“No brothers or sisters?”
Calla shakes her head. “Dad died when I was little, and mum never met anyone else. She always said she had everything she needed already, whether that’s true or not…” She pops her shoulders, and I can tell it hurts, the bandage of time unravelling to reveal a still painful scar. “God, how unreal are these dough balls?”
I know a segue when I hear one, but I don’t pry. It’s not my place. Plus, I hate the idea of Calla being upset.
Sinking my teeth into one of the perfectly cooked, golden brown, little balls of doughy and garlicky heaven, I nod in agreement.
Calla sits back in her chair, patting her stomach and shoving her nearly empty plate away. “I’m stuffed.”
I try to bite back a grin and a dirty remark, but I obviously don’t do a good enough because Calla rolls her eyes at me good-naturedly.
“Shut it, you. I meant because of the food.”
I chuckle as I spear another bite of pasta onto the prongs of my fork. “If you say so.”
Leaning over the table, Calla steals a piece of sauce covered gnocchi from the side of my plate, popping it between her lips.
I quirk a brow at her. “Excuse me?”
Calla grins. “What’s yours is mine, pookie.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
I can’t help but grin at the ridiculousness of it all.
I’m just polishing off the final mouthful of freshly made pasta on my plate, when a swell of music begins to grow, becoming louder with each second and effectively cutting off the chatter around us.
The quartet band from inside the restaurant walk slowly, still playing their instruments as they take up space beside the exposed back wall. Around us, whispers of praise begin to grow before conversations are picked up right where they left off.
I watch Calla as she looks around, her gaze fixing on the strings of solar powered fairy lights hanging above and twined around tree trunks, some of which are trying their hardest to glow in the beginning of the setting sun.
“It’s beautiful, here. Don’t you think?”
“Mhm,” I agree, taking a sip of my beer to avoid saying anything else.
The upbeat music starts to slip away, morphing into a familiar slow song, sang by an up-and-coming western singer, that I’ve heard one too many times on the radio.
Calla gasps as the sound of the first few notes begin tofilter through, the backing melody somehow louder without the words. “I love this song!”
Turning in her seat, Calla gazes, raptured, at the band, her head bobbing along to the catchy tune.
Knocking back the rest of my beer for a little bit of liquid courage for what I’m about to do, I push my chair back, the wooden legs scraping against the concrete and stand.
“Blake—”
I hold out my palm, keeping my eyes on Calla’s face before I lose my courage. “Dance with me.”
It’s a testimony of how different we are, as Calla takes my hand without hesitation, seemingly unbothered by the heated stares I can feel staining our skin. Standing to her full height, she tucks herself into my chest, wrapping both of her arms around my neck.
Even in her heels, Calla just about reaches my pecs, leaving me to peer down at her as my hands find purchase around her waist.
I tense in her slim arms when I hear somebody whistle, but Calla is there, stroking the thumb past the downy hairs at the back of my neck.
