Page 34

Thirty-Two

We pull into the parking lot of Fran’s apartment building. She’s been quiet since I insisted that I was quite happily single.

“Do you want to come in?” she asks.

It’s late. But when Fran looks over at me with those sparkling amber eyes and that never-ending grin, I can’t say no to her. I’ve never known anyone with such sincere expressions. She’s the most genuine woman I’ve dated—also not dated.

She nibbles on her bottom lip. “The least I could do is get you a drink. You did drive me all the way home after playing a ninety-minute soccer game.”

“A drink sounds good,” I say.

Her smile broadens, and something inside of me blooms. It’s the same something that had me climbing over walls and planting tulips.

I follow Fran into her small apartment. The lights are off, and the place is quiet. It’s only five minutes after ten o’clock, but Rosalie is either in bed or out .

The glow from the refrigerator lights up Fran’s face. She bends, looking through her half-empty fridge. “Coke—” But before I can answer, she says, “In season.” And shakes her head. “Apple juice?”

She peers back at me, and I wrinkle my nose. “Too much sugar.”

She turns, her back to the open fridge. “What do you drink after a game?”

“Chocolate milk.”

She smirks. “Really?”

“Brian—our nutritionist and team chef—says it’s the best for muscle repair.”

She tilts her head, watching me. “And it doesn’t have too much sugar?”

I shrug.

She clamps down on her bottom lip, drawing my eyes there. Drawing me closer. Like a magnetic pull, I walk toward her. I suddenly understand the saying moth to a flame with full clarity.

Fran swallows, holding her arms at her stomach. “I don’t have chocolate milk.”

Goosebumps erupt over her arms and neck, and I lift my hand to her bare upper arm, rubbing where skin meets sleeve. “Are you cold?”

“Mmm—a little.”

“Well, you are standing in the fridge,” I say, placing myself right in front of her. She’s so close, and while cool air streams from the open box behind her, warmth resonates from her body. I could remind myself that I’m not looking for love, or I could feel every bit of what I’m feeling.

“I think we have white milk,” she says, spinning around and facing away from me. With her head in the door, she says, “Expired. A week ago. Ew .”

I reach for her hand, tugging her up and out of the way of the fridge door. “Water is great.”

“Water,” she whispers, but she doesn’t make a move for the cupboard or sink. Instead, her fingers thread through mine, and her eyes drop to my mouth. “Don’t let your ego go crazy or anything, but I’ve never seen anything like you on a soccer field.”

Blindly, I find her other hand at her side and lace our fingers together. We face one another, hands together, eyes glued to the other. “Well, I did have luck on my side.”

Fran swallows, tracing her bottom lip with her tongue. “Callum,” she says inching closer. “What would you say if I kissed you?”

I swallow, pulse racing, heart speeding as if I just sprinted a mile. The closer she draws, the more the air feels charged. “I mean, you can never have too much luck.”

With that, cheetah Fran thrusts forward, but this time, I’m ready and inches away. She’s an easy catch. Her arms wrap around my neck, and I knot mine around her back.

“I thought you said you wanted to make your own luck,” she says, her breath warming my lips.

“I do. Eventually ,” I say, my nose brushing hers, my skin simmering with her nearness. Fran surprises me at every turn. And she’s making me surprise myself.

She smiles, brightening up the dim room we stand in. And that’s when my body and mind can no longer withhold. I crash my lips to hers—not a question outside a bar, not a pressured move in front of my team.

Just me .

Just Fran.

And the cold breeze from her refrigerator.

I kiss Fran at the door of her fridge until an alarm blares—a cuckooing bird chiming, startling me into a leap at least two feet away from her.

“What is that?” I say, unconvinced that we aren’t under attack.

“Just the cuckoo clock. It chimes every hour.”

I slap a hand over my heart. “I thought we were under attack. That some warning alarm was going off.”

Fran slides up against me once more, one arm around my neck. I just laid some serious kisses on Fran.

Crap.

“It’s just an old clock. Rosalie’s grandfather made it,” she says.

“Fran.” I shake my head. “I like you, and you’re beautiful. Sometimes when we’re together, I forget?—”

“Forget what?” she says, arm still around me.

“I forget that you’re looking for something serious. I forget that relationships don’t really work for me.”

She nods, untangling her arm from around me. I’ve messed everything up, and it’s going to cost me Fran’s friendship.

