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“Ron Pope is one of my favourite singers.” She holds the signed vinyl album up. “This is amazing. I didn’t even know he sold them signed.”
I shrug. “It’s amazing what people do when asked.”
Her eyes bulge a little more. “You contacted him and asked him to do this?”
“Yes. He’s a great guy.”
Her breathing picks up, and she appears to be at a loss for words, which is out of character. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received. Which means you are in danger of having my lips on yours again. And that means I am in danger of the consequences. And that means we are both screwed. So, you need to go into the lounge room right now and give me a minute to get a handle on this.”
Fuck. This could go south very quickly. Not that it would be south for me, but Callie’s made her position on this relationship clear, and I’m fighting to honour that decision. “You want me to put the album on?” She’s one of the only people I know who still has a record player. Vinyl is a love we both share.
She holds the album close to her chest. “No, I’m not letting this go until I absolutely have to.”
I chuckle because she actually looks panicked at the thought of giving it up. I’m about to leave the kitchen when a sudden wave of fuck-it washes over me. A moment later, she’s in my arms, and our mouths are inches apart. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” I demand, my breaths quickening.
“Luke, what are you doing?” She presses her hands to my chest as if she’s trying to push me away, but there’s no force behind her movement.
I ignore the shake in her voice. Instead, I focus only on my need. I’m a complete bastard in this moment, but fuck, I want Callie so damn much, and with each passing minute tonight, I’m less sure I can do as she’s asked.
Resting my forehead against hers, I say, “I’m trying here, Callie.”
We cling to each other for a few more minutes until eventually I let her go and stalk into the lounge room. Pushing out some harsh breaths, I attempt to get myself under control.
The divorce will be filed soon.
Not fucking soon enough.
“Luke…” Callie’s hesitant voice fills the room.
I turn to find her staring at me with the same turmoil I’m feeling. Raking my fingers through my hair, I say, “This is going to be tougher than I thought. Keeping my hands off you is something I’m going to have to work harder at.”
“I’m sorry.”
I frown. “Why are you sorry? This is all on me.”
“No, it’s not. You’re not with your wife anymore, and you’re getting a divorce, so really we could be together. That’s what society does these days. I get that. But, I’ve got these old-fashioned beliefs about love and marriage, and I hold them sacred. I mean, what if you decided you really did love Jolene and could forgive her anything? I wouldn’t want to stand between a husband and his wife.”
“While I appreciate what you’re saying, and really fucking respect you for those beliefs, I want you to know it’s crazy talk to even suggest I would forgive Jolene for what she did.” I move closer and cup her cheek. “And I need you to know I’m invested in this, Callie. I don’t love Jolene anymore. You’re the woman I want in my life.”
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and bites it for a moment. “Okay,” she says softly. The hesitation in her voice kills me. This was why I wanted to have my messy life tidied up before I pursued a relationship with her.
My mouth curls into a smile. “Right, so where’s this roast you promised me?”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, God, the roast!?
?? She makes a mad dash into the kitchen, and I hear a lot of cursing and banging around as she deals with the roast.
By the time I make it into the kitchen, she’s pulled the roasting pan from the oven and has it sitting on top of the stove. Her back is to me, and she’s staring down at the dish, her shoulders slumped in what looks like defeat.
“All good?” I ask.
She doesn’t move except to shake her head. “No. It’s bloody burnt.” At that, she swings around to face me. “I’m really fucking annoyed too because I spent hours over the past few days practicing. I even had my neighbour show me her way of cooking.”
She looks so disappointed that I want to wrap her in my arms. I don’t dare do this, though. Instead, I take a look at what we’re dealing with here. “I think it’s okay.” Taking the carving knife and fork from her, I begin slicing the burnt parts from the meat. She’s cooked roast beef, which is my favourite, and I wonder if she already knew that, just like she knew my favourite beer.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she mutters.
“No, I’m not. Look here,” I say, showing her the meat that’s good. “It might be a little dry, but that’s nothing a good helping of gravy won’t fix.”
