Cal’s lopsided grin confirms it.
“But whatareyou?”
“A half-baked potato.”
“Why is everyone gathered he. . .” Rohan ambles down the hallway, trailing off when Cal steps into the foyer. “Finnigan, why the fuck are you dressed like shit?”
“Language!” Chitthi scolds, while Irsia and I burst out laughing.
Cal rips his costume off with a low growl and all the mirth from my body drains. A simple white t-shirt under the poop-tato atrocity clings to his sculpted body, the short sleeves snug around the muscles of his biceps. My nipples pebble as I imagine running my fingers along the contours of his chest while his lips explore mine, clutching his strong arm while he nibbles lower, pulling off my bra to—
“Is that better?”
Snapped out of my fantasy, I will the warmth in my cheeks to subside.Better? Another second and I might have orgasmed.
Thankfully, Cal is facing Rohan so wouldn’t have seen me panting like a dog in heat. I watch the two men walk away, led inside by my aunt, and finally release a trapped breath. That was close.
I turn, jumping in place as an involuntary shriek climbs its way up my throat. Irsia stands there with her arms crossed, observing me with a shrewd look and a tiny smirk. Crap. I know that smirk.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“You tell me, Aloo.” Her eyes swing down the hall and back. “I saw the way you were looking at Callum.”
My heart jumps to my throat. As if I just got caught watching porn.
“Ish, we’re friends. And the man was dressed like poop. Of course I’d look. Don’t read too much into it.”
“If you say so,” she replies in that extra-annoying tone siblings use to make it blatantly obvious they don’t believe you.
“Honestly. We’re just friends.”
And he’s madethatperfectly clear.
I shoo my cousin inside, stopping to say hello to the rest of the team. I’d only come to Diwaloween once, a couple years ago, but Namik complained loudly about missing dinner with his colleagues to attend something this childish. Embarrassed and wanting to avoid an argument, we left early.
Next year, I skipped Diwaloween altogether. Namik didn’t think it would look good if I attended alone when he had other plans.
As I soak in the friendly ambience, I’m ashamed I allowed him to separate me from my family and treat me like a doormat. No wonder he thought I’d stay even after he cheated.
The Moore house buzzes with activity in a way I’ve never seen before. Marigold garlands decorate the doorways and little diyas and candles line the mantle and windowsills. String lights have been draped around the curtains. Carved pumpkins sit on the fireplace’s hearth while a house full of people roam about in either ethnic clothes or Halloween costumes.
Rohan and Irsia grew up celebrating this mixed holiday and, when Rohan started playing for the Ironhearts, it evolved into a team celebration.
I see him deep in conversation with his captain, Mateo. His friends and their partners fill every corner of the room. The backyard is teeming with more guests. It warms my heart to see this kind of camaraderie. The Ironhearts don’t just accept Rohan’s mixed heritage—they enthusiastically celebrate it.
Even if said enthusiasm leads to someone showing up looking like potato-doody.
I snicker under my breath, covering my mouth behind the glass of punch I’ve been carrying around. Though I try not to, my gaze unwittingly sweeps my surroundings, searching for Cal. And, in keeping with how the past week has been, his presence is nowhere to be found. I flit about, helping Chitthi, getting drink refills, trying to stay busy. But my mind is stuck on Cal and our unlikely friendship.
It feels like a long time has passed since our midnight taco run. I’ve lost many nights of sleep over how mortifyingly close I came to making a mistake by misreading his interest in me. He was being a good friend and I assumed it was something else. Yet another mark against my poor decision-making skills.
Between the team traveling for games and me licking my wounds in private, our communication has all but come to a screeching halt.
No texts. No calls. Not even an accidental butt-dial.
I’m still too appalled by my own behavior to reach out. But I’m crushed Cal hasn’t either. I’ve tried to excuse it. The guy is popular, has more friends than some people have hair, and is busy enjoying an incredible career. That he made time for me when he did was simply the stars aligning. I shouldn’t assume that’ll always be the case or that I’ll become a priority.
I sigh, weaving my way through the backyard, struggling with a massive platter ofsamosaswhile trying to retrieve my buzzing phone. I’ve only just managed to successfully slide it out of my pocket when I trip over the hem of my skirt. Eyes scrunched shut, I wait for the inevitable crash when the weight of thesamosasin my handsdisappears. A thick arm snakes around my bare waist, saving me from faceplanting right into the buffet table.