“Enough about me. Let’s talk about you.”
24
CALLUM
For all her gentleness and sweet demeanor, Alia is jaded. She hides it well enough until someone takes the time to prod and see that beneath the quiet surface is a swirling pool of darkness she’s fighting to break through.
I suppose a cheating spouse could turn anyone bitter.
I’d love to know more about her, but her obvious change of subject makes it clear she won’t entertain any more questions that leave her feeling vulnerable.
But. . . her reaction to the flowers bothers me. As if she isn’t used to such a simple gesture. Then she immediately brushed off the idea that I’d take her to a nice restaurant. That we could have a date simply to enjoy ourselves.
She was married once. She must’ve dated before that happened, right?
I’m curious if my doubts are valid but I don’t ask. Tonight isn’t about her past. I sense there are things she hasn’t shared with me—and maybe never will. It’s not my place to demand answers, but I understand her motivations better than I did before.
She’s been forced to live under a set of expectations set by someone else and, now that she’s finally free, she’s figuring out new boundaries.
Her forthrightness is admirable, even if I don’t enjoy the reminder that I’m her ticket into a new phase. I meddled in her life and have to accept that all she can offer is sex and friendship.
I should be throwing a fucking party. All the fun and no commitment; isn’t that what I want?
I don’t feel jubilant, though—not that it changes my mind. Because if doing this means she gets to shed the dissatisfaction she wears like scabs over festering wounds, then call me Katniss. Because I fucking volunteer.
“Callum?”
Yep. Love it when she says my name like that.
“Cal!” she calls sharply.
I straighten. “‘Sup.”
“You were staring,” she murmurs, sounding equal parts concerned and amused.
“Nope, just thinking,” I mumble, shoving the crisp greens into my mouth so I have something else to focus on.
“Well?” she prompts. “Are you going to tell me more about you?”
“Me?” I ask quizzically. “What do you want to know?”
“Something, anything.”
“Okay,” I drawl, placing my fork down to lean back in my chair. “Let’s see. I’m twenty-eight. Born in Calgary, Alberta to Maeve and Cameron Finnigan. Mom’s a homemaker, Dad’s a bigshot CEO for an oil and gas company. Both are high school sweethearts and still disgustingly in love. They are excellent parents, possibly a bit over-involved and indulgent, so I have no trauma. I was giveneverything I ever wanted, had a financially sound—lavish—life. Even with all the money, they emphasized the importance of spending time together as a family. Loved me so well I never needed to go through a rebellious phase. I blame them if anyone finds me too well-adjusted and uninteresting.”
Alia snorts, shaking her head at me like she’s not sure if she should scold me or laugh. I shoot her an irreverent wink and continue.
“I have a younger brother, Rory, who’s in the AHL and, in my totally unbiased opinion, he’s gonna make a hell of an NHL player soon. I hope I get to play with him before I retire but, either way, I’m a proud brother.”
Alia is glowing by the time I’m done with my spiel. She could’ve found all this information online but then I wouldn’t have seen how her gaze grew warm with fondness. I can’t remember when an attractive woman last looked at me with affection instead of ardor.
“Okay, but what aboutyou?“ she asks again, shaking her head when I offer her more food.
“What about me? I love hockey, blue is my favorite color, I enjoy beach days, I like to cook sometimes, and have a green thumb I’m proud of. Might have a greenhouse someday. What else?”
We pick up our plates and head inside, dropping everything in the sink. I wave her over to sit on the stool at the marble island before handing her the dessert plate from the fridge.
“Are you hiding any skeletons I should know about?” She wiggles her brows at me, even as she lifts her fork to clink against mine, ready for it this time. Standing beside her, I lean on the countertop and dig into the lemon-berry cake I picked up from the farmer’s market.