Page 10 of Always Meant for You
That huff. That sharp exhale weighted with disappointment.
“This is what you’re doing the day we bury Jamie?”
Cal Horner has invaded my space.
This man has some nerve.
I bite my cheek. The whole house seems to tilt. Heat pulses behind my ears, and the breath I manage to pull in splinters halfway down. I blink, but the edge of my vision stays sharp, too sharp.
Every sound Cal makes lands like a slap.
I yank my dress down and scramble to cover myself, praying he didn’t catch a glimpse of my underwear. I shift to block his view—and that’s when my passport and phone slip off the bed and hit the floor with a sharp thud.
I gather my dignity. “What are you doing up here, Cal?”
My voice cracks. I hate that his presence rattles me.
And I can’t remember the last time this man stepped foot in my room.
“Jesus, Mabel,” he snaps, turning away. “Make yourself decent.”
I glare at him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to barrel in. And you could have knocked—if you had any manners.”
He exhales through his nose and crosses his arms.
Classic Cal behavior.
His gaze drops to my shoes. Then to the passport. Then to the binder, wide open on the floor like my guts have been spilled for him to see.
I nudge it under the bed. The move is clumsy and obvious. But I don’t care. He doesn’t get to see that part of me.
“I heard what you said down there.” His arms stay crossed, shoulders locked tight, tension radiating off him in waves.
I purse my lips. “I didn’t see you.”
“I came in through the back.” His gaze darts to the floor, then to the passport.
I lift my chin. “They were being unkind.”
“People are wondering what’s going on with you,” he says, attention fixed on a spot past my shoulder.
I wave him off. “People have been wondering that for years, Cal. Nothing new there.”
I clench my jaw and kneel to grab my phone, then sweep my passport back into my purse. I hate how easy it is for him to make me feel small. And worse, I hate the jolt I get from looking at him, from standing this close to him.
He didn’t say much at the service. He stayed in the back. He’d looked through me instead of at me. But now, standing here in a dark suit, his hair catches the light. It’s a gorgeous shade—chestnut brown and deep auburn woven together so perfectly it feels unfair. His face is freshly shaved. He looks different. Devastatingly handsome, actually. Which only irritates me more.
“What do you like about cities, anyway?” He nods toward the corkboard. “What’s so great about concrete and smog and people who don’t give a damn about you?”
The heat in my chest intensifies. The butterflies are gone, scorched or swallowed whole by the rush of emotions he stirs in me.
Cal Horner: beautiful to look at, insufferable to listen to.
“Places like Paris and New York have style. They don’t run their lives around crop rotations and grain prices. They’re alive with art, energy, and fashion.”
He scoffs. “And that’s important to you?”
He doesn’t get it. He never has. And without Jamie to play buffer, there’s no one here to referee the blow-by-blow.
