Page 2 of The Wrong Play

My father’s best friend.

His gaze ran over me, slow and knowing, like he could seeeverything. The pain. The vulnerability. The pathetic, broken girl standing in front of him with her heart in pieces.

I swallowed, gripping the counter behind me. “What are you doing here?”

He smirked, setting the book down. “Your father asked me to check on the house while they were away.”

Of course he had. My father trusted him implicitly. So did my mother.

And I did too.

I pretended not to notice his wording—the insinuation that my parents had asked him to check on the house…but not on me. But I felt it. Another reminder that there was no one who cared.

For years, Callum had been a fixture in my life—family dinners, weekend barbecues, holidays. He was brilliant, charming…respected.

And dangerous.

At least in my head.

He was handsome in a way that made women stop in their tracks. His dark-brown hair had just the right amount of silver at the temples, adding to his air of sophistication. His chiseled, angular jaw always carried the shadow of a five o’clock stubble, and his piercing blue eyes held an intensity that made it impossible to look away. He looked every bit the polished professor, the kind of man who exuded effortless charm.

The community adored him—respected him. His tailored suits, composed demeanor, and knowing smiles only added to his allure, painting the perfect picture of a man who carried himself with quiet dignity.

I had always been aware of him in a way I shouldn’t have been. There had been times—quick glances, fleeting moments—where I’d felt something. Something dark and consuming. Something that sent a thrill down my spine and left me ashamed of myself.

And now…he was here, and I was a mess, and he was looking at me like he knew exactly what I was feeling right now.

“Something wrong?” he asked, tilting his head.

I forced a weak laugh, blinking fast. “Just tired.”

He hummed, pushing back from the table, standing with the easy grace of a man who never rushed for anything.

“You’ve been crying.”

I stiffened. “I?—”

“Boy troubles?”

I swallowed, humiliated.

“You’ve been dating some boy from school the last few months, right?”

I blinked at him, surprised that he would know that when I was sure that my own parents didn’t.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But…he broke it off.” The words came out filled with pain. Deep pain. Something I shouldn’t be showing anyone.

He took a slow step toward me, his voice lower, softer. “Did he hurt you?”

Yes.

No.

I didn’t know how to answer that.

Because there were a million ways to hurt someone.

There was the ripping away of something you thought was real.

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