Page 113 of Neap & Spring

She slowly looks up at me, her eyes wide in the bright kitchen light, her expression a mix of curiosity and something that makes my blood run hot. Her sweater reveals her pulse point that’s beating way too fast.

And I’m standing here holding a fork like an idiot while she’s looking at me like that.

“Vivienne.”

“Yes?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

Something in me snaps. Something reckless. I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of pretending.

And I’m so damn tired of keeping my distance when all I want is to close it.

Fine.

Before I can overthink it and the fear of rejection can take hold and talk me out of it and I can remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea, I make a decision.

If she wants to play this game, we’ll play.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Callum

“Okay,” I hear myself say from somewhere far away. The blood is rushing in my ears.

I set the plate down on the counter and pick up the fork. I slowly cut a piece of the scallop, ensuring it’s perfectly coated in sauce, and lift it toward her mouth.

She leans in, her eyes locked on mine, her lips parting as she takes the bite. I watch as she closes her mouth around the fork, and the sight of it — her lips around something I’m holding, her eyes never leaving mine — makes heat spike through my entire body.

She pulls the fork away slowly, and a small trace of sauce lingers at the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes close.

And I watch her face as she chews, completely transfixed. The small furrow that appears between her brows as she processes the flavors. The way her tongue darts out slightly to catch more of the sauce.

I stare intently at her throat as she swallows, watching the delicate line of muscle work.

Then her eyes open.

And she makes this sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan that goes straight through me like an electric current, settling low in my gut and lighting every nerve ending on fire.

“Callum,” she breathes, my name a mixture of reverence and longing.

I reach out, my thumb swiping across her lip, catching the sauce. Her breath hitches, and I can see the pulse throbbing at her throat, wild and rapid. Each beat echoing the electricity swirling between us.

And I know — I know this is a bad idea. I know I’m going to get my heart broken again. I know it with absolute certainty. It’s like knowing the sun will rise tomorrow.

She’s going to leave. She’s going to move on to the next best thing, the next city, the next opportunity, the way she always does. And I’m going to be left here, in this kitchen, in this restaurant, exactly where I’ve always been. With nothing but memories and the ghost of her in every corner.

I know all of that.

My mind races, screaming at me to stop, to pull back and protect myself. But I ignore it.

I lean in slowly, giving her a chance to stop me, before capturing her lips with mine. The kiss ignites a wildfire through me that burns away every logical thought I’ve ever had.

Her lips are soft and taste like brown butter and lemon, and she makes another one of those sounds against my mouth, and it destroys whatever remaining sense I had left.

My hands come up to frame her neck, thumbs at her jawline. My fingers slowly slide into her hair. It’s as soft as I remember, silky and thick. She responds instantly, her mouth opening under mine, deepening the kiss, her fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer.

There’s no testing the waters or gentle exploration to see if this is okay. It’s desperate and hungry and years of want condensed into this single moment. I want to lose myself in her, in this moment where nothing else matters but us.