Page 40 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
BECK
G rowing up in the foster care system meant constant lies and broken promises.
Promises to be a real family. Promises that the father with the harsh glint in his eyes and the beer in his hand won’t get drunk and beat you within an inch of your life.
Promises that the hand-me-downs and shared room and pallet of blankets on the floor that serve as your bed are just temporary.
Promises made.
Promises broken.
Promises, promises, promises.
I got to the point where I automatically became skeptical of anyone who uttered the word because I knew that, eventually, their actions would reveal their words as the falsities I already knew them to be.
That only changed when Cal became a part of my life.
I never knew anyone as steadfast and committed to doing what they said they would do when they said they would do it until him.
It didn’t take me long to realize that his dedication to making his word his bond stemmed from the stream of broken promises and half-truths his father fed him as a child.
Something about knowing the dark, broken place where this part of his personality was born made me inclined to take him at his word, and I haven’t once regretted it because Callan Drake has never made me a promise he didn’t intend to keep.
Until Selene Taylor.
Before I allowed myself to acknowledge the feelings I have for her, I was angry with him for not being able to keep his word regarding her.
But now I’m intimately familiar with the magnetic pull of her, and I can’t keep my word either.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t let us end up eating the dinner Cal made with her at the dining table because the low lighting, the simple yet decadent dish, and the quiet conversation would feel too much like the thing we both want but can’t have.
But here I am, with Cal to my right and Selene across from me, watching her gather bucatini noodles covered in a creamy mushroom-based sauce on her fork with delicate twirls of her wrist. Cal and I are both staring, but she doesn’t notice because her eyes are closed as she brings the first bite of food to her mouth.
She hums softly when her lips close around the fork, and my muscles tense at the gluttonously carnal sound, remaining that way even after she’s chewed and swallowed.
“Cal, this is delicious,” she says, taking a sip of the glass of Chardonnay in front of her. I found the bottle in the wine fridge and opened it just for her to enjoy.
A gentle, proud smile curves his lips. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She splits a gaze between the two of us, and it turns shy when her eyes land on me.
There’s a cautiousness between us that doesn’t exist with her and Cal, and I know I shouldn’t, but I want it gone.
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble, though.
Cooking for me is not a part of either of your job descriptions. ”
“It wasn’t any trouble,” Cal tells her.
“Our job is to safeguard your physical well-being. I think keeping you fed is a part of that,” I add, making sure to soften my tone to make the words seem less impersonal.
Selene, who appreciates a logic-based argument more than anyone else I know, chews slowly, considering my words. Eventually, she nods, accepting them.
“I guess you’re right.”
“I am,” I assure her.
“Doesn’t happen often,” Cal jokes, and they both laugh when I flip him off.
I can’t even bring myself to feel self-conscious about the show of unprofessionalism, because we’re already so far out of bounds; it just feels right to let Selene step further behind the curtain.
When the laughter dies down, we all tuck back into our food, falling into a comfortable silence that persists until all the plates are clean.
Selene sits back in her seat, her fork clanging softly against the edge of her plate as she sets it down. “That was one of the best meals I’ve had in a while. Where did you learn to cook like that, Cal?”
I already know the answer by heart because I asked the same question after the first time he cooked for me, but I still listen intently, watching the emotion behind Cal’s eyes as he tells Selene the same story he told me.
“My dad left me and my mom when I was young. He was the love of her life, and losing him had broken something inside her. She tried to fix it, to hide it in random hobbies. I remember coming home from school one day and finding her in the living room with bundles of yarn and knitting needles, only to throw them in the corner with the materials from the rest of her abandoned interests.”
Nostalgia shimmers in pools of copper and brass that stay focused on Selene’s face. Her features are still, but the steady eye contact she’s giving him makes it clear she’s not just listening, but hearing him, catching the notes of vulnerability and years-old pain in every word.
“Cooking was the only thing that stuck,” Cal says, continuing.
