Callan
Alittle silver car whipped into the spot beside me, too fast, tires crunching over loose gravel.
I didn’t even have to look.
Sloane.
I groaned under my breath, dragging a hand down my face.
She cut the engine and sat there for a second, her hands resting on the steering wheel as if she were bracing herself.
Which irritated me immediately.
I couldn’t even tell you why she bugged me so much. She inexplicably did.
She was intelligent, smarter than most of the people who worked here. Driven. Educated in a way that came with degrees and research papers and a confidence that didn’t need permission.
Striking in appearance.
Not in any traditional sense—more like being drawn tosomething you ought to avoid. Her hair a dark red. Not the fake, bottled kind, but deeper. Richer. It caught the light like rust and fire and curled slightly at the ends, usually escaping whatever half-hearted attempt she made to contain it.
Her eyes a spectacular light green. Sharp. Observant. The kind that saw too much.
And the freckles.
Jesus.
They scattered across her nose and cheeks as if they’d been placed there with divine purpose to drive men insane.
She was small, barely five feet tall. My six-foot-two frame seemed more apparent next to hers.
And I understood exactly how much it bothered her.
Every time I stood at my full height near her, I could practically sense the irritation radiating off her skin.
I saw it in the way her jaw tightened when I corrected her, the way her shoulders stiffened when I walked into a room, the way she looked at me as if she was unsure whether she wanted to punch me or prove me wrong.
I exploited it deliberately, knowing it was wrong, doing it anyway.
Because the truth would have cut too deep—that she made the ground beneath me unstable.
She opened her car door and stepped out. The cool morning air caught her hair immediately, lifting a few loose strands around her face. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, her movements efficient, controlled.
She kept her eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge me.
Fine by me.
I opened my own door, boots hitting the pavement.
She glanced up.
Our eyes met.
There it appeared again—that slight narrowing, the almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of her mouth.
“Morning,” she said, the word clipped short.
“Morning,” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended.