Page 63 of My Best Years

God.

I hate his velvety voice. I despise how it sounds like it has little pieces of gravel in it.

I hate it because I can barely pay attention to his words when they sound so sultry and seductive.

I look down at my lilac scrubs before shooting daggers across the table and making my own assessment of his clothes. The man really needs a lint roller.

I fold my arms over my chest before dawning a smirk.

“I may have on baggy scrubs, but at least I don’t have cat hair all over me,” I joke, flicking my eyes down to his T-shirt spattered with short, white hair.

His face pales as he quickly directs his gaze downward.

“Oh, shit,” he huffs. “I meant to throw on a different shirt before I left the house. I got into a wrestling match with Ollie this morning.” He laughs and shakes his head.

I furrow my brows.

“Ollie?”

“My dog,” he clarifies. “It’s dog hair. Ollie sheds like a motherfucker. I swear, I can’t even pet him without getting covered in fur.”

Fuck me.

Glasses, and now a dog?

I can’t handle the excessive display of hotness I’m being exposed to this morning.

“And for the record,” he continues, “I’m not being sarcastic. I really do like your scrubs. You look hot in them. I never knew I had a thing for nurses until I saw you in that,” he says huskily while rolling his ocean eyes down my body. “They suit you well, Birdie.”

He’s making it harder and harder for me to sit still.

I bite my bottom lip and lower my gaze while picking at a croissant.

What am I supposed to say to that?“Thanks for the compliment. And by the way, you look hot as fuck, even covered in dog hair.”

Too afraid that my actual thoughts will come out, I decide to keep the topic of conversation on his pet.

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”

As soon as the words leave my lips, I internally kick myself.

Really Birdie? How would you know? You haven’t spoken to him in years.

Callum arches a sharp brow before crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. I can tell by the amused expression stretching across his face that he’s about to make a smartass comment. My gaze flicks to his arms, ogling over how his corded muscles stretch with each movement.

“Well, I would have told you,” he says smugly. “But I specifically remembersomeonemaking it clear that they didn’t care to know if I had a cat or a dog.”

He has a damn good memory.

My words from Captain Ray’s hit me like a freight train.

“Right now, I don’t care about your time in New York or if you have a cat or a dog.”

I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders, trying not to let him see the remorse I feel inside for being so insensitive.

“Ha ha,”I drawl out, my tone full of sarcasm. “If I remember correctly, we had more serious matters to discuss at the time.”

He narrows his eyes, holding my stare while reaching for another croissant.

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