Page 53 of Callan

“Christmas is just around the corner, so I thought I’d reach out to you and thank you for your lovely gift.”

I glance at him over my shoulder, empty glasses in my hands.

“That was the other reason why I looked for you,” I offer. “It was a nice gesture, by the way," I add, no longer looking at him while pivoting to the refrigerator.

“It’s chilled. I like it that way if you don’t mind,” I drone on as if the man in the room is actually waiting for his drink.

I pour two glasses of wine, although he says nothing and might, in fact, be expected somewhere else.

That doesn’t stop me from turning to him with a smile on my face and drinks in my hands.

“Can you sit, please?” I say, noticing he hasn’t moved from the spot he claimed in the middle of the room. "I can take your coat and gloves,” I add.

Reluctantly, he slides his hands out of his pockets, peels his gloves off, removes his coat, and deposits everything on the sofa. He stops me with a clipped gesture when I express my intention to drape his coat over a hanger.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” he says, his voice husky and wintery, making a swarm of goosebumps rise across my skin.

Secret thoughts darken his eyes, yet my gut tells me they have nothing to do with me or my invitation.

Eventually, he sits at the kitchen table and I put our drinks down in front of us.

He wears a very expensive watch, and I’m now seriously thinking I might be dealing with some mobster.

I’ve had rich clients at my last job.

My firm organized events for them and their significant others, so I’m familiar with how old money and new money look in terms of the clothes and jewelry they wear.

You couldn't guess some of those people’s net worth just by looking at them. Their outfits and fine quality shoes couldn’t give them away.

They looked like everybody else, only expressing more freedom, dealing with less stress, and having an abundance of fine things in their lives.

With this man, there is that, and there’s also more.

There is tension in his frame, a body chiseled to perfection, and something feral in his eyes. His determination speaks of street smarts in addition to the sophistication and smoothness needed in the boardroom.

This is the kind of man who would climb a fence, dangle from a balcony, sprint down the street if he had to, and beat someone’s face in if the circumstances required it.

Idon’tclink my glass to his before taking a sip and studying his face from above the smooth rim.

“What makes you think someone broke into her place?” he asks, wrapping his fingers around his drink.

Regardless of how smooth his gesture is, it still brims with tension. He seems casual about our conversation, yet he is hardly that.

His eyes meet mine when I lift my gaze from his hand.

“I was outside, and her windows were dark when I noticed a light…” I say. “It was more like a flashlight, and it moved around the living room as if the person was looking for something. It flicked again moments later. This time, the person was in the bedroom. I know the layout of her place because, you know…” I gesture around the room and up before taking another sip. “It’s the same layout.”

His eyes are still on mine when he lifts the glass to his lips and drinks some wine. My gaze drifts across his lips, and maybe it’s the wine or the warmth in the room, but a fire burns across my skin.

“Frankly, I thought it was you,” I say, eager to get a reaction from him.

He sets his drink down and rests his elbows on the table. His shirt hugs his chest tightly, and I wish I were the fabric pressed against his pecs.

Too much wine for me, for sure, to think something like that.

And too little action in the bedroom since Quinn left. There has been no action, really.

But my sexual frustrations will go away.

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