Page 33 of We Can't Be Friends

She’s caught off guard. “No?” Her stare bounces from my scowl and narrowed eyes to Cal biting his knuckle. “I thought—”

“Yeah, you thought wrong.” The burn from the spicy hummus I dipped the carrots into is still in my throat; I need a drink. Spotting the quarter of whatever she’s drinking left in the glass, I pick it up, finish the drink, and hopefully speed this along. “Your drink is out. Might be time to go.”

Whatever her name is, not that I care to know, huffs, seeking anything from Cal. He’s biting down hard on his knuckle, stifling a smile.

“Your mom won’t be happy about this,” she frustratedly tells him, grabbing her purse off the back of the chair and storming off.

Mom? Why would she care about him on a date?

I replace her in the seat, flagging down a waiter for another glass of wine.

“You’re welcome.”

Callum removes his fist from his mouth and bursts out in laughter, and I love the sound. I never realized a man’s laugh could be attractive, but here I am, squeezing my legs and pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Bad date?”

“Bad everything.” Cal shakes his head. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Work.” I thumb over my shoulder. “Spotted your miserable butt over here.”

“You were watching me?”

“You try looking away from a train wreck.”

“That was not a train wreck,” he tries to get out with a straight face. “Okay, yeah, it was bad. I’d probably have watched, too.”

Resting my elbows on the table, I lean forward. “Didn’t know you dated.”

“I don’t. . . I do. I do,now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. You thinking about getting back out there?”

“Are you asking for yourself?” I raise my wine to my lips. Lipstick staining the clean glass.

“Not my type, Henry.” He takes a sip of his Old Fashion.

I might not be in the market for another relationship, but that bruises the ego.

Why do I care if I’m his type?

I don’t.

“Bed is awfully cold at night,” I pretend to ponder the idea. Cal’s jaw ticks. I run a finger around the rim of my wine.

Cal squeezes his eyes shut. They open and are spinning. Various shades of blue swirling around his pupil.

“What if I was your boyfriend?”

I spit out my drink, coughing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Are you asking me out, Sullivan?”

“Yes. No. Well. . .”

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