Page 182 of They Are Mine

I want to know how your hands feel when they aren’t just teasing the edge of the table.

I want to know if you’re going to be my new favorite.

But instead, I click my pen and I start to take notes.

Because, Callum?

Callum needs to be studied.

I tighten my grip on my pen, circling his plate number in my fresh, woefully empty notebook.

“So, what will I find when I run your plate?” I ask, voice sweet as sugar but sharp as glass.

His lips quirk up, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he just stands up and walks inside.

Like my question can just fucking wait.

Like I will wait.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

I watch him disappear through the doorway, fuming, flipping to a new page and scribbling his name in thick, irritated loops.

Fucking Callum.

Already disrupting my process.

He comes back a few minutes later with a tray.

Two sandwiches. Two drinks. A massive platter of fries.

I wasn’t expecting that.

I raise a brow, watching as he sits down and makes himself comfortable.

Then, he picks up his sandwich. Takes a slow, deliberate bite.

And chews.

Mouth closed.

Thank God.

Because I plan to be in that lap later, and if he had been one of those obnoxious, open-mouthed, disgusting eaters, I would have walked away without looking back.

He takes a sip of his drink before finally answering me. Like we weren’t mid-conversation before he left me sitting here like an idiot.

“Small stuff, mostly. They never get the big shit to stick. Incompetent bastards.”

I take a bite of my own sandwich, watching him carefully.

He’s testing me.

I can tell.

Probably wondering if I’ll flinch at his answer. If I’ll blink, fidget, shrink under the weight of what he just admitted.

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