Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Okay, I’ve switched up the content for Juniper Madley’s book release next week like you suggested. She’s happy with it. We’re scheduled and ready to go.”
“You are a superstar. Thank you for doing that at the last minute.”
“No, no, the book chat stuff was a good idea. I think it’ll get her great engagement.”
“Perfect. Thank you!”
“Have a good night.”
“You too.” I hung up and grimaced at Callan’s back. “Sorry.”
He shrugged and added something into the pot. “It’s fine.”
It didn’t seem fine.
My phone rang again. It was Michaela. I groaned. “I have to take this. Sorry.”
Callan dropped the wooden spoon in his pot and whirled around. His long arm reached my phone before I could. I gaped as he answered it. “Beth’s phone.”
“Callan—”
He shook his head, glowering at me. “This is Callan, Beth’s human sex toy.”
I could hear Michaela cackling on the other end of the line as Callan grinned at the face I made.
“Is this important?” He frowned at whatever she said and then rolled his eyes at me. “Well, you leave that until tomorrow or something. It’s Friday evening. Go enjoy yourself. And tell the rest of your team that I’m confiscating Beth’s phone for the rest of the night … You too … Cheers. Bye.” He hung up and very deliberately switched off my phone.
Truthfully, I was less indignant than I pretended to be. Something like relief battled with my annoyance at his overstepping. “Give me my phone.”
Instead, he walked out of the room with it.
I gaped after him.
He returned without it.
“Callan.”
“Beth.” He nodded at me like we were greeting each other.
“I will kill you if you don’t give me that phone back.”
Callan braced his hands on the island, considering me. “Are you really telling me that having that fucking thing go off every five seconds doesn’t do your nut in?”
Strangely, the phone, my work, had been my life raft today, but as soon as I walked into Callan’s, it had become a nuisance. Weird that.
“Even if you’re right … it should be my decision.”
He sighed, his gaze searching. Then he nodded and pushed away from the island. I waited as he disappeared from the room and returned with my phone. Callan reluctantly handed it over.
An ache pierced my chest. A good one. A scary one. I took the phone and walked over to the sideboard, ignoring my inward flinch at his ugly sofa. One day I’d talk him into reupholstering the damn thing. Opening the drawer in his side table, I hesitated for a second as anxiety over the idea of missing an important work email attempted to strong-arm my decision to switch off for the evening.
It can wait until morning, I told myself sternly.
And I dropped my phone into the drawer and closed it.
Turning back to him, I grinned. “Maybe it can stay off for a while.”
He smirked. “I am wiser than I look, you know.”
Laughing, I crossed over to the island again. “Can I get you a drink while you’re cooking up a storm?”
“I bought an NA white to go with the curry.” He nodded to his wine cooler.
“Nice.” I set about pouring us drinks and laying the table as Callan cooked and we chatted about our days. It was all very domesticated for a no-strings-attached affair.
Refusing to allow myself to spiral over the thought that maybe we really were blurring lines, I focused on being present with him.
We were chatting away—I was telling him about my parents’ trip, Elle’s crush on a boy at school, Luke’s desire to give up uni to be an influencer and how I was desperately trying to talk him out of it—when I took my first bite of the curry.
And it almost blew my bloody head off.
“Oh my God.” I swallowed, choking, nearly knocking the glass of wine over as I lunged for liquid relief. I practically inhaled the cool wine as spices coated my throat in flame. Coughing, spluttering, I pushed away from the table feeling mildly murderous toward tonight’s chef.
“Fucking hell, are you all right?” Callan got up to get me a glass of water.
“That d-depends,” I choked out, “on if you’re trying to kill me.”
“It’s not that spicy.” He handed me the glass and took a forkful of his own curry and chewed.
He didn’t even make a sound while I could feel sweat beading on my forehead.
“That’s not a masala, Callan.” I gestured to the plate, my voice hoarse. “A masala is mild.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say.” He rubbed my shoulder, laughter trembling on his lips. “Maybe you can’t handle spice.”
“I can handle spice,” I argued. “Not death by spice!”
He snorted. “Everyone loves my masala.”
“Who is everyone? You can’t taste anything over the inferno.”
That made him laugh harder while I got up to get a glass of milk. I downed it and my mouth and throat gave a sigh of relief.