching their breath.
Zara recovered first. “See? You did want to make out.” Her smile was a dare, her eyebrows a
challenge, but there was a softness in her smile that made it all okay.
“I guess so,” he agreed. “You know me better than I know myself.”
“Seems like.” She started walking then, back toward town, and when he caught up with her, she said, “This was a crappy workout. You and your obsession with public kissing got in the way of my exercise.”
“Can I point out that both times that we’ve kissed in public, you started it?”
“I started it? What are you, six years old?”
She was stubborn. Competitive. Completely annoying. He reached for her hand and she let him take it and lace their fingers together. She was all that and more, and he wanted as much of her as she would give him.
* * *
EVERYTHING felt out of control, and Zara didn’t like it. Well, she mostly didn’t like it. She’d worked hard to put herself in a place where she could make her own decisions, and she liked to make them based on what was rational, and what was most likely to keep her in that place of independence. Getting involved with Cal Montgomery definitely wasn’t going to help keep her life calm and controlled. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to let go of his hand.
Would it be so bad? If she let him in a little, trusted him . . . well, she already did trust him, she supposed. He’d been around forever, in the background. The mess with Zane had been . . . it had been a mess. But probably not Cal’s fault. And he’d been so good with Zane ever since, so kind and generous with his time. And damn, he could kiss.
“Have you had dinner?” he asked as they approached the parking lot.
The lie was on her lips before she’d even thought about it, put there by years of training in self-protection. She should tell him she’d eaten. She should get away from him, stop letting herself be stupid, go home and have a sandwich and a shower, and then go to bed. It was the smart thing to do. But the same rebellious instinct that had controlled her hand and kept it entwined with his now took over her mouth. It caught the lie and told the truth instead. “No, not yet.”
“We’re probably a bit sweaty to go anywhere public. But if you want, I can cook for us. I just live a couple blocks away.”
Her stomach lurched nervously, but the sensation wasn’t completely unpleasant. Going to his apartment. Being alone with him somewhere private. She knew what that meant.
And her protective instinct kicked back into gear and told her she should absolutely go. This relationship should get physical as soon as possible. They needed to quit talking so much and just get themselves into bed; sex would take care of whatever this weird tension was between them, this strange awareness Zara was developing for Cal. She just needed to sleep with him and get him out of her system. “Sure,” she said. “Your place. Sounds good.”
So they walked on, heading back toward the lake, and Zara eventually realized they weren’t going to an apartment building. Which made sense. When she was imagining Cal’s home, she was seeing him in a Manhattan high-rise, sleek and modern with floor-to-ceiling windows and abstract art on the walls. But there was nothing like that in Lake Sullivan. Apartments in small towns tended to be for poor people, and that didn’t fit Cal at all.
Still, she was a little surprised when they turned into the driveway of a little stone cottage. It had one of the town’s bronze heritage plaques on the wall, designating it as The Fisher Home; Cal saw her looking at the sign and shrugged. “I like to think of it as The Montgomery Home, but I guess the town council disagrees.”
“They can’t make you have that there, can they?”
He shook his head. “No. But it doesn’t actually bother me, and it’s pretty important to the heritage crew.” He looked over his shoulder with mock caution, then turned back to her and whispered, “My mom.”
Zara wondered what it would be like to have parents pressuring her to support their hobbies. Probably kind of nice, really.
She followed Cal through the front door into a house that looked nothing like its exterior. There were hardly any walls, just beams left behind as needed for support, and the living room, dining room, and kitchen were distinguished more by different types of furniture than by any actual barriers. She was pretty sure the furniture and fixtures and whatever were all high quality and expensive, and maybe the lighting was specially designed to give the place a warm, cozy glow, so really it was all artifice. But it worked. The cottage felt like a home, and Zara couldn’t really imagine Cal living in that Manhattan high-rise anymore.
There was a small room to the left of the front door that Zara peeked into, and Cal said, “My office. It’s boring. But the bathroom’s around the other side of it. Upstairs is just my bedroom and bathroom and a little guest . . . probably guest closet would be the best description.” He headed for the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Wine, or beer, or juice, or milk? I think that’s about it.”
“Sure, a beer. Thanks.” She wasn’t technically back in training yet, after all.
