Page 50 of Falling Back to You

Stop it. I couldn’t have a crush on Cal. Any and all feelings were no bueno. Ice Queen Elsa had nothing on me.

Feelings needed to be hog-tied, weighed down with a box of rocks, and tossed into alligator-infested waters. Problem solved.

“Was it easy?” I asked quietly. “With you and Dallas?” Of all the Satterfield sisters-in-law, I’d always been closest to Melissa growing up, despite our age gap.

“In a lot of ways, yeah. Like you and Cal, we were friends long before we were romantically involved. It was easy to transition from friendship to friendship plus kissing.” She winked, then studied her husband across the room, drying dishes and laughing at something Shane said. “But love itself isn’t always easy. We’ve had our struggles, but there’s no one else I’d rather do life with than my best friend. Besides”—she smirked—“I wanted my babies to look like him. It’s unfair how gorgeous his eyes are.”

I laughed. “Man, I missed you, Liss.”

She shimmied her shoulders. “What’s not to miss? I’m a delight.”

“Hey.” Cal’s warm voice rolled over me.

“Hey,” I said breathily. So much for those alligator-infested waters.

Melissa snorted. “And that’s my cue.” She waltzed away with a parting wink.

“You must have been talking about me.” Cal smirked. Heaven help me, the man had dimples for days.

Not even my highest reserves could keep me immune from those weapons.

“I saved the last piece of huckleberry pie for you. Shawna made it with gluten-free flour.” He handed me a plate. “I may have fought Brett for it.”

“My hero,” I teased. The easiness of our banter settled over me. It was too easy. Too . . . normal. We were exes. None of my other exes had been this chill after breaking up. And Cal and I had been engaged. Almost married. Yet we’d been best friends once, too. Maybe that was the difference. With a foundation of friendship, it was easy slipping back into that role, before time and mistakes came between us.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Cal crossed his arms and smiled at me. Tired lines crept around the corners of his eyes.

“Me, too.” I fiddled with the pie fork, fighting the urge to brush a hand over his cheek. Wishing I could brush the exhaustion away. Hands to yourself, missy. “And, uh, good game last night.”

“You were watching?”

The hope in his voice sent a pang through my heart. Unable to meet his gaze, I shoved a bite of pie in my mouth and nodded. Was I going to admit that I’d even put on his old jersey? Over my dead body. A girl could only spill so many secrets. And right now, most of mine were already hung out to dry for the world to see.

“Hey, he’s leaning!” Shane hollered across the room from the kitchen.

I glanced up, and Cal was definitely closer than before. Heart tripping over itself, I stumbled backwards. The man had a way of making me forget other people existed. He always knew how to make you feel special.

“Oh, definitely leaning,” Dallas mused, drying a pie plate.

Cal was momentarily distracted. “You know that reference?”

Melissa smirked, someone’s toddler perched on her hip. “I trained him well.”

“Rock on, sister.” Cal fist-bumped her as she passed him.

“Even Greyson knows that reference, Cal,” Juliet cut in from her stool at the island counter. “You forced both of us to sit through every ’90s rom-com you could find a few years ago.”

Cal rolled his eyes. “And you both complained—loudly—the entire time. I was cursed to be the romantic one of this trio, but someone had to educate you in the romance department. I took one for the team. Paisley and Myles can thank me for those efforts.”

“You just didn’t want to mope alone,” Juliet shot back.

“You’re the one living a rom-com, seester. Embrace it.”

Dallas huffed. “Your book club persona is showing.”

“You’re in a book club?” I asked, surprised. Cal had never been the bookish kind. Athletic, yes. Outdoorsy, absolutely. But anything that involved school work and assigned reading, yeah, no. Though he refused to admit it, I was positive he threw himself off a skateboard and sprained his wrist on purpose in sixth grade to get out of a book report.

“A romance book club,” Greyson scoffed, up to his elbows in soapsuds as he washed another pot.