Page 3 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle
Another silence stretches between us. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.
Cal quirks a brow, an expression shift I only see because it pulls the rest of his features up. Just the barest lift. It’s clear he’s trying very hard not to have expressions at all. “Yes. But you’re in my way.”
I glance over my shoulder at my new front door, then turn back to face him fully. I don’t move. He’s still on the stoop, but now he has one huge shoulder leaned on the frame. He’s so broad he almost blocks out all the wet, blue light coming through the doorway.
I hum a lazy little noise. “I bet a big guy like you could move me anywhere you want.”
A beat passes between us, loaded as hell. Cal takes one slow, solid step into my space. I lift my chin, and the temperature in the hallway spikes at least five degrees.
“You want to test that?” he says, voice low and even.
“Yes please,” I say brightly, because I don’t know when to quit. “You look like you’re good with your hands, too. Your place or mine? Although, I’ve been told my place is loud and drafty. Might ruin the mood.”
He looks at me with that same flat expression, but it absolutely does not match the rampant heat suddenly humming off his body.
Then he leans a little further into me so we’re almost touching, arms still crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly to one side like he’s working out whether I’m fucking with him.
For the record, his guess is as good as mine.
“That mouth is going to get you into trouble,” he mutters.
I flash a smile and watch it hit him like a physical thing. “You promise?”
He huffs a breath, barely audible, like he’s letting the idea of a laugh pass through him and then discarding it.
“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “You’ll need it.”
He slips past me like water and disappears into the shop, the door swinging closed behind him with a final click.
“Are you threatening me with a good time?” I call after him, but he doesn’t answer.
Which is a shame. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.
I blow out a breath and finally turn toward the stairs. The whole building seems to exhale with me, warm air pulsing through the narrow hall like it’s alive. Upstairs, the attic waits. I sling my bag over my shoulder and climb.
The stairs creak under my boots, narrow and uneven and very steep, like they were built by hand a century ago and never checked since. I take my chances anyway.
The upper doorway is to the left, and the threshold shares about a foot of real estate with the top step of the stairs. Perfect. Can’t wait to take a swan dive down there when I’m drunk or not paying attention.
It’s warm up here. Warmer than it should be, considering the storm I drove through and the fact that there’s no visible radiator. The air smells like brine and cedar, and something else I can’t name. Not unpleasant, justother. Like the tail end of a summer storm clinging to fabric, stubborn and damp and a little nostalgic.
The space itself is surprisingly large. Low ceilings, angled walls, exposed beams. It’s well-maintained, too, but I find that less surprising. I wasn’tjustflirting when I told Cal he looks like he’s good with his hands.
There’s a window tucked under the eave, a little grimy but clearly ancient. A bed frame sits against the far wall, mattress still wrapped in plastic, with a neatly folded set of sheets on top. A mismatched dresser by the en suite bathroom door leans to the left like it’s lowkey trying to escape.
The floor hums faintly under my feet when I step inside. It isn’t loud, but it’s enough vibration to make the hairs on my arms lift. I tell myself it’s just the pipes. Old buildings make noise, water moves, and wood settles.
I drop my bag beside the bed and toe off my boots. The mattress hisses when I sit, air soughing out and plastic crinkling under my ass.
Directly below, I can hear the faint sound of Cal moving around the shop. Heavy steps. A door creaking open, then shut again. A distinct squeaking and dragging noise, a grunt, then a slam—like there’s a door sinking on its hinges and he has to force it closed. No voice and no music, just his presence under my feet.
I lean back on my elbows and stare up at the angled ceiling. It’s definitely not the worst place I’ve ever stayed.
I don’t mean to fall asleep. I lie back on the plastic-wrapped mattress with every intention of just resting my eyes, and only for a second, then I’ll put the sheets on and unpack my bag.
But the hum of the attic settles under me, warm and steady like a low, dragging pulse. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I just know I’m no longer awake.