Crossing her arms, she peers up at me. “You forget?” she says, but she isn’t frowning, not like she should be.

I swallow. It’s the worst excuse ever.

Her head tilts to the side, but her eyes stay focused on mine. “Good.” Turning, she taps the fridge door closed. “It’s late. You can take the couch.”

The couch is fine. The cuckoo clock, on the other hand, is not.

I wake at midnight, one, two, and three. By four o’clock in the morning, I think I’m too tired for the sound to startle me. I sleep right through it.

But eventually—I am shoved awake. No cuckoo’s needed. “You kissed Fran.” Rosalie stands in front of me, arms crossed. That’s when I read 8:14 in the morning.

I blink my tired eyes, squinting in the daylight. But I say nothing. Yes, I kissed Fran at the game last night. Rosalie was there. She saw that chaste, simple kiss. Which means I don’t have to admit to a thing.

“Last night. In this house. You kissed her—for an hour or more.”

It was definitely an hour or less—the cuckoo made sure of that.

“You’re kissing her?” she says, her pitch rising.

“How did you?—”

“She crawled into my bed last night, giddy as a second grader, and told me all about it.” Her hands fling, shoving my shoulder, before landing on her hips. “What are you doing, Cal?”

I sit up, push the afghan Fran gave me last night from my legs, and hold my head in my hands. “I don’t know. It wasn’t planned. It just sort of happened.”

Rosalie’s face turns beet-red in two seconds flat.

“I know that makes me scum. You specifically asked if I was scum, and I assured you I was not.”

“So—do you like her?”

“I do.” I shake my head. “But I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m just—not. ”

She shakes her head. “Then keep your lips off my best friend.” She stomps one foot and grinds her teeth. “And you aren’t scum. You’re a nice guy, Cal. So don’t make me kill you.”

I wait for Rosalie to leave before searching through Fran’s cupboards and finding bread, jam, and a toaster. Perfect. Easy breakfast. Little chat. And then I’ll be on my way.

With a plate of freshly toasted bread covered in tub margarine and raspberry jam in hand, I tap on Fran’s bedroom door. “Fran? I need to head out.”

There’s scuffling and thudding behind the closed door, and then—Fran, hair mussed, sweatshirt half on over her T-shirt, along with one slipper on her foot.

“Sorry, I—” She frantically flattens the right side of her hair with her hand. “I overslept.”

“We had a late night. You’re fine.”

“Not that late,” she says, her hand still incessantly combing while her hair continues to fly upward. “But then I did go talk to Rose for a bit?—”

“I heard.”

One hand in front of her mouth, she gasps. “She did not yell at you. Did she? Did she yell at you?”

I clear my throat and give the smallest of nods. “I think I deserved it.”

“You didn’t. Believe me, you didn’t. I’d kiss you right here. Right now.” Her eyes bulge. “I mean, I wouldn’t because I haven’t brushed my teeth. But I’m saying you have nothing to apologize for.”

“We can leave it at that. Thanks, Fran.”

“Sure.” She flattens her palm over the right side of her head and simply leaves it there. “You’re going. ”

“I am. But I brought you some toast. And I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” she says, and the disappointment in her tone is killing me. All the woman needs to do is ask me to stay, and I will.

“I have a paper due anyway.”

“Your research paper?”

She nibbles on her bottom lip. “My romcom remake paper. Yes. This paper may drop my grade to a D and kill my GPA. But I believe in the love story.”

The right side of my mouth pulls up in a half grin. “You really do. Don’t you?”

Her brows lift and she nods, still holding that rooster tailing hair down with one hand. “I do, and I’m going to make Ellington a believer.”

I think, trying to remember that name.

“My professor,” she says. “I am determined to change her mind.”

She’s so driven. I understand that kind of commitment even if I don’t understand her remakes. How can anyone not feel a spark of attraction when faced with that kind of determination? I’m not looking for love, but I’m not immune to finding a woman attractive.

I clear my throat. “Okay, well, good luck.” I hold out the plate of toast.

Finally, she lets her bedhead fly and takes the plate from my hands. “8:32 a.m., breakfast and heart fluttering,” she murmurs.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Have a good practice.”

I nod and take one step back from her open bedroom door. “I will. And I’ll see you Saturday, right? ”

“Date night,” she says, hair flying and smile sweet. My head easily conjures the taste of her from the night before.

Oh, man. I’m in trouble.

“Yep. Date night.”