Page 53 of What Hurts Us

Callum grabbed a pair of neatly folded black boxer briefs and stepped into them. His already sexy rear end was made even more so, thanks to Calvin Klein.

I hurried into the bathroom and hung up my dress before the steam dissipated. The last thing I wanted was to be berated for having a wrinkly dress at an engagement party I had no desire to attend.

But Cal agreed—there was no discouraging his Gran and my aunt when they had their hearts set on something. And that something was an afternoon spent at the bed and breakfast with nearly everyone in town congratulating us on our sham of an engagement.

I added a dab of makeup to hide the circles under my eyes. Cal had carried me up the stairs again. Usually, I slept like a baby after he tucked me in, but not yesterday. He deposited me in his bed, stripped me out of my flight suit, and left it folded on my dresser. The small gesture of plugging my phone into the charger made my heart twist and clench.

I hadn’t worn the engagement ring since Cal had faked his proposal. It wasn’t practical to wear on shift, and it was far too pretty to get dinged up. But an engagement party seemed like an event where the ring was supposed to be worn.

I plucked it out of the glass dish that kept it safe on the bathroom countertop. I could have just as well stored it in the guest room, but it felt odd to hide it from Cal.

It belonged to him, not to me. I was borrowing it to keep up appearances. Appearances that had been getting rather gray and murky lately.

A grapevine of Creekers had whispered the history to me—it was a family heirloom that his Gran had demanded be returned to her when Cal’s parents got divorced.

I dismissed the intrusive thoughts and slipped on the ring before stripping down to shimmy into the dress.

Draped satin, the color of champagne, spilled over my breasts and hips and poured down to my calves. A high slit split the fabric clean up to mid-thigh. Dainty straps the width of a twenty-gauge needle held it up. I reached around, finding the zipper with my fingertips, and tugged.

Crap.

I tugged again. The damn thing was stuck. Sucking in a breath, I hoped that the third time was the charm.

No dice. It didn’t budge in the slightest.

“You ’bout ready to go?” Cal called from his room.

I wiggled the zipper, a desperate whimper escaping my mouth as I tried to close it.

“Lay?” He tapped his knuckle on the bathroom door. “You okay?”

“Uh, I’m good,” I lied.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I grunted as I yanked on the zipper again. Why did the designer have to put it down my spine rather than the side like a reasonable person?

The latch to the door clicked as Cal let himself in. “It sounds like you’re getting railed in here… Or giving birth.”

“In my experience, the sounds of how babies are made and how they’re born are pretty much the same.”

Callum let a hushed snicker slip while I tried the slow and steady method this time, attempting to coax the zipper up my back. Still nothing.

“Is it stuck?” he asked as warm hands found my hips. The fabric was thin, and I could feel every flex of his fingers.

I let out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. I’m just gonna change into something else.” Never mind the fact that my mom had picked out this dress at a boutique in North Hills, then stopped by the base while I was working to give it to me as a spontaneous engagement present. She would have a conniption if I didn’t wear it, but I wasn’t about to be a walking wardrobe malfunction.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Cal murmured as his chest pressed into my shoulders. He swept my loose waves to one side and trailed his knuckle down my spine. The base of the zipper rested just above the curve of my ass. Warm breath curled around my cheek as he slowly slid his hand down each vertebra.

I shrugged. “Kinda hard to get my panties in a wad if I’m not wearing any.” The side of the dress fluttered, offering him a peek at some side boob.

His touch stalled, and he swallowed. “You shouldn’t tell me things like that, Layla.” His voice was hoarse. Pained, almost. He hadn’t taken his hands off of me. Instead, he rested them on my waist. After a moment of consideration, he pinched the fabric at the base of my spine and slowly closed the finicky zipper. Careful hands fastened the hook and eye that hit mid-spine. The dress was a daring number that showed more skin than my usual wardrobe of flight suits, leggings, and sweatshirts.

“Why not?” I said in a thready breath, trying to ward off the impending cardiac arrest if he kept caressing me with such tenderness.

Gently, he pulled my back flush against his front. Something thick and long pressed against my ass. “That’s why, honey.” His lips grazed the shell of my ear with each word. “This thing between us may be a sham, but I’m still a man—” his hands moved up, grazing the side of my cage-free breasts “—and you’re still a woman.”

I was going to need a defibrillator.

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