Page 15 of A Temporary Forever

Celeste Delacroix—even her fucking name is sexy—got under my skin. With her sass, her curves, her impossibly lithe dancer’s body, those kissable lips.

Our encounters—and thank God there have beenonly a few—never go well. The one a year ago ended with a cocktail in my face. The woman is certifiable.

Which begs the question, why the fuck am I here, pacing in front of the shabby brownstone in the East Village?

The fire escapes cluttered with potted plants present a stark departure from the neighborhoods I’m accustomed to.

The street is vibrant and loud, and probably safe. But I still feel like I might get robbed in my three-thousand-dollar suit. Why I fucking bothered to dress for the occasion is beyond me.

A lot about this is beyond me. Only my little sister could talk me into this level of madness. She had a hard time in high school and, topped off with our parents’ recent estrangement, I can’t help but try to make everything better for her.

I should just turn and leave.

Before I can execute the exit strategy, my phone buzzes. I check the display and groan. Fucking Saar.

“Are you there yet?” Saar practically screams into my ear.

“Remind me why it’s a good idea?”

I turn my back to the building. A juice carton rolls alongside the curb. Faded graffiti adorns the facades of the businesses on the other side of the street—a small convenience store, a pizza place, and a nail salon.

I don’t belong, but strangely, I have an urge to explore a bit.

“Cal, Celeste is my best friend. Her life is here. She has no other options.”

“She also seems like someone who would rather fuck a cactus than spend time with me, so I fail to recognize why I am the one saving her.”

“There will be no fucking, Cal.” She sounds horrified. “Look, you’re available—”

“How do you know? I could be in a relationship.”

Saar snorts. Rightfully. I’d rather fuck a cactus myself than get tied up in a committed relationship—a choice I made a long time ago.

“Cal, you can divorce her as soon as she gets her visa. She can’t lose this gig. She was spectacular in it. You won’t just be helping my friend, you’ll be enriching the cultural life of the city.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re shit at negotiating.”

She sighs. “Please.”

She might be a poor negotiator, but she is a master at blackmail. An easy deed, since I have never said no to her.

My sister went through a dark period when she was a teenager because of a man. Cormac Quinn became my enemy, even though to this day neither my brother nor I know what exactly went down. But we saw our sister hurt and losing her spark.

Enough to go above and beyond to make her life better. Her mental health improved, but the sentiment remained.

And as her plea echoes through the phone, I know I’m trapped.

“Look, I’m in front of her house. She better act amicably.”

Because, let’s face it, the first time I met Celeste fucking Delacroix, I learned women can’t be trusted.

The irony of coming here to help her out is not lost on me. Neither is the nagging feeling that I’ll regret this.

“She will. I promise, she will. I owe you, Cal.”

“Yeah, I’ll file it with all the other favors you owe me.” I turn back to the building and take the few steps to the front entrance. “When are you back in the city, anyway?”

“I don’t know, in a few weeks. Thank you, Cal.”

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