Page 35 of What Hurts Us

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Callum’s forearmtook up most of the center console’s real estate. Soft hairs tickled my skin as he shifted, backing the car out of the driveway. His hand flexed on the gearshift of his cruiser, thick veins rippling like a nurse’s wet dream.

Every time he and I had afirst, I realized just howinsanethis deal was. I had agreed to be his fiancé—a woman whoshouldknow everything about her betrothed. Or, at the very least, what his middle name was.

I toyed with one of the ripped spots on my jeans. They were the artfully distressed kind, but now the hole was being made bigger by my nerves. Callum’s presence was overwhelming. Maybe it stemmed from the fact that he didn’t say much, but I could see the wheels spinning in his head.

What I wouldn’t give for a peek into that grouchy hermit’s running mental monologue.

But he wasn’t always grouchy—not the way AB, John, or the people around town thought he was. He simply didn’t feel the need to insert himself into every situation. Cal was discerning and observant. If the stories I heard from Shane and Lauren were true, that discernment made him an extraordinary police officer.

Cal shifted in the driver’s seat, working both pedals with his good leg. I would have offered to drive, but I was pretty sure it was frowned upon for a civilian to drive a department-issued vehicle. He shoved the swivel-mounted laptop closer to the dashboard, giving me a little more space in the passenger’s seat.

“Got enough room?” His eyes never left the road as he turned the car in the opposite direction of Falls Creek.

I stretched my legs out. “Yep.”

I caught him peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “I wouldn’t normally take my cruiser out for errands,” he said.Was he intentionally initiating conversation?

“Oh?”

I hadn’t seen another vehicle in his driveway, but he did have a garage I had yet to explore. Maybe that’s where he kept his personal vehicle.

“I have a motorcycle.”

Holy shit. He was talking. Shooting the breeze.Not wanting to spook him, I nodded. “Cool.”

Cal shifted his hips in the seat and swapped hands, draping one giant palm over the top of the steering wheel, looking cool as a cucumber. “Can’t drive it right now.” He cracked a half-cocked smile. “Pretty sure the orthopedic surgeon would track me down and kill me if she found out I had cranked it up.”

It was a balmy fall day, the kind of weather that reminded me that even though I no longer lived on the coast and was surrounded by rolling hills and farmland, I was still very much in the south. “Maybe by the time you graduate from PT, it’ll be cool enough for you to take it out.”

“You ever ridden?” This time, he actually glanced at me.

I shook my head. “I’ve seen enough motorcycle accident victims come through the ER to crush that desire. I flew one of those calls last week. When we got to the scene, I could see inside the driver’s kneecap. His leg was split from the base of his knee to the top of his thigh. Got hit by a car, and the handlebars caught his leg when he was thrown from the bike. I’ve seen too many legs needing skin grafts. Too many DOAs. Too many families having to make the decision to take their loved one off life support or whether to donate their viable organs.”

I expected nothing more than a grunt. Instead, Cal shocked the bejeezus out of me when he nodded. “I get that. I didn’t get my motorcycle license until a few years ago. I wanted to take some of that control back.”

“From things you’ve seen?”

He nodded. “Some fear is healthy. It keeps you safe. But I’m not going to let fear dictate the way I live. I’m going to be the one to tell it where its place is and how much say it has over my choices.”

I propped my forearm on the open space of the center console, a millimeter away from his. “Maybe you’ll have to take me on a ride when you’re back to one hundred percent.” Resting my head against the back of the seat, I looked over at him and smiled. “You know, since I’ve been such anawesomefake girlfriend.”

That comment managed to pull an honest-to-goodness laugh out of him. Pearly white teeth flashed like lightning. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he wiped the lingering smile off his face and scrubbed his palm down the side of his dark scruff. “Yeah. I, uh…” He pulled into a parking space and looked me up and down. “I definitely could have done worse.”

Southern boys were a different breed. They were gentlemanly with their ‘yes, ma’ams,’ opening doors, and walking on the side closest to passing cars. Then, when they got you home, all those manners went out the window. It was dirty promises whispered as they pushed you up against the front door. It was the way they grabbed your throat as they pulled you in for a panty-disintegrating kiss.

At least that’s what I thought about as Cal rounded the hood of the car to open my door, his jeans clinging to his thighs and ass like a second skin.

That man had an ass that wouldn’t quit. I wanted to sink my teeth into it before having him pin me down on the mattress.

Cheese and crackers, Layla. He’s a man. Not a steak.

I needed to get laid, but getting laid wasn’t part of my self-imposed celibacy. Fake dating Cal worked with my plan of abstinence. I couldn’t be seen going out with another man if I was “with” him, but it was all fake. There would be no feelings. No hanky-panky. Nothing to tempt my resolve.

Cal ripped open my door, his hand gripping the top of the frame as I got out.

Fine. His hands could tempt my resolve.

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