Page 25 of Surprise Me Tonight
The hurt hits first — old and familiar — followed by something far more useful.
Anger.
Real, grounding, blood-hot anger.
I straighten. “Is that really what’s got you so twisted up?” I ask, voice low but even. “That I’ve stood on my own two feet and it didn’t involve you pulling the strings?”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re dodging the question.”
“No. I’m ignoring your insult.” I feel my hands curling around the glasses in my hands. “You’re not angry because I’ve moved on. You’re angry because you don’t get to keep tabs on me anymore. You don’t like not having control. Not beingneeded.”
He stares at me, mouth pressed in a hard line.
“And let’s be honest,” I add, pulse roaring in my ears, “you never wanted to support me. You just wanted to keep me in your shadow. Now you don’t get to.”
I go to step past him, but Jeremy’s hand clamps around my wrist.
“Stella—”
“Take your hand off her.”
The voice cuts through the noise like a blade. Calm. Deep. Dangerous.
Callum steps up to me, eyes locked on Jeremy, jaw tight. That same unreadable face he has been wearing ever since I started working for him — but now sharpened into something dangerous.
Jeremy sneers. “And who the fuck are you?”
Callum steps in, close enough now that I feel the heat of him next to me.
Jeremy gives a short, ugly laugh. “Oh, I see. This is it, yeah? Got yourself a toy boy? Explains the sudden boost in confidence. Explains the slutty dress.”
He gives me a look — one of those up-and-down, leering glances he used to give me at the beginning of our relationship when he thought he was being charming.
My body locks. People are watching. I feel their eyes, the hush of silence starting to ripple outwards. I want to vanish.
Before I can move or speak or breathe, Callum’s voice cuts through again.
“What’s it to you?”
Jeremy scoffs. “What’s it toyou, mate? Go find someone your own age. Not some washed-up housewife old enough to be your—”
He doesn’t finish.
Callum turns, cups my face, and kisses me.
Just like that.
My brain short-circuits.
His hands are rough, steady, anchoring me like I might float off the planet. His mouth is hot and firm, not asking permission but not demanding either — just taking. Like he’s been thinking about it for days. Weeks.
And I feel it all the way down. The jolt of it. The raw pull. The shock. The want.
There’s no time to think. No space for shame. Only the solid, burning realness of his mouth on mine and the part of me that leans in before I even know I’ve moved.
Then he pulls back — just an inch — but his hands are still on my cheeks, his eyes locked with mine.
“You all right?” There’s a gentleness in his tone, the kind that makes me feel like I’m the centre of his world, if only for now.
