I sit tight, aware of the excited nerves going through me at his words. God help me. I look away.
“I like looking at you too,” he says, just as soft.
My eyes flick up to his. “Because I’m real with you?”
His mouth curves and his eyes quietly promise, and more.
I tip my chin up at a haughty angle. “I would’ve been different if I’d known who you were,” I warn.
“That’s a shame.” He turns very thoughtful and slowly crosses his arms. “That’s disappointing, actually.”
“Why?”
“Because I like the girl I met on the terrace. The one who danced for me and seduced me to the point I lost control.”
I blush. “I’m the same girl. I’m just intimidated.”
His full, masculine laugh fills the silence. “Why?”
“I hear things.”
“Like what?”
“You’re this player. I didn’t know I was sleeping with someone who had . . . so much experience. And you’re my boss.”
“Not your direct boss,” he says with a significant rise of his brows. “And so I’ve played the field all my life, I’m not looking for anything serious. You said yourself, neither were you. Not until . . . what was it?"
“Twenty-eight.”
He grins. “Twenty-eight.”
“But see, the point is, I have to make it to twenty-eight unscarred,” I say. “And a guy like you wouldn’t go by without leaving marks along the way.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you already did. Last night.”
His jaw tenses visibly and his eyes flash with pain by my admission. He raises his arm as he looks at me with tenderness, and then he slowly lowers his hand, as if opting not to touch me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Callan!” someone calls from inside.
The lines of concentration deepen around his eyes and mouth, and a shadow of disappointment crosses his face as he glances at the door. “I better go.”
I nod.
A glint of hesitation appears in his eyes as he rises to his feet. “Are you still up for sightseeing?”
“Always.”
He looks at me with a tender smile then clenches his jaw as if refraining from saying something else.
My lids slide down over my eyes, and when I raise them again, I find Callan watching me.
The gold shades in his eyes flicker as if he’s battling something, those hazel eyes trapping me. “Where are you planning to go?”
“Millennium Park. Navy Pier.” I shrug. “I was going to ask one of the interns, Jeanine or George, if they wanted to come.”
“Looking forward to the Ferris wheel at the Pier?”
“Oh, of course, you know how much I adore heights.” I laugh.
He laughs too, then turns to me. “I’ll take you somewhere.”
“No. Please don’t. Really. We’re good. We’ll have a cigarette before I go back home.”
He frowns momentarily at my words, staring at me as if seeing me for the first time, here, on his home terrace. The air feels charged. Charged with . . . I don’t know.
I want to kiss him.
I don’t want to want to kiss him.
It feels like goodbye.
I’m not ready to let go of him yet.
But I do. I smile weakly but hope it comes out bright and cheery and he gives me a long look before he walks back inside.
I remain outside for a minute then I head back in as well. I sit with Gina and Rachel, and two more girls who I don’t know join us on the couches and start talking about who’s dating who, the upcoming wedding, etcetera.
“So are you two planning the wedding of the year?”
“Not at all. We’re aiming for something small, either here or in Texas.”
I sip on a martini and I peer through the crowd and spot him with a group of guys, his throat kind of sexy as he laughs, thick tendons rippling.
Some girl taps his shoulder, and she looks googly-eyed at him but he nods absently to whatever she asks.
She lifts her hand and offers him her cigarette, and he takes a drag and lets out a slow puff of smoke. I feel an awful pang seeing him share a cigarette with someone else. He shoves it into his mouth and walks over to the bar to mix up a drink, the cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyebrows creased in concentration.
The brunette follows and keeps talking to him, and I see his mouth twist into a smile, even if the cigarette is still there. I look away. Determined to forget him.
I spend Sunday reporting back home:
Mom and Dad (thrilled about the upcoming wedding).
Farrah and Veronica (they want to know how the Chicago clubs compare to the San Antonio and Austin ones).
And then I dial my grandma (she was just happy I called).
Later, I clean the apartment, then I head out to Millennium Park for a run. I run until my throat burns and I’m out of breath, panting with my hands on my knees. Then I drop onto a bench and listen to music as I guzzle down my water, my ponytail wet behind me, my running clothes plastered to my skin as I pull out my cell phone and ask Wynn if she’d like to sightsee and go to the Navy Pier with me.
Wynn told me she saw us talking on the terrace of his place. “Anything going on?” she asked as we walked along the bustling main corridor of the Pier.
“Yes. No.” I sighed. “I don’t know.”
Wynn’s advice was don’t go there.
She immediately grabbed my hand and took me to the bathrooms at the Pier and said, “Let’s see . . . aha!” She pointed at some scribbles on the wall and my gaze focused on one that read,