Page 45 of Promise Me This

The edges of my vision go blurry with moisture. I blink it away. “There was a time when I told you I’d always show up for you. I promised it.” I shake my head at the darkness, at the impossibility of all that has happened. “I’ve been doing a really bad job keeping my word, haven’t I?”

She snorts, and it makes me smile. “Haven’t we all?” she muses. A shuffling sound catches my attention, and I turn to see her shifting in her seat to face me.

The grin on my face grows infinitesimally bigger. Once she was an open book for me to read at my leisure. Now, this small grace of her turning to face me feels like I’ve struck gold. My gaze cuts to her every chance I get, trying to capture as much of this new version of her as possible.

“You’re different now.”

She rolls her eyes. “So are you.”

It seems so obvious, but it’s just now occurring to me that she doesn’t know this version of me. A father. Responsible. Accomplished in my career. She only knows the parts I’ve shown her, which are admittedly some of the worst.

“Hi, I’m Callum.” I stick out my hand for her to shake. It hangs there for an awkward second before she hesitantly grabs hold. “I have a four-year-old named Niamh who is the light of my life. I work as a manager at my uncle’s shipping company, though before you think it, I assure you it isn’t nepotism. Someone very important taught me that.” I give her a wink.

“I like cycling in the summer and hunting at my granda’s old lodge in the winter. I’m pretty sure I’m developing an allergy to dairy.” My voice grows somber, and she giggles at the dramatics. I stop the car at a crossroads and turn to meet her gaze head-on. “And I’m kind of an asshole to the woman who broke my heart.”

The amused look leaves her eyes, and they open up into infinite pools of water. I’m tempted to dive right in.

She grips my hand firmly and shakes it once. “I’m Leona. Divorced. Jobless. Dust in the wind. And I’m so sorry for breaking your heart.”

Chapter Nineteen

Leona

The torture of my inner turmoil is enough to sober me up.

He’d never lie to me, and it kills me that I can’t say the same. That lying is all I’ve been doing since the day I found out I was pregnant. Lying to Callum, to my parents, even lying to myself.

I want to believe him, that I deserve goodness. But I’m afraid, once he knows the truth, that he won’t even believe himself.

His eyes are red-rimmed the way they get when he’s emotionally on edge, and his freckled skin is flushed. That gorgeous blond hair is in a tangled disarray, marred by frustrated hands raking through it. I want to touch him, to smooth his rough edges over. I want to run far, far away from this man who makes me feel more than is safe for my fragile heart.

I realize I’ve been too lost in my thoughts to pay attention to where we are going when he turns onto a familiar driveway. Rather than the inn, like I would’ve expected, his headlights fall on the fairy-tale facade of his quaint cottage. He pulls around the side of his home and parks. In the glow of the moonlight, I can just make out the tops of the hydrangea bushes peeking over his garden gate.

Air whooshes out of me at the sight. Tears prick the corners of my eyes.

Callum follows my line of sight and smiles when he sees the bushes swaying in the breeze. “You always did love those flowers. Did I tell you Granda helped Mam plant them as a Mother’s Day gift for my gran one year when she was little?” His voice falters, and it draws my gaze to him. “She loved them just as much as you.”

I remember the story, but I love to hear him tell it so much that I just nod. When he talks about his granda, his voice goes soft in a way I adore. The man has always been the most important person in Callum’s life besides his mother. “How is your grandfather?”

He shakes his head, still facing the bushes. “He passed a couple years ago.”

Instinct has me grabbing his hand before good sense can convince me not to. His gaze cuts to me, wide with surprise and yet raw with gratitude.

I let the moment linger. I won’t be the one to let go.

As if he can hear my thoughts, the corner of his mouth quirks. He squeezes my hand once and then releases it. “Would you like to come inside?”

“I’d like that,” I whisper. I’m afraid if I raise my voice any higher, it’ll shatter the magic we seem to be suspended in.

The house is just as I remember it. Pale cream walls and blonde wood floors fill it with light, even in the darkness. Those gauzy white curtains have an ethereal glow, adding to the fairy-tale feel. He’s made a few updates to the kitchen, painted the cabinets white and replaced the countertops, but the bones are still there. It’s just enough to remind me that time has passed, but it doesn’t feel like it’s so far ahead that I can’t catch up.

Callum paces across the room and opens the cabinet above his fridge, the movement exposing the skin of his lower back. I want to reach out and slip my hands under his shirt, tracing the warm expanse of his body until I’ve learned all that is new and noted what remains unchanged. The desire is thick in my throat, heavy in my hands.

I’m so distracted by the warmth flooding my cheeks and the space between my thighs that it takes me a second to recognize what he’s holding in his hand when he turns. The bottle of amber liquid is wrapped in a simple white label. He sets it on the countertop and pinches the neck to rotate it until the words Writers’ Tears come into view.

I gasp. “I cannot believe you still have that!” I walk over to him, taking the bottle in my grasp. He settles his hip against the countertop beside me, so close that if I moved even slightly, I’d brush against him. I have to force myself to remain completely still.

“Of course I still have it.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his bicep caressing mine. I force myself to draw in a normal breath so he doesn’t know how deeply this all affects me.

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