Page 81 of My Best Years

“Here,” I offer, lifting a hand toward her bag. “I’ll hang that up for you.”

“Thanks.” She slides the purse down her arm and hands it over to me. I reach up and hook the straps on a coat rack that normally only gets used for Ollie’s leash.

“Come on in.” I place my hand on the small of her back and lead us into the kitchen.

Goosebumps rise on her arms as my fingertips graze her spine. Sparks ignite through my veins as I flex my fingers. Even through her cotton dress, her skin feels just as hot as mine. I forgot how a simple touch could ignite such a physical reaction.

“Your place is beautiful.” Her gaze scans around my open-concept home. “I didn’t realize it was literally on the beach until I drove up. It’s like a coastal cottage.”

“Coastal cottage,” I repeat, testing out the words on my tongue. “I call it my beach bungalow, but I think coastal cottage is a better fit.”

“Beach bungalow…” She stops to think. “Wait, that’s cute too.”

“Uh…I don’t really know if ‘cute’ is the vibe I’m going for, Birdie,” I chuckle.

“Well, I think it’s cute,” she says before leaning against the kitchen island. “But seriously, I love your place. It’s so cozy.”

I gulped down two fingers of Jack Daniels before Birdie arrived, hoping the alcohol would settle my nerves. But now, I think it’s just making me bold.

I guess we’ll find out if that’s a good or a bad thing right about…now.

“Well,” I start, “you’re more than welcome to come over and get cozy anytime you want. My door’s always open.”

Her brows shoot to her hairline, and her lips tilt up in a humorous grin.

“Is that right?”

I shrug. “I guess you’ll have to try and find out.”

“Real smooth, Callum,” she mocks. “Real smooth.”

Just as I’m cooking up a witty response, I hear a loud growl that doesn't come from Ollie.

“You hungry?” I look down at her stomach.

“To be honest, I’m starving,”she admits. “Work was insane today. I barely had time to eat lunch.”

I wince at the thought of Birdie being on her feet all day, so busy that she doesn't have a chance to eat lunch.

“The burgers are ready to be thrown on the grill. I’ll get everything started.”

“Thank you for making dinner,” she says. “I really appreciate it.”

A beat of silence passes between us as I debate my next words.

Fuck it.

“Well, I gotta take care of my girl.”

Her pale-gray eyes snap up to mine as her cheeks turn beet red. It’s my last two words responsible for her reaction because that term holds a significance to us that no one else understands.

I used to always call Birdiemy girl, even when we were just friends.My Girlis the song we danced to in the moonlit parking lot the night I realized I was in love with her.

Her throat bobs as her pupils dilate.

“Sounds good,” she replies, her tone thick and raspy.

I nod, our intense gaze never breaking.

---