Page 88 of Always Meant for You
His brows draw together, and he retreats into the kitchen.
I rub my temples. I can’t believe I’m here—back in this town. Barely twenty-four hours in Elverna, and it feels like twenty-four years.
I stretch and glance down, curling and uncurling my toes against the floor. The quick shower helped, but not enough. Dirt clings under my nails, a reminder that I trudged through a goat pen in the middle of a downpour.
But that wasn’t the only thing that happened in the rain.
That kiss.
God, that kiss.
Headlights cutting through the dark. The scent of wet earth rising around us. How the silence held its breath between us, tight with friction. Thunder rumbling low. Tempers sparking.
The words we spoke.
All I want to do is kiss you to get you to shut up.
Then do it.
I’d challenged him, knowing that Callan Horner never backed down from anything.
After that tense moment in the diner yesterday, I’d flirted with the idea of kissing him just to get it out of my system.
I thought kissing him might clear the static. I didn’t expect him to undo me with one kiss, layer by layer, past and present, crashing into each other.
The quarry. The tree. The way I yearned for him to see me. Really see me.
“Eggs?” Cal’s voice drifts from the kitchen.
I blink. “What?”
“Do you want eggs?” he repeats, each syllable deliberate.
Something is weighing on him.
I push to my feet and cross to the mudroom. “No. I’m heading home.” I scan his mess of whiteboards, then pause.
The board’s changed.
The pink one-four-six-fouris now one-four-six-five.
It ticked up.
I look back over my shoulder. “The number is different.”
“What number?” he says, not meeting my gaze.
I nod toward the whiteboard. “The pink one. The one I asked about last night.”
He studies the ceiling, not budging. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
I open my mouth, ready to fire back some pointed remark about where he can store his cold eggs, but stop short. My throat catches, dry and raw, and the aftertaste in my mouth is worse than morning breath and barn dust combined. It’s mud and regret—and maybe a hint of humiliation.
I need to go. Now.
“Enjoy those eggs, and thanks for the sleepover.” I cringe. “You know what I mean.”
Without waiting for a response, I push through the door and step into the morning air.
