by Sarah Smith
The memory of my dad sporting the exact same look pops in my head. I cup my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh so the table doesn’t hear.
Callum’s face is pure confusion when he looks at me. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s nothing. Just . . .” I nod to the table, and he twists to take a look. “My dad used to wear his cell phone on his belt just like that guy. It drove me and my mom crazy. He was the most stubborn person ever when it came to technology. Like, our family phone plan would let us upgrade every year, and every year either my mom or me would get a new phone. Not my dad.”
I laugh again, remembering the Father’s Day surprise she and I planned for him a few years ago.
“For Father’s Day we got him this basic smartphone. When he opened it, he was so confused. He looked at it like it was some alien gadget he had never seen before. We tried to explain that it was a simple smartphone. I started to show him how easy it was to use, but he shook his head, politely said ‘no, thank you,’ and then held up his flip phone. He said that was as high tech as he ever wanted to be.”
Callum looks at me, his eyes bright, his smile wide, and bursts into a laugh. “So he was pretty set in his ways, then?”
“He was.” I let the memory of that Father’s Day soak in. “Good thing I thought to get him a backup present in case he didn’t like the phone.”
“Which was?”
“A new leather case for his flip phone.”
We fall into uncontrollable cackles that draw a handful of annoyed glances from nearby tables. But I don’t care. Sharing this memory with Callum is worthy of loud laughter. Catching my breath, I sip my beer.
I place my glass back on the table and catch Callum staring at me. “What?”
“Your entire face lights up when you talk about your dad.”
“Really?” Sheepishness tinges my chuckle. “I thought it would seem sort of sad talking about him this way.”
“Why?”
I take a moment before speaking. “I don’t talk about him with anyone other than my mom. I don’t really know how often you’re supposed to speak about someone after you lose them or if you’re supposed to speak about them at all. Or if it’s weird and just too sad.”
From across the table, Callum grabs my hand. “There’s no such thing as normal when it comes to something like this, Nikki. Normal is however you feel.”
His touch is a security blanket for my nerves. I may not be sure of my emotions or what to do, but I’m certain that I feel comfortable in Callum’s presence, even when talking about a tough subject. And that counts for so much.
“Honestly? It felt really good to talk about him with you.”
That admission earns me an affectionate squeeze from his hand. “Then tell me more.”
“He loved that show M*A*S*H. Even though it ended in the eighties, he would watch reruns almost every week. Drove my mom up the wall.”
Callum beams wide. “That’s hilarious.”
“But he made up for it. He brought her flowers every Friday after he came home from work. He was always up for a card game—any card game. He loved jogging in the mornings and camping and fishing. He used to smoke, but he quit when my mom got pregnant with me. He said he didn’t want to continue any bad habits like that when he had a child counting on him.”
I pause and sip again, my chest tight with the memory surfacing just now—one of my favorite memories of my dad.
“At my culinary school graduation, he made this sign and held it as I walked across the stage. It said, ‘Congrats, Chef Nikki-Nack! You did it!’”
I look up to see that Callum’s smile has softened. More wistful than amused. “Nikki-Nack.”
“His nickname for me.”
“That’s adorable.”
The tightness in my throat, the burn in my eyes, it all dissipates at how intently he listens to me.
“It really was,” I say softly.
I open my mouth to speak again, but the only thing that comes out is a soft squeak. I press my mouth shut, shaking my head. It’s the best I can do since I can’t say sorry. Everything is a reminder that he’s not here and he never will be.
Callum squeezes my hand once more. “Hey. It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. Just take your time.”
I look up to see his face twisted in concern. I nod, grateful that he seems to understand exactly how I feel, exactly what I need in this moment.
It’s another quiet minute with just the pub chatter filling the silence between us before I say anything. “I talk to him sometimes still.”
Biting my lip, I fixate on the wood grain of the tabletop, wondering if I’ve crossed the line to full-on weirdo now that I’ve admitted that out loud.
But he answers without missing a beat. “I used to do that with my gran after she passed.”
“Really?”
He nods, the expression on his face warm. It makes any semblance of doubt about myself fly right out the window.
“I was living in Chicago when she died, so I didn’t get to say good-bye to her. Whenever I was home and visited her grave in the beginning, I would have a chat with her. Tell her about my day, what was on my mind, how much I missed her.”
Hearing him share his own memories with his grandmother makes me want to pull him into the tightest hug. It shows he’s not judging me; it shows he can relate to what I’ve been through.
“There’s an urn with his ashes at the condo I share with my mom,” I say. “Whenever I’m stressed or sad, I say a few words to him.”
His mouth curves up in a gentle, understanding smile.
“Mom and I spread most of his ashes at Baldwin Beach—his favorite beach. Every time I’m there, I stand at the far end of the beach, away from all the crowds, and say hi. That’s actually what I was doing the morning I found Lemon.”
“That’s wonderful, Nikki.”
We share another quiet moment, and it’s not the slightest bit awkward. The silence between us marks a whole new level of intimacy. I haven’t been able to talk about my dad with anyone other than my mom.
