Page 8 of Callum
Argh. She tugged her gaze away to find Jenny with a knowing smiling and a raised brow.
“Don’t say a word,” Fiona warned.
“Okay.” She sipped her drink, and her nose scrunched in distaste.
“Not a fan of whiskey sours?”
“No, I’m a beer girl through and through, but that guy had me in a fluster and I just ordered what you did.”
Fiona laughed, even though she probably shouldn’t have. “I’m sorry I’m not a beer girl. Although, I pegged you as more of a chardonnay-in-the-bath-with-a-book girl.”
“I guess looks can be deceiving.” She took another sip, yet again scrunching her nose. “Do all cocktails taste like this?”
Fiona chuckled again. “No. I’ll get you a sweet one next.”
They spent the next hour talking and laughing. In that time, Fiona did everything she could tonotlook over her shoulder at Callum. Every so often, the urge got the better of her and she peeked over her shoulder. And each and every time, the man’s gaze went straight to her, like he could feel her eyes on him.Dammit.
On the third gaze collision, she looked away and threw back the last of her whiskey sour before stepping away from the bar table. “I’m going to pop over to the bathroom. On the way back, I’ll grab us some more drinks. Beer or sweet cocktail?”
“No, actually, this is growing on me. I’ll have another.”
“Are you sure?” Jenny’s nose scrunches said otherwise.
Jenny took another sip—and yep, another nose twitch. “No, you’re right. I need a beer.”
She thought so. “Sure.”
She weaved through the crowd to the bathroom, brushing against heated bodies. God, it was busy tonight. It had been busy the last couple times she’d come too…before the incident. Not that she was surprised. It was a Friday evening, and this was probably the most popular place in town.
She stepped into the bathroom—and immediately stopped at the tightness in her chest. It wasn’t expected, because she’d been doing so well. Maybe sheshouldhave seen it coming, seeing as it was the bathroom where the guy had grabbed her.
Her gaze rose to the window on the back wall, near the ceiling. It was closed, hopefully locked. That night it had been open. The breeze had brushed over her skin…a breeze she nearly swore she could feel in this moment.
She almost stepped back out…almost.
No. She was safe. Any feelings of panic or fear were in her head andnotbased on the reality of her moment.
Straightening her spine, she moved into a stall. When she stepped out, she turned on the tap, letting cool water rush over her skin.
A large, cold hand slipped over her mouth, rough and calloused, then she was pulled back against a hard stomach.
Fiona closed her eyes, her breaths coming too quickly.No.She was not back there. No one had a hand over her mouth. Nobody stood behind her.
She turned the tap off and grabbed some paper towels.
The muzzle of a gun pressed to her temple. Her stomach dropped. Her world stopped.
She stumbled back.
Stop it, Fiona.
“Hey, are you okay?”
A hand touched her shoulder, and she spun around so fast the towel slipped from her fingers. A young woman with bleached-blond hair stood beside her, hand on her shoulder.
She gave a quick, jerky nod. “Yes. I’m fine.”
Quickly, she grabbed the paper towel, threw it into the trash, and walked out of the bathroom. She brushed someone’s shoulder, and they gasped when their drink spilled.
