Page 2 of One Small Spark (Love in Sunshine #4)

TWO

WREN

Actually, it bothers me a lot. I can’t think straight.

It’s not like he’s full-on manspreading, but his leg is encroaching on my cushion.

I press my thigh against his, thinking he’ll get the message and, I don’t know, cross his legs to the other side.

But he doesn’t move at all, and our legs stay plastered together from hip to knee.

Plus, I’m sweating. It’s these dang patio warmers Ada’s got out here. I thought it’d be chilly, but between the heat pouring off the metal poles and the close quarters on the love seat, it’s sweltering.

Also—this seems key—nobody’s talking about the romance book we were supposed to read.

The ladies are eating and chatting about gardening tips and how Fran got the green beans so tender and whether we’ll have early snow this year.

It’s not the deep-dive into smut I’ve been looking forward to.

Maybe that’ll start up after we finish eating?

“When are we going to get to the romance part of romance book club?” I ask low so the others can’t hear.

“We have social time first,” Callahan says. “Everyone catches up while we eat.”

“Are we supposed to talk ?”

He chuffs a laugh. “You’re so horrified.”

“Look who they stuck me with.”

Which I don’t actually do. The man takes up my entire peripheral vision as it is. If I skate my eyes to the side, I’ll be confronted with his flannel-covered goodness. Badness. Him.

It’s bad enough I can smell him. I would love to say he smells like roadkill in the sun, but the light woodsy scent I’m catching isn’t terrible.

It’s giving “I live in a forest where woodland creatures visit me daily to watch me chop wood.” The least he could do is bathe himself in sinus-clearing body spray like a normal guy.

I focus on devouring my plate of food.

“You could pretend you like me,” he offers, as if that’s a practical solution.

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

Callahan doesn’t flinch. Not sure what I thought he’d do. Burst into tears and beg my forgiveness? He probably doesn’t even remember saying that about me. Honestly, he might have said worse since then. It’s been two years, after all. Who knows what else he’s told people behind my back.

“How is the hunt for your own personal Greek god? Any luck yet?”

I finally swivel my head to face my nemesis.

Of all the stupid things for him to overhear me say.

Fresh off of an evening listening to my best friends gush about how grotesquely happy they are with their impressive boyfriends, Callahan caught me at a weak moment.

I might have mentioned something about wanting someone of my own, never guessing he was lurking in the shadows.

Incidentally, that was months ago. So. He can remember some things .

“It’s going great. I’ve got several potential Greek gods on the line as we speak.”

Lies, of course. My dating life is deader than the souls in the Underworld, but I’m not going to admit that to Callahan. Not after he suggested I go for Hephaestus. The monstrously ugly one.

According to some websites I looked up, also the least adulterous one, but still.

He leans a touch closer as if he’s buying my garbage. “What’s your criteria to decide who wins your heart?”

As if he cares.

“He needs to be a reader, obviously.” Except, no. That’s unhelpful when Callahan’s here with me at a book club. I don’t want him to get ideas. “Not outdoorsy.”

He ticks an eyebrow. I don’t care that every woman in my life is currently loved-up by some strapping mountain man. That’s not the road for me.

“Indoor cats only,” he confirms. “What else?”

He’s shifted even closer, taking up way too much space on my half of the loveseat. Heat courses up my spine straight to my scalp. I almost tug at the neck of my hoodie that has First of all, I’m a delight printed on it above a raccoon’s face. Stupid patio warmers.

I nudge his shoulder with mine, but he’s immovable. “Can you not loom so hard?”

“Sorry.” He shifts back to his side of the small couch. At least, his upper body does. His leg remains firmly pressed against mine, but I refuse to give up my space. “Continue with your list of requirements in a boyfriend.”

“Taking notes, are you?”

“Extensive ones.”

I’m not a fan of this conversation. Not just because I’ve got his undivided attention. Callahan’s focus on me always leaves me a bit unmoored. If he’s looking for faults, I’ve got plenty to find. As he apparently knows all too well.

But it’s been so long since I really dated, I feel like a fraud to even talk about it.

What do I want, assuming all I had to do was ask?

Finding someone steady and loyal but up for anything would be the dream.

Someone to talk and laugh with and—ugh—cuddle with would be even better.

But that’s too ooey-gooey to say out loud.

Instead, I describe the polar opposite of the man who owns the bike rental and repair shop right next to our family’s bakery. “I want someone outgoing and popular. The life of the party. Cerebral. Skilled in the kitchen.”

I just know he lives off ramen and cold cereal.

“Is that the only room he should be skilled in?”

I shrug. “I don’t want to make you self-conscious about your shortcomings.”

“You’re so thoughtful.”

I take a bite of the bread I slathered with butter and moan. His eyes narrow, and his jaw ticks beneath his beard. I don’t care if my response is over the top, this bread is heaven. “This is what I’m talking about.”

“It’s that good?”

“It’s a perfect boule. Chewy crumb that’s light and airy with the right amount of flavor and a crisp crust begging to be an entire meal.

” My focus in culinary school was pastries, so I know bread.

I’ll need to ask around to find out where this one came from.

“I would marry a man who can make bread this good.”

Callahan’s slow smile sets something off in my stomach. Indigestion, probably.

“Thank you.” His gaze is back on my mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind. ”

I stare, my lips parting. “You couldn’t,” I breathe out. “I can’t even make bread this good.”

Not consistently, anyway.

His smile widens until it’s comically large. “I don’t want to make you self-conscious about your shortcomings.”

“Where did you?—”

“Is everyone ready to discuss?”

Ada’s loud question startles me out of my confusion. Well, mostly. He made the bread that has me drooling for more? Impossible.

The theme of the day.