I meet his eyes once more.
“You can talk about him with me whenever you want, you know,” he says.
“You sure?”
He nods. “We’re friends. We should be able to talk about these sorts of things.”
“Friends with benefits.”
He raises an eyebrow. “The friend part is still key, Nikki. It’s what helps make this whole arrangement work.”
I let his words soak in. It would be a nice change of pace to have a friend in all of this too.
“I’d like that.”
He smiles softly. “Grief is complicated. Take all the time you need. I’m here for you. Always.”
“Thank you.”
I sip from the untouched water glass on the table, lacing my fingers in his. Maybe this entire setup between us—rivals turned bedmates turned emotional confidants—is naive and foolish and totally unconventional. But it feels right. I’m at ease in a way I never have been ever since losing my dad. And that has to count for something.
Callum glances at the bar. “Shall we play a bit more of the Question Game, then?”
I let out a small laugh. “Sure.”
He turns back to me. “Who would win in a fight: you or Matteo?”
“I’m insulted you even have to ask. Me. I’d tug on his man bun, exposing his throat for my attack. It would be game over.”
“I like your style.”
“My turn: how often do you swim naked at Little Beach?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t balk at the question. Now that we’re sleeping together, I figure it’s okay for me to broach the subject.
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “About once a week. Why? Are you interested in joining me?”
“Maybe.”
I sip more of the water while he drains the last of his beer.
“Who would win in a fight: you or Finn?” I ask.
Callum scoffs. “Ridiculous. Me.”
I give my best mock frown. “You sure? Finn looks like he keeps in good shape.”
Callum’s jaw tenses, and I have to swallow back a laugh.
“You’re joking, right? I’m three inches taller than him and weigh a stone and a half more.”
I shrug, looking around the bar, pretending like I’m unimpressed with that fact. “If you say so.”
He lets out a frustrated laugh. “You’re taking the piss. Nicely done.”
I point to his empty glass. “Another?”
He nods and says thank you as I stand up to take our empties to the bar. I ask the bartender for two more pints and check my phone, smiling to myself. It’s a wonder how seamlessly I shifted from sad to happy in Callum’s presence. I rack my brain, but I can’t remember any guy I’ve dated who I could be so emotionally open with, who made me feel equally at ease whether I was sad or happy.
Someone’s hot breath hits my neck, interrupting my thought. I shudder, then look to my left. A thirty-something man with glazed-over eyes sports the creepiest smirk I’ve ever seen. He’s so close that we’re brushing shoulders. The stench of alcohol hits my nostrils. Every muscle inside me tenses at his proximity.
“Can I buy you a drink, love?”
I turn back to the bartender, who is just now getting to filling my drinks. “No, thank you.” I stare straight ahead, hoping that my refusal to look at him signals my obvious disinterest.
His hand lands on my back. “Come on, then,” he practically sings. “You look a bit worked up. A drink might loosen you up.”
He leans into me even more, and I bump a nearby stool to try to get away from him. “I said no. And don’t touch me.”
The drunken offender’s hand falls away and so does his smile. He takes a step back, and the breath I’ve been holding flows out in a huff. The bartender sets the drinks down in front of me, but I don’t just want to scurry away from this guy. I want him to know just how much of a prick he is for invading my space. I have a right to be at this pub without being harassed.
I turn to him. “Is that disgusting approach usually a hit with the ladies? God.”
Drinks in hand, I spin around to walk back to my booth, but then I feel his hand on my shoulder. Again I’m cringing. I’m also cursing myself. I should have just walked away without saying a word. Now I’ve provoked this angry drunk.
But just as quickly as it came, his hand is gone. Behind me there’s a grunt, then a thud. I spin around, stunned at the sight of Callum pinning the drunken prick by the throat to the bar.
“You don’t touch her.”
Callum’s growl captures the attention of every patron in the pub. His face is red, his jaw is tense, and his body is on edge, ready to unleash hell if the drunken guy so much as blinks wrong.
He probably wouldn’t have to work very hard to leave an impression on him. Callum’s got several inches and many pounds of lean mass on this jerk. The way he’s able to handle him so effortlessly tells me Callum could probably break him in half with one hand tied behind his back.
My throat goes dry taking in the scene in front of me. Thank fuck Callum happened to be watching. Just thinking about what the guy would have done if he hadn’t intervened has me in a cold sweat. He was comfortable enough to put his hands on me, a complete stranger, when I rejected him. Who knows what else he was capable of doing?
The drunken guy tries to speak, but nothing other than a gurgle comes out. Probably because of Callum’s death grip on his throat.
“Oi! What’s going on here?” the bartender shouts as he darts to our end of the bar.
With his eyes still on the drunken offender, Callum speaks. “Your customer grabbed my friend. And since you weren’t keeping an eye on things, I thought I’d handle it.”
Callum’s death glare cuts to the bartender, who is all wide eyes and no blinks.
