Page 28 of Most Likely to Fear Love

“No problem,” Harle replied.

As I walked into the kitchen, I could hear rustling on his end of the line, the soft thud of cupboard doors opening and closing.

I scrubbed the mug, listening to the sounds of Harle moving around his own kitchen. It felt strangely intimate, like we were sharing the same space despite being miles apart. It made me feel a bit gooey.

“So, how was your night?”

I set the kettle on the stove. “Good. I may or may not have had a few wines which was what gave me the courage to call you.”

There was a long silence, and I thought maybe the line had gone dead. I pulled my phone away from my ear to check and just as I put it back, Harle spoke. There was something about the tone in his voice that made my toes curl. All gentle and soft.

“Cassidy, are you generally scared of the idea of talking to me?”

Fuck.

“Not of talking to you, no.”

“Of what then?”

Maybe it was the wine talking, but the next words came out unfiltered. “Of you not wanting to hear me, I guess. Fuck that sounds so dumb.” I was mucking this up so badly it was fucking embarrassing.

“No it doesn’t. But for the record, I’m always happy to hear from you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, because crying right now would make it too weird. “Why are you always so kind to me?”

“Why do you think you don’t deserve for me to be kind to you?”

Double fuck. I had to swallow around the lump in my throat before I could talk again. “Okay, this is getting a bit deep. Can we change the subject?”

“Sure. Tell me about your friends. How did y’all meet?”

I huffed out a breath of relief at his easy acceptance. “High school. Well, Hannah did, anyway. They were all in the same year together and I somehow got dragged into it. They are a gift to me, that’s for sure.”

“They sound amazing. How’s that chocolate coming along?”

“Just adding the milk now. How about you?”

“Already done and I’m back on the couch.”

I tidied up the kitchen, wiping down the counter and rinsing my spoon before heading back to my bedroom. Carefully climbing into bed, I leaned back against the headboard and took a sip of the hot chocolate. “I’m back in bed.”

“Good girl,” he replied, his voice low and husky.

A shiver ran down my spine at his words, and I nearly choked on my drink. I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the heat pooling in my belly.

“So,” Harle continued, seemingly oblivious to the effect he’d had on me, “what do you want to talk about?”

I hesitated for a moment, my mind blank. Then, before I could overthink it, I blurted out, “Have you ever been married?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I immediately regretted asking. It was too personal, too intrusive. We were just... what? Friends? I wasn’t even sure anymore.

“Sorry,” I backpedaled quickly. “That’s probably too personal. You don’t have to?—”

“No, it’s okay,” Harle interrupted gently. “I haven’t been married. Came close once, but it didn’t work out.”

“Are you sad about it?”

“Not really. I’m pretty happy with my life.”

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