Page 8 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Stella

I stare at the kettle, willing the water to boil slower, just so I can stand here a few more seconds and collect myself.

His voice. That closeness. The way he leaned in and said anything like it meant more than simple coffee filters. Like it meant me .

I should be furious. Or at the very least uncomfortable.

But instead, I’m flushed from the chest up and can’t shake the memory of him behind me.

The warmth of his body pressed so close, the woodsy, expensive scent that still clings.

And there’d been more. The hard press of his cock against me.

At least I think it was his erection. Maybe I imagined it.

Why would a man like him react like that to me?

Still, the thought keeps coming back, making my pulse race all over again.

He said it low, like a growl. Like something that slipped out before he could stop it.

Let me know if you need anything else.

I grip the handle of the mug a little too tightly.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I imagined the weight in his voice. Maybe he was just trying to be polite and accidentally leaned into something more.

But then again, maybe not. I definitely felt something. Unless he’s the sort of man who gets aroused by firing off emails. The thought makes me snort before I catch myself. Silly. Maybe he really does find me attractive.

The thought is… baffling. Callum Wright, who looks like he walked off a film set. All rough edges and sharp jawlines and arms covered in ink. He’s what? Thirty-three? That’s nine years younger than me. And with that face, that body, and that bank balance, he could have anyone. Literally anyone.

He doesn’t need an overweight forty-something with laugh lines and stretch marks and a drawer full of M she knows me too well.

I look down, tracing the rim of my glass with a fingertip. My pulse is still a mess. Do I even want to say it out loud? It wasn’t anything. Or maybe it was. God, I don’t even know.

“He just…” My voice trails off, and I hate how uncertain it sounds.

Fran waits, silent but expectant, like she’s giving me space to fill in the blank.

“He just stood too close,” I say finally, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Her head tilts. “Too close how?”

I swallow, suddenly wishing I hadn’t started. “Close enough that I could feel him behind me. He reached past me. I was getting the coffee filters. ”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything, and that almost makes it worse. My cheeks burn hotter. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was nothing.

Then Fran sets her glass down and looks at me steadily. “That sounds… intense.”

I force a laugh. “Or maybe just clumsy kitchen logistics.”

She smiles softly, not gloating this time, just curious. “Do you want it to mean something?”

My heart lurches, and I can’t find an answer.

“He leaned in,” I admit instead. “He growled and then said… ‘Let me know if you need anything else.’”

Her eyes widen. “Okay?”

“But it wasn’t what he said. It was how. Right behind me. Quiet. Low. Like—”

“Like he wanted to be the ‘anything.’” She sits back, hands in the air. “I knew it.”

I bury my face in my hands. “This is ridiculous.”

“No. This is delicious . You’ve got a boss who growls and wants you so much he gets a boner in the office.”

“I’m forty-two.”

“Still hot.”

“He’s thirty-three.”

“So?”

I drop my hands and look at her. “This job matters. I can’t mess it up. And I’m already so far in over my head it’s pathetic.”

Fran’s expression shifts, just slightly. Softer again. “You’re not pathetic. You’re just not used to being wanted.”

I pause. That one hits deeper than it should .

“Maybe,” I say. “But wanting him back is a terrible idea.”

“Is it though?” she says, lifting her glass. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like your first day was the most exciting Tuesday you’ve had in years.”

I stand, grabbing our glasses. “I’m getting us a refill before you start writing fanfiction.”

She grins. “Fine. But don’t think we are done talking about this.”

I walk to the bar, hoping my face cools down before the next round.

The bar’s slow, two people ahead of me waiting for pints, and I’m half-listening to the bartender flirt with someone clearly not interested when a hand clamps down hard on my shoulder and spins me round.

I stumble slightly, steadying myself against the bar.

Jeremy.

His face is flushed — not from drink. From fury.

“Hello to you, too,” I say, trying for calm. My voice comes out thinner than I want.

“What the fuck is this about you not needing my money anymore?” he snaps, low enough not to draw attention, but with that venomous edge I know too bloody well.

I blink. “I—what?”

“My solicitor called me. Said you’ve changed the agreement. Dropped the support.” He leans in, jaw clenched. “What game are you playing, Stella?”

“I’m not playing any game.”

