His breath caught. “Like what?”
“Like wondering what it would be like to kiss you,” I whispered. “Or what you look like without a shirt. Except nowI know about the shirtless part, and it’s even better than I imagined, which is very unfair. Very, very unfair.”
“Anica—”
“Shh,” I pressed a finger against his lips, misjudging the distance and nearly poking him in the eye. “Oops. Sorry. Eye. That was your eye, not your mouth. My bad. Don’t say anything. Just let me look at you for a minute. One minute of looking.”
I studied his face. The strong jawline, the perfect nose, the blue eyes that seemed to see right through my carefully constructed defenses. “You really are irritatingly attractive,” I concluded. “It’s very inconsiderate of you. Very rude, actually. How dare you? How. Dare. You. Be. So. Pretty.” I poked his chest with each word for emphasis.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said, gently removing my finger from his chest.
“You should. And you should also kiss me. To make up for it. Kissing as apology. Very traditional.”
I leaned forward, eyes closed, lips puckered in what I was sure was a very seductive manner. Like a sexy fish. A sexy, drunk fish. Instead of his lips, I felt his hand gently pushing me back.
“Not like this,” he said softly. “Not when you’re drunk.”
I opened my eyes, hurt and confusion warring with the alcohol-induced haze. “You don’t want to kiss me? I’ve been un-kissed for so long. Years and years of no kisses. My lips are getting dusty, just like... y’know. The haunted house. Everything dusty. So dusty.”
“That’s not it, but I want you to remember it if we ever do kiss. And I want you to be sure it’s what you want.”
“I am sure,” I insisted, though even in my drunken state, I recognized the wisdom in his restraint. “But fine. Be noble. See if I care. I don’t care. I care so little. The least caring that has ever been cared.”
I flopped back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted. The room was still spinning, but now it was a comforting carousel rather than a nauseating whirlwind.
“I’m going to take off your shoes,” Callan said, moving to the foot of the bed. “Is that okay?”
“My shoes can stay on,” I mumbled. “But the dress has to go. It’s strangling me. Slowly killing me with its... its dressness. Death by dress. Dress death.”
He sighed, and I heard him moving around the room. “Here,” he said, returning to the bedside. “Let’s try this.”
He was holding one of his own button-down shirts.
“I’m going to put this on you backwards,” he explained. “That way you won’t be, uh, exposed.”
“Clever,” I approved, sitting up with effort. “But complicated. Very, very complicated.”
With infinite patience and careful positioning to preserve my modesty, Callan managed to get the shirt on me. It was enormous, hanging almost to my knees.
“Now you can take your dress off inside the shirt,” he instructed, turning his back to give me privacy.
I fumbled with the zipper, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process, but eventually managed to wiggle out of my dress while keeping his shirt in place. The sensation of soft cotton against my skin was heavenly.
“Done,” I announced proudly. “I am now wearing your shirt. This means I own your soul according to ancient law. Ancient shirt law. Very serious. Very binding. Like a contract but with cotton.”
He turned back with a smile. “I think you’re confusing shirts with fairy contracts.”
“Same principle,” I insisted, my eyelids growing heavy. “Very binding. Very serious. Very... magical. Shirt magic. The strongest magic.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said, pulling the covers up over me. “Now get some sleep.”
“You’ll stay?” I asked, fighting to keep my eyes open. “Just till I fall asleep? Just for a lil bit? A teeny tiny bit?”
“I’ll stay,” he promised, sitting back on the edge of the bed.
“Good,” I murmured, already drifting. “Because I like having you here. I like you, Callan Burkhardt. Even though I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t like you. Bad idea.”
His hand brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch impossibly gentle. “I like you too, darling. Even though I probably shouldn’t.”
