Page 28 of Keeping You
She bites her lip. “Until we've accomplished what we set out to do. Until the bakery is thriving, and people stop looking at me like I'm some tragic spinster.”
“And then I suppose we have an amicable, public breakup,” I finish for her.
“Exactly.”
I walk around to lean back against the front of the desk, putting her within arm’s reach again. “Anything else?”
She’s been pacing but stops and turns to face me fully. “One more thing. That kiss in the car...”
My pulse jumps.
“It can't happen again.” Her voice is firm, but there's a tremor that betrays her. “Not like that, anyway. Are we on the same page?”
We’re not even reading the same book. Because all I can think about is how much I want to kiss her again, rules be damned. Instead, I push away from the furniture before I do something stupid like sweep my arm across the top, sending paper flying everywhere, and lay her down across the sturdy desk. “I should go. It's getting late.”
“Thank you,” she says as I step toward the door. “For going along with this. I know it's not exactly what you signed up for.”
“I'm not sure what I signed up for,” I admit, pausing at the threshold.
She smiles, a genuine one this time, and it transforms her face. “Good night, Luke.”
“Good night, Callie.”
I'm halfway down the steps when she calls my name. I turn back to find her silhouetted in the doorway.
“One more rule,” she says, her voice carrying in the quiet evening air. “We need to go on a date. A real one, not like last Friday. Something public but intimate, to cement our story.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night? I'll cook dinner at my place.”
“Your place? But that's not very public.”
She laughs softly. “Trust me, in this town, everyone will know you're at my house for dinner. All you need to do is park your bike in my driveway. Besides, we need privacy to practice.”
The word 'practice' hangs between us, loaded with possibilities. And I’m sure we’re still not using the same playbook. “Practice what, exactly?”
“Seven o'clock. Don't be late.”
Then she's gone, the door closing behind her, leaving me standing in the growing darkness, confused.
My body shifts into high alert, the same rush I used to get before entering an unknown situation in Chicago. But this time for entirely different reasons.
Chapter Nine
Callie
As I set the table, my hand betrays me with a visible tremor. The delicate Spanish porcelain—Mom’s treasured wedding gift from Dad—clinks against the glass tabletop as I carefully place each plate.
Damn it.
I pause, drawing in a slow breath, then arrange the silverware with military precision. Forks on the left, knives on the right, as if a perfect table setting might somehow organize the chaos.“Presentation matters, Callie,”Mom used to say. “It shows you care.”
If she could see me now, fussing over place settings for a fake date that's feeling less fake by the minute.
I can’t believe I offered to cook an intimate dinner for Luke. My goal had been to create some much-needed distance with my rules, not toss them out there, and then invite him closer. We could have just as easily had a re-do at Pete’s. But, no, I had to open my mouth and suggest we needed ‘practice’.
What the fuck?
