Page 32 of Callan

An unorthodox method, I know, but I’m shameless when it comes to him.

Eventually, I crook my index finger and quietly knock.

Steps trail across the apartment after my first try.

I expect to see him, so the second thing I’m doing is step back.

The door opens, and a young woman, pretty and well put together, stares me up and down.

“You must be Mackenzie,” she throws at me with a judging look on her face.I think.

She knows nothing about me, yet she already doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual, as the only thing we have in common and fuels our animosity toward each other is this man.

I don’t even know his name.

I nod in response.

“Can I see him?” I ask, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“Sure.”

Her gaze coasts over me again before she spins around and passes the arrogance torch to her boo.I think, again.

Every fiber in my body tells me these two are not related.And I don’t see her work for him.I don’t see myself doing that for him, either, yet here I am.

They must be some kind of friends. Friends with benefits, maybe? Like the woman upstairs?

And this suddenly no longer feels like it’s about sex only.Why?

I have no idea why, but a little voice inside my head tells me I might soon find out what this is all about.

The door opens again and a man who looks different than the one stepping onto my balcony stares at me.

He’s not impressed by my coming here and making myself useful.

In fact, I get this vibe that he’s asked me to come here because he wanted to make me get out and do stuff for him. Earn my money.

If there were the slightest sparks of tension between us when he was shirtless on my balcony and I almost stabbed him in the eye with my beaded nipples, those clues are now gone.

He’s all business now. And he’s indifferent.

He’s ditched the Santa costume for dark pants, a sleek belt, and a soft, long-sleeved top that molds on his sculpted physique.

His hair is brushed back, and he looks sharp, composed, and, for sure, not in a playful mood.

He is the opposite of the man I met at my place.

And he also seems consumed with something other than me, the woman inside the apartment, or any woman, for that matter.

He holds his hand out and for a moment I don’t even know what he wants for me. His appearance has entirely disrupted me.

Who is this man?

“My phone,” he grinds out quietly, nudging the conversation in the right direction.

“Oh. Yeah. Here it is.”

I reach inside my pocket, scoop it out, and put it in his hand.

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