He pulled two out of the fridge, opened them both, and handed one to her. Then he grinned like a schoolboy. “I feel weird. I like having you here, but I think I’m thrown off because I’m all sweaty. So then I think maybe I should go shower, but that seems a bit impolite for me to get myself clean and not offer the same to you. And I have two showers, you could totally use one, but then are you just going to get back into your workout clothes, or do I loan you something of mine, which, you know, wouldn’t fit, and maybe it’s a bit early to be sharing clothes.” He took a swig of his beer. “So that’s where I am. You?”
“I’m thinking we should both shower, in one shower, and then not worry too much about clothes for a while.”
He blinked hard. “Well, that’s an idea with some merit, for sure.”
“Some merit?” She fought past the insecurity and tried to channel her inner vixen. She added what she hoped was a sultry purr to her voice as she asked, “That’s the best you can do?”
He huffed out a breath. “I just—you didn’t even want to come out with me tonight. Right? This run was an excuse so we wouldn’t have to have dinner together? So you’re pretty clearly having doubts about things. Going back and forth. And I want to be sure you don’t end up regretting anything.”
“You think I’d regret sleeping with you? That sounds like you’ve got a bit of an inferiority complex.”
But he refused to take the bait. “You know what I mean. I don’t want to take advantage of you at a weak moment.”
Zara had heard about enough of this. “Give me a break. You’re trying so hard to be respectful and a good little gentleman that you’re treating me like a child! You’re stuck back at, like, second-wave feminism, thinking that any sex is taking advantage of a woman!”
“Second-wave feminism? Where are you pulling that from?” He sounded genuinely confused, and she wasn’t sure whether to be irritated because he was getting off topic or because he seemed surprised she even knew the term.
“I’m literate, you know! I might not have gone to your fancy schools, but I can read! Did it never occur to you that a woman working in a male-dominated world might try to figure things out, and might do a bit of reading to get ideas?”
“So you’re into feminist theory?” He still didn’t sound angry. He wasn’t fighting with her, he was just genuinely interested.
“Maybe!” she spat back.
He nodded, and took a swig of his beer. “Any chance we could talk about that? I could cook some dinner—something manly, like steaks, so we wouldn’t be challenging any gender paradigms—and you could explain the different waves to me. I’ve heard the basics, but I’m hardly an expert. It sounds interesting.”
It was a trap. She knew it, and she had to get out of it. “So you’re ignoring what I said I wanted. No sex, because you say so.”
“Well, yeah. I’m not sure what kind of feminism you want to talk about, but ‘no means no’ is still going to be a part of it,
right?” He was almost teasing now, but she could tell he was being cautious, not sure how far he could push her.
And she wasn’t sure, either. “But the reason you’re saying no is paternalistic! I’m an adult. I make my own decisions.”
“And I make mine,” he said firmly. “You don’t like the way I phrased it? How about this: I don’t want to be somebody’s regret. I don’t like the idea of you or anyone else waking up and thinking she made a mistake. That would be bad for me. So I’m not protecting you from your decisions. I’m protecting me from them.”
She stared at him. What could she say to that? And what did she want to say? She frowned at him, and he nodded, an acknowledgment of her frustration that somehow didn’t seem like he was making fun of it. He made her feel like they were in this together. She had no idea what “this” was, but it seemed to involve both of them.
And maybe she was okay with that. “Steak and what?” she asked. Then she added, “And no. If I’m not showering, neither are you. We can stink together.”
“Okay,” he agreed easily. Then he turned toward the fridge. “Steak and garlic potatoes? Then we’ll both really stink. I can grill them outside. And maybe a Greek salad? Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Zara had to agree. She perched on a stool and drank her beer and watched Cal cooking, and tried to ignore how good it felt. How nice it would be to be able to relax into this sort of domesticity. She needed to resist. Her life was elsewhere. But for that night, at least, she let herself pretend it wasn’t.
Fourteen
“I’M TAKING A class from your lady friend.” Cal’s mother had swept into his office only a moment earlier, offered a perfunctory greeting, taken a seat, and then produced that statement.
Cal squinted at her. “With . . . Zara? What kind of class?”
“Mixed Martial Arts.” His mother pronounced the words as if each was from a partially known foreign language. “It’s quite interesting.”
“You’re taking an MMA class?” And Zara hadn’t bothered to mention that to him? “Why?”