“Callahan said he made the bread we’re eating.” My interjection makes me sound like a ten-year-old tattler. I don’t care. No way will these ladies let it go if he’s taking credit for something somebody bought.

To my dismay, a chorus of compliments about his bread follows. Apparently, he brings it every month, at their request. The bicycle mechanic moonlights as a bread wizard.

Distressing.

“I’ve married men for less,” Fran says, aiming a slow wink his direction.

He twists so he can whisper in my ear. “Two proposals in one day. How will I choose?”

I elbow him back to his side. “Nobody wants to marry you.”

His dark brown eyes sparkle at me. “Not even with the promise of endless bread?”

I mean…the bread is good. But, no. It’s not so good I’d sell my soul for it. Or marry a guy who can’t stand me, which is basically the same thing. I set my empty plate aside and cross my arms, bumping him needlessly in the process.

“For our newcomer,” Ada says, waving over at me, “our book discussions are casual, as you can see. Everyone can jump in whenever they like, but we ask that nobody hogs the conversation entirely.”

She shoots a pointed look at the woman to her left.

The woman I’m pretty sure is named Barb seems unfazed by the call-out. “It’s fair to discuss the rules of the ton when we’re reading historical romances.”

“We never got a chance to talk about the book,” Nora points out.

“But now we’ll know when we spot historical inaccuracies.”

A few of the women groan over that.

“Who would like to open discussion of this week’s book?” Ada asks.

She’s watching me, but I don’t want to go first. I will talk about this romance book, but I’m still cramming the fact that Callahan made that bread into my brain. I can’t also discuss why the Scottish hero with the unscalable emotional walls was so swoony when he finally dropped them.

“I thought it was heartbreaking,” Nora says. “The hero had been abandoned and never loved properly, and the heroine had lost everyone she ever loved. But then, it was infuriating, too, when the hero wouldn’t just admit how he felt about her.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” Barb asks.

“Do men ever just admit how they feel?” Ada’s eyes dart to Callahan, but she’s not questioning him.

I wish she was. I’d like an answer. Do men admit how they feel? They must, right? All the women I care about now have men in their lives who must have verbalized a sensitive notion or two at some point. I’ve sure never experienced that, but I don’t hate the idea of it.

“Isn’t that why we read romance novels?” I put in. “So we can pretend men have a normal range of human emotions?”

“The heroine wasn’t forthcoming with her feelings for him, either,” Callahan says. “Most romance novels would end pretty quickly if the main characters said everything they were feeling the moment they felt it.”

“Read a lot of romances, have you?” I mutter.

He dips his head closer. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Ugh. This man.

“That’s why we love them,” Rosetta says. “The delicious tension of the push-pull where as the reader you know the characters are falling in love, but their histories make it impossible for them to admit it to each other.”

“There’s nothing like a good enemies to lovers,” Isabel adds. “They hate each other, but really, they don’t.”

“If they don’t hate each other, then it’s not enemies to lovers,” Barb says.

I want to add my two cents that love interests don’t need to have knives at each others’ throats to count as enemies, but Callahan splays one hand on his thigh, and I lose the conversation.

The tip of his pinky finger rests against my leg.

It’s some kind of power move. It has to be.

One more nudge over the line that’s supposed to exist between us.

I can’t stop staring at that tiny point of contact. Crazy how much heat transfers from his pinky fingertip, through my leggings, to my skin. I should brush his hand away. Make it clear he can’t manspread and handspread.

His hand is kind of nice, though. If you’re into that sort of thing.

Long fingers and a generous palm. Bigger than my hand, but not so enormous mine would look like a miniature in comparison.

A myriad of shimmery scars dance over his skin.

Probably from when he gets all up in some bike gear shaft or whatever he does in his shop.

Higher, a dark line at his wrist marks the beginning of his tattoo sleeve.

It’s a stark transition from lightly tanned skin to dark gray ink.

Both his arms are covered in mysterious black- and-gray tattoos with little pops of color I’ve never looked at too closely.

They’re currently covered by his blue flannel shirt, but that visible sliver at his wrist before it disappears beneath the cuff bugs me.

The fact that I want to know what his tattoos are bugs me the most.

His fingers extend and flex once, brushing that pinky fingertip a few centimeters across my leg. I shiver against my will.

He grabs the blanket he’d moved out of the way when I sat down and offers it to me. “Cold?”

“Yes.” I gladly take the excuse and the blanket and spread it over my legs.

“Wren, you had something to say about the hero earlier, didn’t you?” Rosetta asks.

I stare at her, needing a minute to figure out what I’d planned to say. I took a lot of notes while I read, all of which have slipped my mind. “Uh…”

“Something about love being a lie,” Mr. Helpful offers.

“Right! Yes!” I’m a little too triumphant, but the clarity of thought is welcome after my brain fizzled out over his freaking hand.

“The hero doesn’t think love is real because he’s never experienced it before.

Both his parents abandoned him, and he never had anyone in his corner.

But the heroine’s mad he’s not more romantic.

If you don’t have any context for love, how can you be expected to search for it the way the heroine was? ”

“The heroine didn’t have a lot of context for love either,” he argues. “But she still wanted it.”

“Because she’s the heroine. In a lot of romance novels, the heroine is desperate for love and affection no matter what she’s been through.”

“That’s a good point,” Rosetta says. “There’s an expectation that women are always looking for love. ”

“Exactly. The hero gets to be all stoic and detached from his feelings and only stumbles into love after it’s already fallen in his lap. The heroes are more relatable because they don’t think love is for them.”

Silence takes over the patio. Great. My first foray into a romance book club and I’ve all but admitted I don’t actually believe in it. Even Callahan’s watching me closely—big surprise, the creeper.

My smile is mostly cringe as I try to recover. “But, hey, those shirtless scenes were fire, am I right?”