Page 150 of Callan

I’ve never had the chance to sleep in a house with so many rooms, a large dining room, and a kitchen.

The kitchen looks like my dream home in itself, with its ceiling-high windows and serene view of snow-capped shrubbery and impressive trees.

His eyes stay on me while I climb the stairs like a bride after the wedding night.

It might not have been our wedding night, but boy, was it eventful or what?

My body still revels in the memories of his touch.

It was interesting.

At first, I thought I’d be forever intimidated by his presence, and then I curled up next to him like someone who’d never met the warmth and kindness of a man.

The last thing I remembered was the fuzzy view in front of me, and his arm looped around my midriff, his breaths rolling softly into my hair.

I drifted off to sleep, locked against his chest.

Me.

Me??

The woman who couldn’t have a plush toy next to her in bed or an extra pillow.

And there I was, resting next to a real man. To me, that’s what he is. A tender, beautiful man.

His smiling eyes don’t peel away from mine.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, leaning back into the door to push it open.

He holds it for me, with a large gesture inviting me in.

“Katlin cooked for us,” he says the moment I walk in, and an enticing smell of freshly cooked food tickles my nostrils.

“Kaitlin?” I murmur, my eyes traveling to the round table in the corner.

The space looks like a vintage postcard, cozy and nostalgic, with wooden beams, cushioned chairs, oak cabinetry and shelves, window treatments, and live plants.

“The housekeeper,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah…” I mumble absently, taking inventory of the festive red linen tablecloth and matching napkins.

Silverware and plates sit on the table, which is beautifully adorned with a centerpiece of pine cones and berries.

Nearby sits a small buffet table, the source of the delicious smell.

“She shouldn’t have done all this for us,” I say, nearing the table.

He pulls the chair out for me and invites me to sit.

“I didn’t ask her to do it for us. She loves to do it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He takes a seat across from me and lifts the covers on the buffet table before pointing to the tray of food.

“She’s done it all her life. Nobody does something for so long without liking it just a little. Let’s eat. I’m hungry, too.”

He points to the food, and I don’t need another nudge to pile up food on my plate.

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