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“Thanks for coming, Kai. I appreciate the help, really. And I’m fucking sorry, again,” I say, nodding once and struggling as I place my helmet over my head with one hand.
“Yeah, man. It’s fine. Anything for a brother. Take care, Cal.”
He stares a second longer, emotions warring behind his gaze as he grasps his helmet between his palms. Then, he places it over his head and reaches over to playfully smack me on the shoulder. I huff out a laugh as he climbs onto his bike and flips back his kickstand. Before I can do the same, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Shit, I forgot about Lydia’s text. I pull out my phone and tap on the message. It’s her … again.
Lydia: Cal, come on. I really need you. Can you help me? Pretty please with whip cream on top? *puppy dog emoji*
I groan, but can’t help the tug at the corner of my lips or the way that I’m now imagining whipped cream on top of all sorts of—
My phone dings before I’m able to finish that thought. Thank fuck for that. I look down, and immediately circle back, because it’s fucking her again.
Lydia: I’ll make it worth your while, big guy.
Fuck. I swallow, lifting my gaze from the text as Kai exits the parking lot on one wheel. That crazy fucker. I can’t help but smile as I bring my attention back to my phone. I type out a reply before little Miss Impatient can send another text.
Callum: What do you need, Lydia? Please tell me it isn’t plumbing. Or wait, you need me to reach a glass on the top shelf for you, don’t you?
Her response is almost immediate. I don’t even have time to close the screen and pocket the damn thing.
Lydia: LOL. Wow. See? I knew you were funny. But no, this is a serious matter, Callum. Meet me at North Hollow Storage Co. I’m headed there now.
The request is strange, but I’m beginning to realize that all things are when it comes to Lydia Aston. I type out my reply, hit send, and pocket the phone.
Callum: See you there, love.
I almost regret that last part. Almost.
I start up the bike and head toward the main road that leads to the storage unit. The drive there is about thirty minutes out and mainly winding back roads. I make it there in half that, pulling into the parking lot next to a beat-up old Toyota.
As I scan the otherwise empty lot, I wonder how far out Lydia is. I don’t have to wonder long, though. Once I’m off the bike and my helmet is on the handlebars, she suddenly materializes like the witch I always figured she was.
Lydia strolls out of a row of storage units up ahead, wearing a long, flowing skirt and a V-cut crop top that shows just enough skin to keep me staring. The skirt flaps in the breeze, exposing her upper thigh through a long slit in the side. Her hips sway as she struts toward me, and her tits … holy fuck. How have I not noticed them before now? I quickly avert my gaze, taking in her dark, wavy hair falling to her shoulders, and finally land on those damn cerulean eyes. I wonder if she’s ever been told that they look like they were forged from the very sea. And out here in the soft sunlight, they seem to shine even brighter.
She rakes those eyes over my frame, trailing them down, and then back up. Her gaze burns, stirring things that I instantly force back into the dark. She doesn’t even try to hide the way she’s checking me out. I’m not sure if I hate that fact about her, or if I’m starting to kind of like it. I do know one thing, though. Lydia Aston might be the most annoying human on planet Earth, but she is absolutely fucking gorgeous. I swallow hard, composing myself before she reaches me.
“Hey there, big guy,” she chirps, moving in for a fucking hug.
She throws her arms around me, pressing her cheek against my body. I go rigid as my arms hang uselessly at my sides. The scent of orange and vanilla consumes me when I make the mistake of inhaling. My eyes fall closed on instinct, and I resist the urge to lean in and drag in another breath like some starved beast. She pulls back, her infectious smile finding me within seconds.
“Hey,” I say back, flexing my jaw to avoid smiling back at her.
Her gaze drops to the cast on my left hand, her brows pinching together. “What happened?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
She studies me, rolling her eyes as she says, “Fine, Mr. Grumpy Pants.”
I roll my eyes and then stop short when I realize the piece of shit vehicle beside us must be hers—turning toward it with a look on my face that must say exactly what I’m thinking.
“What?” she asks, scoffing. “You don’t like Junie girl?”
“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I ask, turning back toward her.
“Junie girl. My truck, duh. You don’t like her?” She places her hands on her hips, popping one out. Oh, she’s serious.
“Who the fuck names their vehicle Junie girl?” I ask, dumbfounded.
She purses her lips and huffs out a laugh, crossing her arms over her chest. So sassy. I try not to notice how the movement draws my attention exactly where it shouldn’t.
