He laughs. “Meet me at the table in five.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GAVIN
It’spast midnight and we’ve moved the game to the living room floor so Callie can curl up in a blanket and I can keep adding logs to the fire. Her back must not be bothering her, given the position she’s in, which is a relief.
The game is called Garbage, which is strange and—as far as I can tell—rubbish is not related to the actual objective in any way. But the concept is simple and a bit mindless, which has made it easy to play for the last few hours without much stress.
We began with ten cards face down, and the purpose has been to turn them over in order, one through ten. Simple. Easy to make conversation. Yet, somehow, our conversation has centered entirely on fairly shallow topics.
What it was like to grow up in Geyserville, a small community in northern California. How much she’d loved her horses, and how much she missed them when she moved to LA.
I’m curious about her bucket list, but I haven’t asked her about it yet.
“I have two,” I tell her, picking up a card and putting it down immediately when I see it’s a useless Jack. I need a four in order to move on to the next round.
Callie looks up. “Two horses?”
“Yes. I’ll take you out there tomorrow.”
“Where are they?”
“In the barn,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Which barn?”
“The one behind the house. You must have seen it when you stomped all over the place after we first arrived. Or were you too busy raging on the phone to notice?”
“I might have been a wee bit distracted.”
“Look at you, sounding like a Scot already.”
She smiles, and it changes her entire face, hitting me in the gut. She is stunning. I have to remind myself not to react. It was sound advice, that—telling myself not to get involved with Callie.
She won’t remain here. It wouldn’t end well. People leave. I stay here. It’s not a good mix.
“I’m a fair ways off,” she says. “But I’ll take it.”
I draw a four, flip my card over, and discard. “Out.”
“Again? Beginner’s luck,” she says, taking her last turn and groaning when it isn’t fruitful. I’m down to the third round now, and she’s still on seven.
Callie yawns again and checks the time. She leans back and closes her eyes while I gather the cards in one stack and shuffle them. “Time to call it?”
“Not yet.” Her eyes are still closed. “I can’t let you win.”
“Now that we know you’re competitive, we can finish this tomorrow.”
“But I need to beat you. You can’t win everything.” She still hasn’t opened her eyes. Her expression is peaceful, like she could curl up and drift to sleep. “Are you staring at me? It feels like you’re staring at me.”
“I’m trying to decide if it’s worth forcing you upstairs or not. It’s probably warmer in this room.”
“You’ve put enough blankets on that bed to make an igloo hot. I’m warm in the attic, Gavin. Don’t worry.”
“Then we should call it a night.”
“But I’m so cozy. Just two more minutes.” Her voice has a soft edge of a whine to it. I think Callie has passed tired and moved onto delirious.
