Page 70 of When the Storm Breaks
She’s an anchor.
Even with everything moving too fast, even with Tanner fucking up left and right, just knowing she’s here soothes me.
When the crowd finally starts to thin and the noise dulls, I’m still caught up closing checks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Calla pulling a book from her bag. She flips it open somewhere in the middle, sliding her bookmarkonto the counter with careful fingers. She shifts her wine glass a few inches away—not far, but enough to make space. Like she’s settling in. Like she’s planning to stay.
She leans into the book like she’s ready to disappear inside it.
But I know she isn’t reading.
She can’t be, for two reasons:
She’s drunk. Not stumbling or slurring, but I’ve been topping off her wine when she’s not paying attention. I don’t think she’s noticed.
Every time I look at her, she’s already looking at me.
I reach for the bottle again, automatically, but the weight—or lack of it—makes my stomach drop. I hold it up to the light. She’s gone through almost the entire thing.
Shit.
I wasn’t trying to get her hammered. Wasn’t really thinking about it at all. Just kept her glass full, the same way I tell myself I would for anyone else.
But she’s small. And I don’t know how much she normally drinks.
It feels like a line I shouldn’t have crossed.
Setting the bottle down, I grab a glass and fill it with water. I walk over, sliding it across the counter and nudging it into the space between her book and her wine.
She looks up—and the second her eyes meet mine, I know I fucked up.
She might be drunk, but right now, she’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her.
Color rises in her face, warming her cheeks like she’s been kissedby the sun. Her eyes shine with something I haven’t seen before. Something lighter. Freer. But it’s more than that. She’s unguarded. The walls she always holds up are gone.
And the force of that nearly knocks me flat.
Fucking. Gorgeous.
“Wow, Haiyden! Cutting me off already?”
Her voice lifts with amusement, but the slur at the end gives her away.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I lean against the bar, forcing it down—the heat crawling low in me, every reaction, every instinct. She’s intoxicating like this. Loose. Unfiltered. And I don’t know what the hell to do with it.
I force a grin. “I don’t need you passing out on me,” I say, adding a wink to keep it light.
And then she does it. She laughs.
