Page 101 of Breakaway Hearts

“Trust me. Sometimes a good love story has to hurt a little before you get the happily ever after.”

He heaves a deep sigh, glancing over at the book as if it’s personally wronged him. I know exactly what he’s feeling, because that’s how I felt while I was reading. And although I won’t give away the ending, I’m pretty sure he’ll like it.

A moment of silence passes between us, and he keeps stroking my legs.

“What time do you want to get dinner?” he asks quietly. “I was thinking five or six.”

“That works.” I pull my legs off his lap and stand. I’m suddenly aware of how thick they looked against his muscular thighs, how there must be dimpled skin beneath my jeans, and even though I know he finds every inch of me beautiful, something inside me, something volatile and alien, screams that he’s lying.

He cocks his head, studying me. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I just had a long day.” I smile as best as I can manage and run a hand through my curly hair. “I’m going to go take a shower and relax a bit before we head out.”

“Sure thing.” He picks the book back up and pulls the bookmark out. “Let me know if you need anything. Or if you want company.”

My clit throbs at the offer, but instead of responding with something flirtatious or dirty, I just give a little nod.

“I will.”

I trudge upstairs and into the shower, where I stand underneath the hissing stream of hot water until the glass doors fog up and steam contorts the light. It feels like a necessary cleansing, an attempt to wash away the grime of a stupid tabloid and an even stupider ex-boyfriend who shouldn’t have had an effect on me in the first place.

Once I get out of the shower, I put leave-in conditioner in my hair before drying the curly ends and twisting them to emphasize their shape. I really want the curls to shine tonight, and I’m hoping it will give me a boost of confidence. It’s something I can control, and my wild red hair is part of me that I’ve always loved unequivocally.

But as I stare at my wardrobe, I can’t help but feel lost. Every piece of clothing looks stained by Austin and his words. Some are loose and some are too tight, and all of them feel like they’ll only highlight some negative feature on me.

Fuck. Don’t think like that, Callie.

Clenching my jaw, I reach into the back of the closet and pull out a pretty red dress that I’ve always loved. The material is soft and smooth, and the dress falls just past my knees, the skirt portion loose enough that it flares a little when I spin around. I pull it on and then apply a bit of makeup, nodding in satisfaction at my reflection when I’m done.

There’s still a bit of time before we’ll have to leave, so I glance over at the section of the room that’s become my little art studio. I wouldn’t dare break out my paints right now, for fear of getting a huge glob of color on my dress, but I decide to sit and do some sketching, brainstorming my next piece.

“Hey, Callie?” Reese calls from just outside the bedroom a while later. I glance up, surprised at how quickly the time passed. I tend to get a little lost in my art, which is part of why I love it so much. It gets me out of my head.

“Yeah?” I call back.

“You ready? I put in a reservation for six-thirty.”

Closing my sketchbook, I stand up and smooth out my dress. Then I open the bedroom door and step out into the hallway.

Good lord. Reese has no right to look this good in dress pants and a button-up. His pecs look broad and firm beneath the fabric of his shirt, the sleeves highlight his biceps, and the pants hug his thighs and ass like they’re melded onto his body. He wears suits to every game, but I honestly prefer him like this, casual but still a bit dressy.

“Wow,” he breathes, taking in my dress the same way I checked out his outfit.

He takes a few long strides toward me, grasps me by the back of my neck, and kisses me until I can barely breathe.

“You look gorgeous,” he says against my lips. “Let’s get out of here before I eatyouinstead.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Reese asks. “Caprese to start?”

The menu is only a page long, but I already want everything on it. My mouth waters at the thought of gnocchi and sausage, a margherita pizza, branzino, amatriciana—I can’t decide.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Definitely. How about some bread and olive oil, too?”

“Mm, yes.” He makes an appreciative noise. “What are you going to get for an entree?”

I glance around the crowded restaurant filled with beautiful people eating beautiful food. It’s dark and atmospheric to the point where I can only make out the vague shapes of what they’re eating, so I can’t make my decision based on what it looks like alone. The smell is intoxicating, though.

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