Wynn’s eyes spark in even hotter anger and she sets her napkin down. “Thank you, but since I don’t plan on returning, that’s quite all right.”
We head outside and start walking in silence.
Wynn is stewing.
I have no real clue about relationships—the only one I’ve had really has no definition at all. An affair. A fling. It’ll be over in days, once I finish my internship, and so what advice can I possibly give Wynn?
I stick with the usual. That if he doesn’t come back, or fight for her, or at least try, then he just doesn’t deserve her.
I worry about Callan and me. I worry about it hurting. Better to pull out right now than be hurt like this—
“He’s such a fucking— Do you know he just one day pulled back? One day, said he just didn’t want kids even when we’d talked about it before, when he’d asked me to move in—”
“WYNN!”
We hear a male voice yell behind us.
Wynn and I both spin around at the same time.
Emmett stands there in his chef jacket.
I wait for Wynn to do something, but she just kind of stands there and does nothing but stare.
“Fucking come back here, Wynn.” Emmett starts walking for her and I nudge Wynn.
“Go on!” I hiss, and Wynn starts walking cautiously forward, and I turn away when I see him grab her by the front of her dress and pull her in for a kiss.
Well then!
Grinning ear to ear, I pull up my Uber application and call a car, then head back to my apartment.
I don’t sleep.
I’m counting the seconds until tomorrow when I see him at Carma.
I’ve only got a few more days of my internship. Staying in Texas sort of took up my last week—it’s killing me to know our seconds are counted.
I’m planning to be at the terrace at 6 p.m. sharp today.
I really wish I had time to look up Callan sooner, but I can’t.
I’m trying to get as much done for Mr. Lincoln before I leave. My fingers are flying over the keyboard when there’s a dramatic shift of energy in the air around me.
I glance up from my computer and he’s leaning on my desk.
Hot.
Unattainable.
And so sexy he sends me out of my goddamn mind.
Callan.
My Callan.
Our gazes hold each other silent.
My mouth starts running dry.
“I’ve been told I’m a selfish bastard.” His lips hike up mockingly. “Never really realized that I was, until I caught myself wanting to call you a dozen times, asking you to come back home.”
“I was home,” I croak.
“Yeah, that’s right.” He laughs. His warm eyes are full of expectation. He looks almost perfect, but the slightly disheveled imperfections—including the tousled hair and dark circles under his eyes—I find adorable. Adorable enough that I could reach out and grab it, anchor myself to him.
“How are you?”
I fiddle with my sleeve, looking at the keyboard in front of me. “Good. There’s so much to do though to get ready to leave.”
His gaze swirls with some raw, dark emotion, and he says, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Come home with me tonight.”
I nod eagerly. “After that thing at the Saints’,” I say.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek and I close my eyes and groan and drop it to the desk.
That night, my brother’s gang throws a farewell party for me.
Wynn picks me up and tells me she and Emmett are working on things.
“He thinks we’re moving too fast. He’s not ready for kids,” she says, sighing. “I’m willing to give him time, you know? I believe in us.”
I’m envious of Wynn, of how sure she is that they can work out. When right now I just don’t even know what I want anymore. My plan had been so crystal clear when I came to Chicago, and now . . .
My breath catches when we stride into the Saints’ penthouse apartment. Because he is the first thing I see.
He’s wearing this puzzled expression as he stares down at a gorgeous, chubby, black-haired baby, as if he can’t believe he’s holding one. Then he flashes a smile at it and tells Saint something that makes Saint nod proudly.
Seeing him hold the baby does something to me.
He’s still smiling as he shoots a glance in my direction.
It seems like a casual glance, as if he doesn’t know I’m standing here. But he finds me staring and when our eyes lock, his gaze shines a little brighter, his smile fading. He crooks his finger at me and points daringly at the baby.
I shake my head, just to be contrary.
“Come here, Olivia,” he dares, nodding at the baby. “Don’t be a coward,” he croons.
“I’m not a coward. Having one of my own is in my plan, but I bet it’s not in yours.”
I sigh and relent.
Callan waits for me to come over—fuck, but he looks so hot with a baby in his arms—and when he hands Baby Saint over, he smells of my favorite Callan cologne, and the baby smells like baby, and our hands brush as he passes him over to me.
I sense a shift in him when he gazes down at me as I hold the baby.
Is he thinking of getting me pregnant?
Of having his baby girl or boy in my arms?
“Stop looking at me like that, Callan.” I shoot him the direst warning look that I can.
“Like what?” he asks, his expression still intense and unchanging.
“You know what! It only makes me want it, want you to—” I catch myself and give him a telling look that clearly states I don’t want to want these things, then I finish off the look with a haughty lift of my chin as I turn around to take the baby over to the girls.