He’s sweaty. Which again raises the question of the need for firewood now.
“I have a question. Well, many, but one is whirring out my head more than the others?—”
“Spit it out, Evie.” He stands and brushes his hands on his jeans. The T-shirt is now stained with sweat, a little dirt, and sawdust. He sets his jaw, and I swear that does something to me, low in my belly.
The thrilling yet unsettling feeling grows wings, flying off with the question I thought of a second ago.
“What did you want to ask?” Callum says, his eyes glancing from me to the bed.
His bed.
The one I am currently occupying as he tries to stay out of his own house to accommodate me during the day. Sleeping on one half every night—with a literal wall of pillows I insisted on. Guilt weaves a gnarled path through me, and my gaze follows his as it tracks to where I stand. Despite his gruff demeanor, Callum has been looking after me since the second my feet touched this island. In one capacity or the other.
“Can I cook you dinner?” I blurt out. Not the question I originally wanted to ask. But the one that fits now.
He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.
“I want—I mean, to say thank you and sorry?” I cringe at my own stupid words.
Writer who?
“Eve—”
I hold up a hand. “Please, let me make it up to you for...” Unable to look at him as my neck and face heat fast, I whisper, “God, I’m so embarrassed.”
He folds his arms over his chest, brows lowering. “Crawling all over me like a cat in heat, you mean?”
His face cracks, the biggest shit-eating grin struggling to stay restrained.
Oh. My. God.
If I wasn’t mortified beyond repair, this could be funny.
A laugh rumbles from him, and I can’t help but scoff one of my own. I hide my face in my hands. Footsteps pad to where I stand. Warm hands peel my hands from my face.
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m a grown man, Evie. If I didn’t want it, I would have walked away.”
He drops my hands and walks from the room.
I turn, mouth gaping, as he makes the staircase. Reaching it, he turns back, one hand on the railing. He stares at me for a beat as if considering the words he’s going to use next. “Dinner sounds nice.”
The rumble of a boat engine drifts in on the breeze.
“Emmett’s here. Back to work, mo nighean,” he says, disappearing down the spiral stairwell like he didn’t just chip ice from my heart with something I’m sure is Gaelic.
With hours before the sun starts its descent, I do as I’m told. I write. This time, the chemistry is radiating off the page. Any minute now, my laptop screen is going to melt from the intensity of it, I’m sure. All the while, the phrase Callum used plays over and over in the back of my mind. I would love to google it, but no Wi-Fi means that’s not an option.
Finishing up the scene I’m working on, I have an idea. Maybe there is some reference to the phrase in his journal.
Oh, that’s right, the one I threw at his feet.
Shit.
The voices of Emmett and Callum tangle up to the lighthouse on the warm afternoon air. They sound like they’re knee-deep in boat mechanics. Maybe I could go and see if it’s in his hut? A quick flip through those weathered pages wouldn’t hurt, surely?It’s not like I haven’t read it before. And it’s not like he doesn’t know I’ve read it...
I’m rushing down the stairs like a thief on quiet feet before I can formulate a reason not to. I push through the front door and walk around the house, checking they are in fact at the dock.
Emmett laughs, shaking his head as he sits on the deck of the fishing boat. Callum squats beside him, his face showing no sign of the joy capturing Emmett’s. What are they talking about?