“Right. So let me get this straight. You’ve landed some miraculous job out of nowhere, have you? What, someone just hired you ?” He laughs — mean, sharp. “Come on. You’ve been out of work nearly two decades. What the hell do you know about anything anymore?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

The hurt hits first — old and familiar — followed by something far more useful.

Anger.

Real, grounding, blood-hot anger.

I straighten. “Is that really what’s got you so twisted up?” I ask, voice low but even. “That I’ve stood on my own two feet and it didn’t involve you pulling the strings?”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re dodging the question.”

“No. I’m ignoring your insult.” I feel my hands curling around the glasses in my hands. “You’re not angry because I’ve moved on. You’re angry because you don’t get to keep tabs on me anymore. You don’t like not having control. Not being needed .”

He stares at me, mouth pressed in a hard line.

“And let’s be honest,” I add, pulse roaring in my ears, “you never wanted to support me. You just wanted to keep me in your shadow. Now you don’t get to.”

I go to step past him, but Jeremy’s hand clamps around my wrist.

“Stella—”

“Take your hand off her.”

The voice cuts through the noise like a blade. Calm. Deep. Dangerous.

Callum steps up to me, eyes locked on Jeremy, jaw tight. That same unreadable face he has been wearing ever since I started working for him — but now sharpened into something dangerous.

Jeremy sneers. “And who the fuck are you? ”

Callum steps in, close enough now that I feel the heat of him next to me.

Jeremy gives a short, ugly laugh. “Oh, I see. This is it, yeah? Got yourself a toy boy? Explains the sudden boost in confidence. Explains the slutty dress.”

He gives me a look — one of those up-and-down, leering glances he used to give me at the beginning of our relationship when he thought he was being charming.

My body locks. People are watching. I feel their eyes, the hush of silence starting to ripple outwards. I want to vanish.

Before I can move or speak or breathe, Callum’s voice cuts through again.

“What’s it to you?”

Jeremy scoffs. “What’s it to you , mate? Go find someone your own age. Not some washed-up housewife old enough to be your—”

He doesn’t finish.

Callum turns, cups my face, and kisses me.

Just like that.

My brain short-circuits.

His hands are rough, steady, anchoring me like I might float off the planet. His mouth is hot and firm, not asking permission but not demanding either — just taking. Like he’s been thinking about it for days. Weeks.

And I feel it all the way down. The jolt of it. The raw pull. The shock. The want.

There’s no time to think. No space for shame. Only the solid, burning realness of his mouth on mine and the part of me that leans in before I even know I’ve moved.

Then he pulls back — just an inch — but his hands are still on my cheeks, his eyes locked with mine .

“You all right?” There’s a gentleness in his tone, the kind that makes me feel like I’m the centre of his world, if only for now.

I nod. Barely. My thoughts are gone.

Everything’s gone except the echo of that kiss and the way my body is still buzzing, like it hasn’t caught up yet.

Jeremy’s silent. Completely thrown.

Callum doesn’t even glance at him. Jeremy is no longer part of this evening.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, soft but steady.

And I follow him.

Because my legs are moving before my head catches up.

Because every inch of me is on fire.

Because that kiss?

That wasn’t a performance.

That was something else.

I half-expect him to lead me straight out of the pub, out into the night air, away from the crowd and the eyes and the noise still ringing in my ears.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he steers me gently — hand warm on the small of my back — back toward my table. Back to Fran, who clearly witnessed the whole scene. She’s sitting there gobsmacked, mouth slightly open as if she’s forgotten how to speak.

I give her a tentative smile, because I have no idea how to even begin explaining any of this.

Callum pulls out my chair for me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I sit, stiffly. My knees don’t feel like they’re connected to the rest of me.

Fran’s still staring .

Callum leans down. Close again. Too close. I feel the heat of him before he speaks — that same low, dangerous tone that nearly melted my spine in the kitchen.

“I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about that.”

Then he’s gone.

Just like that.

Walking out of the pub like he didn’t just kiss me in front of half the village. Like he didn’t just light a fire in the middle of my chest and leave it burning unattended.

Fran, with the slow clarity of someone trying to process an alien landing, says “Well.”

I stare at the door, heart thudding, lips still tingling.

“I think I need another drink,” I whisper.

Fran giggles. “Oh, I think you need a lot more than a drink.”