Page 4 of One Small Spark
WREN
Actually,it bothers me a lot. I can’t think straight. It’s not like he’s full-on manspreading, but his leg is encroaching on my cushion. I press my thigh against his, thinking he’ll get the message and, I don’t know, cross his legs to the other side. But he doesn’t move at all, and our legs stay plastered together from hip to knee.
Plus, I’m sweating. It’s these dang patio warmers Ada’s got out here. I thought it’d be chilly, but between the heat pouring off the metal poles and the close quarters on the love seat, it’s sweltering.
Also—this seems key—nobody’s talking about the romance book we were supposed to read. The ladies are eating and chatting about gardening tips and how Fran got the green beans so tender and whether we’ll have early snow this year. It’s not the deep-dive into smut I’ve been looking forward to. Maybe that’ll start up after we finish eating?
“When are we going to get to the romance part of romance book club?” I ask low so the others can’t hear.
“We have social time first,” Callahan says. “Everyone catches up while weeat.”
“Are we supposed totalk?”
He chuffs a laugh. “You’re so horrified.”
“Look who they stuck me with.”
Which I don’t actually do. The man takes up my entire peripheral vision as it is. If I skate my eyes to the side, I’ll be confronted with his flannel-covered goodness. Badness. Him.
It’s bad enough I can smell him. I would love to say he smells like roadkill in the sun, but the light woodsy scent I’m catching isn’t terrible. It’s giving “I live in a forest where woodland creatures visit me daily to watch me chop wood.” The least he could do is bathe himself in sinus-clearing body spray like a normal guy.
I focus on devouring my plate of food.
“You could pretend you like me,” he offers, as if that’s a practical solution.
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
Callahan doesn’t flinch. Not sure what I thought he’d do. Burst into tears and beg my forgiveness? He probably doesn’t even remember saying that about me. Honestly, he might have said worse since then. It’s been two years, after all. Who knows what else he’s told people behind my back.
“How is the hunt for your own personal Greek god? Any luck yet?”
I finally swivel my head to face my nemesis. Of all the stupid things for him to overhear me say. Fresh off of an evening listening to my best friends gush about how grotesquely happy they are with their impressive boyfriends, Callahan caught me at a weak moment. I might have mentioned something about wanting someone of my own, never guessing he was lurking in the shadows.
Incidentally, that was months ago. So. He can remembersomethings.
“It’s going great. I’ve got several potential Greek gods on the line as we speak.”
Lies, of course. My dating life is deader than the souls in the Underworld, but I’m not going to admit that to Callahan. Not after he suggested I go for Hephaestus. The monstrously ugly one.
According to some websites I looked up, also the least adulterous one, but still.
He leans a touch closer as if he’s buying my garbage. “What’s your criteria to decide who wins your heart?”
As if he cares.
“He needs to be a reader, obviously.” Except, no. That’s unhelpful when Callahan’s here with me at a book club. I don’t want him to get ideas. “Not outdoorsy.”
He ticks an eyebrow. I don’t care that every woman in my life is currently loved-up by some strapping mountain man. That’s not the road for me.
“Indoor cats only,” he confirms. “What else?”
He’s shifted even closer, taking up way too much space on my half of the loveseat. Heat courses up my spine straight to my scalp. I almost tug at the neck of my hoodie that hasFirst of all, I’m a delightprinted on it above a raccoon’s face. Stupid patio warmers.
I nudge his shoulder with mine, but he’s immovable. “Can you not loom so hard?”
“Sorry.” He shifts back to his side of the small couch. At least, his upper body does. His leg remains firmly pressed against mine, but I refuse to give up my space. “Continue with your list of requirements in a boyfriend.”
“Taking notes, are you?”