“And I think that was just a matter of necessity. My dad used to do all the cooking, so when he left, we were getting by on frozen pizzas, sandwiches, and boxed meals. One day, she just woke up and decided she was done with it. She started buying cookbooks from second-hand bookstores and forced me into the kitchen to try out recipes with her. I hated it at first because neither one of us knew what we were doing, and most of the food was inedible, but eventually we got good at it. I started looking forward to our evenings together in the kitchen, and now every time I cook it feels like I’m back there with her. ”
A wave of sadness washes over his features, and I reach for him on instinct, placing my hand in his and squeezing gently. Cal’s eyes are wide when they meet mine, surprise spilling out of his irises as we both realize what I’ve done and who I’ve done it in front of.
My heart thuds against my ribs as I look to Selene, who is, as usual, giving away very little. Her eyes trace the lines of our intertwined fingers, and it feels like Cal and I are both holding our breath as we wait for her reaction.
“When did she pass?” Selene asks softly, her voice free of disgust or judgment.
Cal’s throat works as he tries to conjure the words, but they won’t come. It’s still hard for him to talk about losing his mom. She was all he had when his dad left, and he built his world around her. Her passing shattered him. I think that’s how he recognized the fractures in me.
“It’ll be sixteen years in January,” I say, supplying the answer because he can’t.
Selene’s features soften ever so slightly, and shock rolls through me when she leans forward and her slender fingers find Cal’s free hand.
They’re tentative at first, unsure if their elegance belongs against the roughness of his skin.
It doesn’t show on her face, though. The only thing I see there is an openness that’s rarely present when other people are around and a spark of surprise when Cal’s fingers close around hers, suspending us in a moment of connection that doesn’t feel wrong, weird, inappropriate or any of the other words I’d convinced myself should be used to describe this thing between us.
All it feels is right.
Like the three of us were meant to share this moment, like Selene and I were supposed to comfort Cal, and Cal and I are supposed to protect her, and they are supposed to remind me what it feels like to have a family.
What it’s like to be vulnerable, to open up, to risk my heart because doing it once isn’t courage, but doing it twice might be.
The moment ends a few seconds later, and to my surprise, it’s Cal that severs it. He gives Selene and me gentle smiles before letting us go and pushing to his feet.
“Ready for dessert?” he asks, turning towards the kitchen before we even respond. Selene looks at me, a silent question passing between us about whether Cal is alright. I nod even though I’m not entirely sure and stand, quickly clearing our plates.
“I can—” she starts, her hand already reaching for a glass that I take from her because I don’t want her lifting a finger. She huffs a breath of disbelief but remains seated, watching as I balance all three plates, glasses, and an array of silverware in one hand.
Cal turns when he hears me come into the kitchen.
He’s back at the refrigerator, but in the freezer this time, pulling out a pint of vanilla ice cream and putting it on the counter beside three bowls and the plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies waiting to be consumed.
I place the dishes in the sink and leave them, knowing we’ll come back to them later.
And the entire time, we stare at each other, copper and brass meld into onyx as we engage in a silent conversation that we’ve gotten too good at having.
Without a word or a shift in his demeanor, he tells me that he’s fine and asks if I am too.
Knowing his inquiry is inspired by the promises I had just been contemplating as broken, I nod.
And even though I’m unsettled by the moment we just shared and the vows lying in pieces at our feet, I know it’s true.
I’m fine because he’s fine. After all, Selene is safe because we’re here together.
Cal walks around the counter, handing me the plate of cookies while he carries everything else to the table, where Selene is still seated, waiting patiently for us with a carefully closed expression.
“I hope you like chocolate chip cookies,” Cal says, lining the bowls up in front of him on the table.
Selene leans forward, examining the spread. “I love chocolate chip cookies, but I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
Cal pauses mid-scoop and lifts a brow at her, and I laugh. “Selene, you should know that Cal is very serious about dessert. He won’t take no for an answer, and before you ask, yes, I am speaking from experience.”
“Don’t make me sound like a monster for wanting to share a sweet treat.”
“You’re not a monster. I’m just letting her know that saying no really isn’t an option.”