“Sorry, mate,” the bartender says. He directs two other bartenders to haul the offender out of the bar.
Before he hands over the drunken offender, Callum leans his face even closer to his. “Do not put your hands on a woman like that. Ever.”
It’s a whispered threat, but it’s more lethal than a shout. Callum practically tosses him to the two bartenders, who deposit him on the sidewalk. A few tables break into applause and whistles. Callum doesn’t even crack a smile though. He simply walks back over to me and touches his hand to my elbow.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, every nerve within me short-circuiting. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Bloody creep,” he mutters, looking in the direction of the door.
The bartender hands me back my cash, saying our drinks are on the house. Callum nods at him, then turns back to me. His hazel eyes study me with concern.
“We don’t have to stay,” Callum says. “We can leave if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
Comfortable.
The word settles deep into my chest. It’s clear as day to me now: comfort is Callum next to me. I can be anywhere in any situation, and as long as he is next to me, I’ll be okay.
“I’m not above accepting a free drink.” I look up at him. “I want to stay.”
He chuckles, then carries our beers back to our booth. We pick up right where we left off, our conversation flowing easily. But inside me something’s different. Is a casual arrangement supposed to feel this intimate, this quickly? Because right now casual feels a lot more personal. And I think I like it.
Chapter 11
Almost two weeks back home in Maui and our no-strings-attached arrangement is still intact. To my surprise, we haven’t crashed and burned. Days are spent like they were before the trip to London that changed everything. We cook and serve food parked next to each other, never exchanging a word during work hours. It’s a huge disappointment to the food bloggers and social media fans who visit our trucks daily to enjoy a meal, phone in hand, ready to catch our next squabble and upload it. But there’s nothing salacious to capture.
Our evenings, however? Our evenings are very, very salacious. We take turns sneaking to each other’s places. Things are tricky since we both live with other people, but we’ve worked out a system. When Mom’s at mahjong or book club, Callum comes to mine. When Finn is out, I go to his. The minute we shut the door, clothes are off, and we’re a tangle of limbs and skin and hot breath until we realize what time it is.
The anticipation of seeing Callum outside of our food truck battlefield is what powers me through most days. It’s why I’m standing at the front door of his condo in Wailea this evening, shuffling my feet, stomach in a million happy knots as I wait for him to answer. I knock for the second time, cardboard cat carrier clutched in my other hand.
He answers, his smile wide when he sees me. Then his gaze drops to the carrier, and he full-on beams.
“Lemon!” he practically squeals.
We walk inside, he shuts the door, and I let her out of the carrier. At first her eyes dart around the space, conveying the typical hesitation all cats have when you bring them to a new place. But then Callum scoops her up and scratches under her chin. She’s purring instantly.
“Thought it was time she visit her co-owner’s home,” I say.
Callum mock frowns at me. “It’s impossible to own a cat. They own us.”
He sets her down on the floor, then points to the nearby dining table where four bottles of pink champagne rest.
“Wow. Do you woo all the ladies like this?” I joke.
He rolls his eyes. “Finn helped a chef friend cook at a private party in Kaanapali the other night and they went home with all of the leftover alcohol. He’s gone on an overnight hike, so he asked me to get rid of a couple bottles.”
&
nbsp; “The perks of private dining. Damn, I miss those days.”
“Well, I’m chuffed to bring you a taste of the past.”
One corner of his mouth quirks up, showcasing the hottest slanted smile I’ve ever seen. I lean against the nearby kitchen island to keep myself steady as I quietly swoon.
“Wondered if you were in the mood for a champagne-drinking contest?”
I chuckle. “Why, exactly?”
He raises a brow at me; my grip on the counter tightens. “Why not?”
He swipes a bottle from the table and pops off the top. The cork shoots across the room, the boom sound spooking Lemon. Even with her pregnant bulging tummy, she scurries down the hallway at lightning-fast speed.
“Sorry, love,” Callum hollers after her before taking a long sip. He wipes his wet lips with the back of his hand, eyes on me the entire time.
I’m giggling as I reach for the bottle and take a swig for myself. I swallow. “What would a champagne-drinking contest entail?”
He grabs another bottle and leads me to the nearby living room of his open-concept condo. With the minimal furnishings of a four-person dining table, microfiber sectional, coffee table, and wall-mounted flat-screen, his condo is considerably roomier than mine. The condo I share with Mom boasts less square footage, yet we’ve got twice the amount of furniture in our living and dining rooms.
He plops on the couch and pats the seat next to him. I cuddle into him, and he hands me the freshly opened bottle.
“We watch one episode of The Office US, then one of The Office UK.” He flips on the TV. “Whoever finishes their bottle first during those two episodes wins.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Not fair. We both just took a drink from your bottle.”
He rolls his eyes, still smirking. Then he swipes my bottle and takes a five-second-long chug before handing it back to me. “There.” He huffs a breath, chest heaving. “We’re even. You ready?”
I squint at him. “What does the winner get?”
“Sexual favors from the loser.”
