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I made a promise to myself to help Jaxon, and that’s not a promise I intend on breaking. I push aside all the thoughts of insecurities and memories of his lips on mine and decide it’s time to talk to Cal Suppato. Grown-up to grown-up.
I take in a deep breath and knock on the door at the end of the hall. And wait.
Cal opens the door with a smirk. Like he’d been expecting me. Of course, he was expecting me. He probably knew the minute I pulled into the parking lot. He has this way of knowing everything all the time.
He looks absolutely sinful in charcoal gray pants and a sky-blue button up that has his eyes putting the ocean to shame. It’s a good look. It’s softer than his usual all black or charcoal gray, even though there’s nothing soft about this man.
“Makenna,” he says, inviting me in then closing the door behind me. His voice is velvet, and if he keeps looking at me like this, I’m going to forget how to speak.
My hands nervously smooth the front of my peach-colored dress while I work to control my breathing. “Cal,” I say, trying to imitate his smooth tone.
His lips twitch as he tries not to smile. He motions his hand toward one of the white leather chairs as he takes a seat in his own. “Have a seat.”
I sit down.
He’s watching me with an intensity that has every cell in my body about to spontaneously combust.
My eyes search the room, desperate to find a focal point. Something, anything, to focus on, to settle my rapidly beating heart. Just ask what you came here to ask. Then I can go back home, back to my comfort zone. Mission accomplished.
A slim black frame on one of the shelves behind his desk catches my attention. It’s a degree. Of course, it’s a degree. He probably has four of them. He probably also speaks five languages and knows Jiu-Jitsu, rescues puppies, and feeds the homeless, and does those impossible one-handed push-ups without even breaking a sweat.
The date on the certificate is 2007. I’m no math whiz, but if he spent four years in college, that would make him about twenty-nine years old right now. Five years older than me. Right underneath “Louisiana State University” in bold black letters, I see something else—Callisto Suppato. His name. His real name.
Callisto. The name alone gives me goosebumps.
“Callisto?”
He follows my eyes to the framed document, looking both annoyed and amused at the same time. His eyebrows pull together in a bunch as he narrows his eyes and half-smiles. “Callisto is my given name.” He says the name with a thick Italian accent.
God, that was sexy. Of course, Italian is one of the five languages. Is it hot in here? It’s definitely hot in here.
Cal watches the way he affects me, raising a brow when he recognizes the typical signs of arousal. He clears his throat and continues, “It’s Italian. My mother thought it was appropriate. I prefer Cal.” His words are short, to the point, no explanation available.
That doesn’t mean I’m not going to ask anyway.
“What does it mean? In Italian?”
His expression hardens, and he leans back in his chair. “You can google it later. Is there a reason for this visit? Aside from the interview? I’m extremely busy.”
I look at the open laptop on his desk then scan the room for signs of any other type of activity, but once again, it’s sterile.
“Yeah. I can tell.” I pull my hair to one side of my neck and let it fall over my shoulder, noticing the slight bob in his Adam’s apple when he swallows. I fight back a proud smile. I did that. I affected him that way. Then I sit up straight in my chair. “I came to negotiate Jaxon’s job.”
He mirrors my movement and sits ups straight. Then he closes his laptop and slides it to one side of his desk. “You want me to let him keep his job?” he asks, and I nod once in agreement. “The man who fucked a woman in the bathroom while his girlfriend stood outside the door?”
Oh my God. What is it with him? Does he even have a heart in there or is it just an empty cavity?
“I never was his girlfriend.”
He waits in silence to see how I’ll react to his words. Normally I’m an emotional mess, but not this time, not anymore.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” I continue. “But since, as you so eloquently put it, I am the injured party here, I would like to request that you let him keep his job. And FYI— he didn’t fuck her.”
“And what do I get in return?” he asks.
I stare blankly across the desk at him. “A good night’s sleep?”
He smiles. And with that smile, all my defenses come down. It lights up his eyes and makes him seem almost… warm. Then he chuckles. It’s brief but the sound of it bounces off the walls and echoes in my ears like the most beautiful melody.
