Page 87 of Always Meant for You
Whisper-soft kisses graze the skin beneath my earlobe. I drift in that space between sleep and waking, hovering at the edge of consciousness.
“Cal,” I whisper, naming the man who visits me in my dreams. And last night is no exception.
I shift, telling myself I’ll get up in five minutes, maybe ten. But the promise of extra rest shatters the moment a voice I know as well as my own cuts through the quiet.
“If you want eggs, they’ll be ready in five minutes.”
Cal?
Eggs?
I crack one eye open, then the other, and find myself face-to-face with a kitten. A very disgruntled-looking kitten.
“Mabel the Cat is giving Mabel the Lady a little bath,” Cal says, spatula in hand, dressed in full farmer mode—jeans, boots, flannel open over a T-shirt. And he looks good.So good.
And I’m not in my bed.
I slept over in Jamie—no, Cal’s—cottage.
I zonked out with the goat.
I sit up, and the warmth vanishes as Cal’s herd of cats scatters in every direction.
“Where’s my goat?” I scan the room, my pulse kicking up.
“He’s fine. He’s in the barn. Kenny fed him this morning.” Cal shifts his weight from foot to foot. Is he nervous? Or not thrilled about me invading his space?
I run my fingers through my tangled hair. “Okay. Does my dad know I’m here?” Dread twists in my stomach.
Cal nods. “He stopped over last night. He saw you sleeping and suggested I let you stay on the couch.”
Did he say myfathersuggestednotwaking me up and was totally fine with me sleeping in Cal’s cottage?
It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe.
“Really?” I ask, bending my neck side to side to work out the kinks.
“Yeah. He didn’t want to disrupt you,” Cal says, stone-faced.
I reach for the M charm and twist it between my fingers. I’m still reeling. “My dad told you to let me sleep here?”
“That’s right.”
“Was he armed?”
Back when I was a teenager, Dad was adamant—I couldn’t eventhinkabout dating until I turned eighteen.
Still, the only reason I never broke the dating rule was dumb luck. The one person Iwantedto date ignored me.
I take in Cal, those faded jeans, the worn boots, the way his flannel strains across his shoulders. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing sun-kissed forearms, and I get an eyeful of broody farm porn.
Farm porn.
I chuckle.
Cal raises a brow. “Are you all right, Mabel?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, straightening and offering what I hope passes for a normal human smile.
