He looks back at me over his shoulder, his blue eyes lit like flames. “Teaching you some manners. Night, Halle.” Halfway up the stairs, he peeks over the railing. “Don’t even think about touching yourself. I’ll know.”
Jaw unhinged, I sputter, unable to string a coherent thought together. My thoughts are nothing but a tangled knot I can’t even begin to pick apart.
For several minutes, I don’t move, certain he’ll come back. He doesn’t.
Eventually I gather my wits and head back into the kitchen. I wash my hands, ignoring the aching between my legs, and frost the now very cooled cake.
When that’s finished, I turn the TV off, head upstairs, and fall into bed.
What the fuck was that?
Caleb Thorne is not at all what I expected.
CHAPTER 19
CALEB
“Can you take us to the store?”
“Uh…” I slowly set the knife beside the cutting board of diced onions. “For what?”
Casen and Quinn exchange a silent look Halle refers to as “fucking twin telepathy.”
“Halle’s birthday is Friday,” Quinn explains, using his finger to trace a line in the marble countertop. “We wanted to get her something.”
“Hold on.” I brace my hands on the cool surface in front of me. “It’s her birthday?”
“Yep.” Casen slides onto one of thestools facing me.
“She didn’t tell me.” My chest pangs at the realization. Why wouldn’t she mention her birthday? It’s been two weeks since our first date, and since that night, we’ve gone to another dance class and to a movie. Granted, the twins came to the movies with us, so I guess it wouldn’t be considered a date. Yet she hasn’t even hinted about the special day.
“She wouldn’t have.” Quinn shrugs, sliding his hands into his pockets. “She doesn’t like her birthday.”
“Why not?”
They exchange another silent look, and eventually Quinn sighs. “Mom forgot her birthday a lot.”
“And if she remembered, she usually made it miserable for her,” Casen adds, shoulders drooping.
I blink, then blink again, processing the information.
Out of the side of his mouth, Quinn whispers, “I think we broke him.”
Casen’s eyes plead with me. “Can we do something special for her?”
I snap myself out of my stupor. “Of course. Let me finish this and get it in the slow cooker, and we can go.”
“Do you need help?” he asks.
Surprised, I look from one boy to the other and back again. “You want to help?”
“Sure, why not.” It’s Quinn who answers.
With their help, I get the onions chopped and in the slow cooker quickly. It’s a good thing too. I meant to have this done an hour or so ago, but when the boys showed up at home just before lunchtime—due to a half day none of us realized was scheduled—our routine was thrown off.
“I’ll let your sister know we’re going,” I tell them after they’ve washed up at the sink. The scent of onions is still strong, and that won’t change now that they’re simmering in preparation for French onion soup.
I swipe my keys off the sideboard and jog upstairs. As I step into my office, I nearly stop dead. It happens every time I find her in here. I can’t help but stare. Halle sits behind my desk with a pair of blue-light glasses perched on her nose. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, even though, when I left the room, it was down. She has one foot planted on the chair cushion and her chin resting on her knee as she types.
