Page 20 of My Best Years

Let’s just say it’s not my best day in the looks department.

I keep my head down, scrolling through unread text messages as I walk through the dimly lit parking lot. When I lift my gaze, I stop dead in my tracks.

I suck in a sharp breath as my heart drops down to my ass. I ball my hand into a fist to keep my keys from slipping from my trembling fingers.

I blink a few times, ensuring I’m not imagining things due to being deliriously tired. But the more I blink, the more precise he becomes.

What the fuck is Callum Pierce doing here? At my place of work?

His long body is casually leaning against the driver’s door of my Honda Civic, looking like he owns the damn thing. His arms are folded across his broad chest, accentuating the prominent muscles beneath his white dress shirt. The first fewbuttons of the shirt are open, revealing his tan skin…the chest that I used to map with my fingers. He looks like he just got off work in black slacks and dress shoes.

I wonder what Callum does for a living?

Probably a career that requires lots of lying.

“Hey, Birdie,” he mutters nervously, his velvet voice piercing the night air like a dagger.

I want to slap him for how good he looks. I want to smack that smug grin off his handsome face. Why can’t he be balding with a beer belly? Why must the universe make him hotter than I could have ever imagined?

I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head in disgust.

“Get off my car,” I demand, standing a good six feet away from him.

His face falls with disappointment.

“I need to talk to you.”

My brows shoot up as I audibly scoff at his ridiculous request.

“It’s a little late for that,” I sneer, nostrils flaring.

He rubs a palm against his chin, regret marring his features.

“Please, Birdie,” he begs softly. My name falls from his lips like a somber whisper.

As genuine as he sounds, I’ve learned that Callum Pierce knows how to put on a damn good show. I would be a fool to give an ounce of sympathy.

“I’m going to ask you nicely one last time,” I grit out. “Please get off of my car. It’s been a long day, and I want to go home. So please, just leave.”

And never come back.

He arches a challenging brow and flashes me a wolfish grin.

“What’s going to happen next?” he asks. “Are you going tomeanlyask me to move? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you angry, Birdie.”

Is he really smirking at me right now?

This motherfucker.

Who the hell does this guy think he is? He’s acting as if no time has passed between us. Like he didn’t completely disappear and ghost me for the past eleven years. He’s acting like he didn’t obliterate my heart. It’s honestly such a slap in the face—a breath-stealing sucker punch to the gut.

My chest heaves up and down as anger and outrage take over. I glower at him, lowering my voice to a lethal tone.

“What’s going to happen next,” I repeat his question through clenched teeth, “is that I’m going to call the cops and tell them that I have a fucking stalker. I’m going to tell them that a strange man is harassing me. Because that’s what you are to me, Callum. A stranger.”

My body trembles, not because I’m scared or anxious. I’m so furious with him that I’m shaking. My skin is crawling at his carelessness.

A beat of silence passes before he slowly shakes his head, his eyes filling with sorrow.

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