Page 20 of Keeping You
When the song ends, we separate immediately, like we can’t wait to put distance between us.
“Let’s get some air,” I suggest, but she shakes her head.
“I need another drink.”
She heads straight for the bar, and I follow, standing silently behind her while she orders a shot of tequila. She drowns that one. Then another. And another.
“Callie,” I warn, but she waves me off.
“I’m fine. I’m having fun. Aren’t you having fun, honey?”
She’s not fine. She’s hurt and disappointed and trying to numb it with booze. I’ve seen this before, hell, I’ve been this before. It doesn’t end well. But before I can stop her, she’s dragging me back to the dance floor for a faster song.
This time she’s looser, more animated, but also sloppier. The tequila has melted something in her, but what’s emerged isn’t joy; it's raw determination tinged with hurt. She’s grindingagainst me in a way that would be sexy if it wasn’t so desperate, her hips moving to a rhythm that doesn’t match the music.
Over her shoulder, I see Harper watching us, her expression a complicated mix of confusion and concern. Kirk’s eyes are narrowed, his hand clenched around his beer bottle so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. Whatever Callie hoped to accomplish tonight, it’s not happening. Instead, we’re putting on a show that’s painful to perform and probably worse to watch.
“Callie,” I try again, but she silences me by pulling my head down and kissing me hard, and it’s a total disaster. Her lips are too aggressive, her tongue too insistent. Our teeth clack together almost painfully. When we break apart this time, her eyes are red-rimmed and filled with disappointment and the realization that this isn’t working the way she’d hoped.
“I want to go home,” she says quietly.
I search her face, finding nothing but exhaustion and disappointment in her eyes. The fierce, confident woman who stormed into my life again has momentarily vanished, leaving behind someone smaller, more vulnerable. It hits me then. This isn’t just about making Harper and Kirk jealous. This is about Callie proving something to herself. And watching that plan crumble is breaking something inside her that I suddenly, desperately want to protect.
“Okay. Give me your keys,” I say gently, not touching her but close enough that she could lean into me if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
The drive back to her place is more awkward than the drive to the bar. She’s quiet, deflated, staring out the passenger window at the dark Texas landscape rushing by.
The radio plays softly between us, some melancholy country song about regrets and lost chances that feels too on-the-nose for comfort tonight. I want to say something, anything, but I don’t know what. Back in Chicago, I could talk down armedsuspects and negotiate hostage situations, but here, with this woman who knew me before I knew myself, words fail me completely.
The headlights catch on a faded billboard for Sweet as Sin Bakery at the edge of town, and I’m reminded why we started this charade in the first place. But sitting here with Callie’s profile illuminated by passing streetlights, those reasons are flimsy compared to what’s happening here.
When I pull into her driveway, she finally turns her defeated gaze my way. “That was terrible.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I’m sorry. I thought...” She sighs deeply, and her shoulders slump. “I don’t know what I thought.”
I turn off the engine, suddenly reluctant to end this disaster of an evening. “Maybe we just need practice.”
She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Practice at fake dating? God, that’s depressing.”
“Callie—”
“Thanks for trying,” she interrupts, already opening her door. “I’ll figure something else out.”
She leans over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, for the benefit of nosy neighbors, I assume, but something shifts in me, a decision made in microseconds. Maybe it’s the lingering scent of her perfume, or the way the moonlight catches in her hair, or simply that I’m tired of pretending that my feelings for her are just part of an act. Whatever it is, I turn my head at the last second, and her mouth lands on mine.
Her lips are soft as pillows, and for a moment, we don’t move; we just enjoy the connection, the pressure, our breaths mingling.
This isn’t like the forced performance at Pete’s, with its clashing teeth and mismatched rhythms. This is something else entirely, something real and raw that cuts through the alcoholand disappointment of the evening. It’s like finding a piece of myself I didn’t realize was missing, right here in her car, with the engine ticking as it cools and the distant sound of cicadas creating a symphony outside.
For the first time since coming back to Cupid’s Creek, I’m almost certain this is where I’m supposed to be.
When she slowly opens her mouth, I slip my tongue out to test the waters. The spark that was missing on the dance floor shoots through me as she whimpers and her fist curls in my shirt, pulling me closer.
She sucks on my tongue, and I groan deeply, leaning in to devour her. We kiss like it’s been years since we last tasted each other. When I lift my head to take a much-needed breath and open my eyes, I’m staring into ones that are just as dilated and surprised as I’m sure mine are.
