Page 52 of Boiling Point
Dangerous territory. But my pulse fluttered anyway.
I pulled one knee up, turning to face him, enjoying the thrill of the oversized shirt slipping against my bare skin. “Any other weekend demands I should know about?” I asked, trying not to sound too thrilled.
He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “You’ll be required to indulge in obscenely good coffee. Real tea, of course. Laugh at my bad jokes, even when they don’t deserve it.”
I snorted. “Sounds like torture.”
“And there’s one last requirement,” he said, turning toward me with a completely straight face, “Looking devastating in my bed, wearing my shirt.”
I sipped my coffee to hide the grin. “Tough terms. But I suppose I’ll manage.”
His eyes dropped to where the blanket had shifted, catching the hem of his shirt high on my thighs—and I felt his gaze like a touch, slow and reverent. The silence stretched—charged, but not awkward.
“I like you like this,” he said softly, the flirtation gone.
My throat went dry.
“Like what?” I whispered.
He reached over and tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering a second too long. “Comfortable. In my space. Like you belong here.”
The air shifted—just slightly. But I felt it. Felt him. Felt the weight of what this weekend might become.
“Careful,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You talk like that, I might start leaving things here.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said, popping a raspberry into his mouth—grinning like he hadn’t just rearranged the furniture in my chest.
Headlights painted long golden swipes along the blacktop beneath the inky Texas night sky. The low hum of Cal’s car filled the silence like a lullaby. We’d been on the road ten minutes,heading south, small-town lights fading behind us. Somewhere ahead: Dallas. Anonymity. A night out where we didn’t have to pretend.
Cal drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tangled with mine, his thumb stroking slow circles over my knuckles. His posture was relaxed, but I could see the set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows every time headlights passed us. I watched him from the passenger seat, tucked into the buttery leather.
“We should play a game or something,” I said, breaking the silence.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Not a game really. Just questions. I’d like to know more about you.”
He flashed a half-smile. “Do your worst.”
I paused, chewing on my lip. “What’s your favorite color?”
He glanced over. “That’s it? You can ask me anything in the world, and you want my favorite color?”
I shrugged. “I’m starting you off easy.”
“Forest green,” he said. “You?”
“Red.”
His grip on the steering wheel was loose and easy as the road curved beneath us. “I had you pegged for blue,” he said, glancing over again. “Or purple.”
“It’s not an entirely reasonable answer. I like them all—color in general. Red’s just…bold.”
His lips twitched with amusement as the rural terrain shifted into suburban sprawl. The city was still miles away, but the air already felt different—less stifling than the uncertainty we’d left behind.
“How old are you?” My voice came out softer than I’d intended. “Not that it matters,” I added quickly. “I’m just curious.”
He exhaled through his nose, taking a moment longer than necessary. “Thirty-eight.”
