Page 19 of Any Means Necessary

“I don’t eat that stuff.”

“Oh, you’re one of those people.” I can’t say I’m surprised. “Let me guess, you’re a Raisin Bran and granola kinda guy.”

Callum straightens to his full height, rolling back his broad shoulders and stretching his neck.

“Cereal doesn’t cut it for me. I need protein and complex carbs. Sausage, eggs, beans, potatoes.” Circling the island, he opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. Looking at the machine of a man across from me, it makes sense. I bet a guy his size needs to consume a lot of food for his body to keep running. He probably burns like a million calories a day just by existing, let alone working out. For me food is fun, and for him it’s fuel.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook.” The thought’s occurred to me a few times since he showed up. Watching a man as busy and formidable as Callum scramble eggs in the morning always seems a little out of place. I mean, I know even dangerous people need to eat, but the task seems too commonplace and almost silly when he does it.

“Typically, when I’m in the city I have a chef that provides me with weekly meals; breakfast and lunch. This trip was last minute, I didn’t get to some of the usual details.” He flashes me a meaningful look, case in point. I’m one of those details.

“No dinners?”

“Dinner is usually for business. I cook when I can.”

“Do you like cooking?”

“I’m good at it.”

“Ok, but do you like doing it?” He turns to look at me as if I’m speaking an unfamiliar language, jaw clenched tightly beneath his immaculate beard. “You do know what liking something means, right? Finding enjoyment, having fun.” I speak slowly, like an adult trying to explain something to a child with a soft smile on my face and a teasing tone in my voice. The serious expression I receive in return simply stares at me intensely.

Why is it so damn hard to get to know this guy? What’s a straightforward question for most people turns into a complicated equation with him. And I’m left sitting here with an incomplete answer trying to decipher all of the different variables. Math was never my strongest subject.

The portion of food he piles on his plate could feed a small family, his fuel for the morning. I sit patiently waiting for an answer, and after a long moment, he finally responds.

“Having fun isn’t something I spend energy on.” Stepping over to the coffeemaker, he pours himself a cup. No sugar, no cream.

“That explains a lot,” I comment, taking a bite of my toast. Next comes a spoonful of cereal, the perfect combo of savory and sweet.

“Meaning?” The man certainly has a mean stare, one I’m sure intimidates most people—it makes my pulse jump. My eyes trail down to how his expensive black shirt stretches taut across his broad shoulders. The sleeves rolled up to his elbows show off his strong forearms decorated in dark ink. There’s no denying he has good hands—the kind every woman wants to grab her by the throat and work her into a frenzy. Those hands can be my undoing, and I’ll gladly beg for more.

I haven’t decided if I need to be afraid of Callum yet. The evidence is circumstantial at best and the jury’s still out on this one. I know that people capable of violence aren’t always dangerous, and he’s never shown an ounce of aggression towards me. My high school best friend’s dad was in a motorcycle gang—he liked to crack skulls and he had a habit of pulling out a switchblade, but he treated his wife and daughters like princesses.

Callum’s grip on the coffee pot shifts and his brows raise marginally, his expression knowing. I’m staring, blatantly ogling him. And he noticed.

I avert my eyes quickly to focus on the food in front of me. “Just that you’re all business.”

“Speaking of business,” he pauses to catch my full attention again. I drag my eyes from my plate to land on him again—this time focusing as I fight back a blush. “Come into my office when you’re done eating. There’s something we need to discuss.” With that, he’s scooping up his plate and coffee and striding towards his office. I guess that means he doesn’t plan to eat with me.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Don’t call me that,” he calls over his shoulder.

I smile to myself, bringing my bowl to my lips. I’m right, as usual—this chocolatey milk hits different. So good. Callum really doesn’t know what he’s missing. What’s the point in living longer if it means you can’t enjoy a bowl of sugary chocolate cereal once in a while?

After taking my time finishing my food, I take a deep breath before walking into Callum’s office. There’s something ominous about this room. It feels like I might accidentally trigger a boobytrap if I make one wrong move. Maybe it’s the man sitting behind his desk, inked arms on full display, who seems to always be watching and waiting. Or maybe it’s the idea that anything can be lurking between these four walls, like a man missing his finger dripping blood onto a tarp.

“Alright, what’s this business we need to talk about?” I ask, sitting in a chair across from Callum’s desk. His eyes leave the computer screen to look at me, lowering briefly to my outfit.

“You changed.”

I look down at the green sundress that replaced my pajama set after breakfast.

“I got dressed. I don’t want to be fired while I’m in my pajamas,” I say crossing one ankle over the other. Callum sits back in his chair, spreading his legs out in front of him while his eyes sweep over me in consideration.

“You’re not being fired, Lexie,” he replies, easing some of the worry gnawing at my stomach. “I was impressed the other night. The way you handled yourself at the nightclub surprised me, and I’m not surprised easily.”

“Right, the other night when I sewed up some random guy’s hand after his finger was cut off. You’re surprised I did a good job?” I take a second to absorb what he’s saying. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere.”

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