Page 89 of We Can't Be Friends

“Oh no. No.” I twist my body and use my heels to push on the couch to scoot away from him. “I’m not a hugger.” Nothing in my tone is serious.

His smile grows as I keep fighting, squirming under him now.

“Cal,” my voice is wavering with laughter. “Callum.”

“I like the sound of my name on your tongue.”

I’m pressed underneath him. Cal’s arms are wrapped around me, body hovering over mine. “Admit it now, you wanted a hug from me Henry.”

“I wanted no such thing,” I say breathily, “Sullivan.”

Why do I love being in his arms? It’s familiar and right.

I wiggle in his embrace. Cal groans, and I can feel him hardening against me.

Our heads are level, giving me nothing but him in my line of vision. Drowning in his blues again. His chin is decorated in blond stubble that I want to run my hand against. . .

And my hand is inching to it.

Get a grip of yourself, Chloe.Controlyourself.

Callum’s breathing is steady, and it pisses me off. How is this not affecting him? How is he in suchcontrol?

I trail my hand along his jaw.

He brings his head closer to mine. Our mouths move closer and closer.

I think he’s going to kiss me.

Oh my god, Callum Sullivan is going to kiss me.

I swallow, licking my lips.

His lips hover over mine, and all my thoughts disappear except for one. I want him to kiss me. Badly.

This isn’t my typical craving—wanting someone to kiss me in order to feel anything or escape my brain. This is deeper. More primal. Almost as if he doesn’t then I’ll truly never know the meaning of life.

“Whatever,” he says, lips faintly against mine. Cal maneuvers his arms from around me and sits in one of the accent chairs, drinking his tea as if nothing just happened.

Jerk.

I’m lying there, practically panting like Tucker after a long walk when he’s hot.

Cal’s stoic position breaks momentarily as he reaches for his book on the side table. His right ankle rests on his knee, the book in the space between. Posture and facial expression are so even-keeled it has me biting my lip.

Will Cal ever lose control?

Am I imagining that he feels the same way?

Not that he knows how I feel—or that I’m thinking about him in that way. Our living situation and routine are good. We’ve quickly found a flow that makes living together, honestly, a lot of fun.

Then we have moments like that.

Or when I left my laundry in the washer, and he flips it over. Or when I caught him trying several brands of expensive GF bread—that I could never justify buying myself—to find the best one—then put us on a bi-weekly delivery of it. Or not minding when Riley and Miller pop by, even inviting them; that has me questioning everything.

“Tell me about your Thanksgivings as a kid.” Cal says, bringing us right back to where we were before I needed him to kiss me.

“My mom’s side of the family is Colombian. While we would have turkey and mashed potatoes because that is what Dad grew up with, our Thanksgivings were filled with Colombian dishes: tamales, bandeja paisa, mashed yuca, and plantain casserole.

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