Page 170 of Always Meant for You
This heady pop of electricity jolts through me. “What’s the pink number stand for? I get this weird feeling it’s about me.”
“It is.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve been counting every day since you left, and?—”
“But I’m back,” I blurt, cutting him off. “And the number’s still climbing. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
He leans in, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath. “It’s every day since I wanted to tell you that I love you. I needed a marker—something for me. A way to hold on to you. I believed that number would guide you home.”
I rest my hands on his broad shoulders. “I think numbers bring you comfort because of that crooked four.”
His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
“That number got you home when you were a hungry little boy. Numbers make you feel safe. They give you control.”
He mulls it over, then grins. “You’re right. And now every number is for you. You’re my home, Mabel. And I swear—I will love you the way you deserve to be loved. The way Jamie would want you to be treasured.”
I think of myself as a thirteen-year-old, the girl whose heart broke under this tree. The girl who was left wondering why she wasn’t enough to make the boy she loved stay with her.
I wish I could go back and whisper what she couldn’t possibly believe.
That love would return to this place.
That the boy would grow into a man brave enough to bare his soul.
That she would grow into a woman strong enough to know her own heart.
And that one day, she’d return, not to be chosen, but to choose.
“What are you thinking, Mabel Muldowney?” Cal asks.
I memorize him all over again. The face I grew up knowing. The one I searched for in my dreams. The one I’ll grow old beside.
“I’m thinking that you need to kiss me, Callan Horner.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He kisses me, slow and certain. The first press is deliberate, a claiming more than a question. His hand cups the side of my face, and everything else fades.
The kiss deepens, unhurried and utterly consuming. He kisses me like it’s a promise, like every press of his lips says I choose you, I always will. Every pass of his tongue, every pull of my bottom lip, matters to him. It’s precise and tender. And it’s for me. All for me.
Tears well in my eyes, not from sadness but joy and relief. He catches them with his lips and kisses them away.
“I love you,” I say between kisses, speaking the words I’ve held in my heart for so long, even when it hurt.
“Say it again.” His voice is low and rough against my mouth.
“I love you, Callan. I love you.”
The control he’s been clinging to disintegrates. He groans into the next kiss and lowers me to the quilt, his body aligned with mine.
His hands move to my blouse. But he’s not rushed. Not careless. He handles the vintage buttons with care, opening each one with intent. I rise slightly, and he eases the blouse from my shoulders. He folds it and places it neatly on the quilt.
I unhook my bra and add it to the pile, half-naked beneath the willow. When the air meets my bare skin, he draws in a breath and gazes at me. He takes me in fully. And I’ve never felt so seen, so adored, so completely known, right down to the parts of me I used to hide.
“You’re so beautiful, Mabel,” he says, reverence threaded through his words.
He strips off his flannel and T-shirt in one motion, then skims his palm down my torso. He removes my skirt with the same care as the blouse. His fingers slip into my panties. He touches me, coaxing me open. I moan, guiding him to me, arching into him as his mouth trails from beneath my ear to the hollow of my neck.
