Page 97 of Falling Back to You

Cal chuckled and swept an arm towards the street where the parade floats were gearing up. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” I smiled, and with him, it didn’t feel forced.

Heading a town harvest banquet was the furthest thing from my wheelhouse. But Shawna lent me her planner with notes and lists of people to talk to.

If party planning was my shot at redemption, I’d take it.

Which meant I needed a favour from Cal. Apparently having some guys from the Chargers come out to interact with the kids in a community game was a whole thing.

So on Monday evening, after a full day of nannying, I tidied my curls and put on a flowy blouse and jeans. You’re not trying to impress him. You’re trying to be professional.

Lies, lies, lies.

Cal didn’t answer the door when I knocked. But the subtle thump from the garage drew me towards the outbuilding.

I paused in the open doorway, staring inside for two seconds before I flung myself backwards, leaning heavily against the vinyl siding and lecturing my rogue blood pressure. I’d seen Cal shirtless dozens of times growing up. But he’d filled out more than his teenaged self ever had.

I swallowed hard and refocused my mind, willing the blush out of my cheeks. Cal was attractive—I’d planned to marry him after all—but he wasn’t mine to admire like that anymore. Once maybe, but not now. Focus. You came to ask about the Chargers doing a community game for the festival. No looking at the pretty man.

“Hi,” I said calmly, stepping back into the garage doorway. Wow, I could have won an award for how nonchalant that sounded.

The punching stopped, and Cal’s gloved hands dropped to his sides, chest heaving.

Do. Not. Look. I locked my eyes on his face. “Your dad grabbed Khia for a sleepover, and I was going to talk to you about something. But . . . yeah, I’m just gonna—” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder and backed away. My cheeks were hot enough to strike a match. I could picture myself with bright red spots on my face and a halo of curls. I was one red nose short of a circus clown.

Amusement tugged Cal’s lips, confirming my clown theory. “Something bothering you, Holiday?” He grabbed a towel and wiped the glistening sweat from his face and neck. “Like what you see?”

“Nope. Later!”

“Hey,” he called after my hasty retreat. And only because he was paying my salary, I turned around. “Thank you,” he said simply. “You’re good with her. We, uh, she is lucky to have you.”

“She’s special. Amazing really.”

“Yeah, she is.” His teasing smile softened into something deeper. “Want me to show you some moves?”

My brain glitched. “Excuse me?”

“Boxing.” He motioned to the punching bag. “Wanna try?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It’s a handy way to let out excess rage.”

I propped my hands on my hips and frowned. “What part of this”—I waved a hand over my frame—“says excess rage?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Yes, please. “Shut up.”

Cal chuckled. “You’ve done a lot of hard things this month, Elle. There’s no shame in admitting it’s a lot.” He bumped his gloved fists together. “It helps me clear my head.”

“Fine.”

“Show me your stance.”

“Only if you put a shirt on.”

His grin turned mischievous. “Can’t handle this?”