“I’ll have a lemon drop martini with sugar on the rim, please.”
The waiter nods and gives a slight bow before he exits the suite, and Callum looks at me with a raised brow.
“What? You don’t get to judge me, Mr. I-order-the-most-pretentious-whiskey-known-to-man. At least my drink order is down-to-earth.”
He raises both eyebrows in response, an amused smirk spreading across his face. He leans back casually, a bent arm draped over the back of his chair. I fight a smile as he just stares at me, and the look in his eyes—amusement, and something else, something primal—makes heat rush to my core again.
Just then, the waiter enters the suite with our drinks, breaking the tension, and Callum orders for both of us.
“Tell the chef to make us something, whatever he enjoys, but to be sure there are no mushrooms, please.”
“Yes, sir, I will let him know of your request,” the waiter says deferentially, and exits the suite discreetly, leaving us alone again.
“You know, taking a picture will last longer,” I bite out, a hand gripping my drink. Callum is still staring intently at me, and I feel my heart racing.
He smirks and tosses back his whiskey.
“As I recall, you always liked it when I stare at you,” he says smoothly, unbothered by my rancor.
“Well, that was nine years ago. Common sense should tell you that things are different now.”
He chuckles softly. “Indeed. I guess I’m just trying to, you know, figure you out. You’re so different.”
I feel my hackles raise immediately, getting defensive. Part of me did love the way Callum is staring, like all of his focus is centered on me. It’s heady and intense. But I’m not some lovestruck teenager anymore.
“Yeah, well, I’mnotthe girl you once knew. Just because you remembered that I hate mushrooms doesn’t mean anything. You don’tknowme anymore.”
I cross my arms and huff out a breath, looking back out of the window. He raises his face to look at the ceiling again, exasperated. I notice some patrons walking around the pond with all too familiar walks, stiff-backed and militant.
“Maeve,” he says softly, “IknowI don’t know you like I once did.” He sighs and rubs the scruff on his jaw. “But I want to. I want to know all of you. Look, neither of us is the same person we once were. But we’re in each other's lives now, and I want to make this work.”
I look over at him, surprised at the tender tone in his voice. He’s looking down into what's left of his drink.
“There’s so much I want to tell you when the time is right, but for now, I just want to know more about what I’ve missed out on.”
I stare into his eyes, searching, seeing nothing but genuine truth in him. I haven’t forgotten my mission tonight: find out what the hell is going on between our families. But for now, I’ll indulge him.
And so, we begin to play twenty questions.
Chapter 11
Callum
Ruminate (v) to contemplate deeply about something
“So, Miss Maeve Collins,” I say, resting my elbow on the table and resting my face against my fist, "what did you go on to study after we graduated high school?”
She gives me a strange look, her eyes narrowing, head tilting slightly.
“Well,” she replies, drawing the word out, “I went to WSU, and got a bachelor's in interior design with a minor in art history. I was the president of the art club, on the school's skeet shooting team, and became the first female to win nationals four years in a row.” She ticks off each accomplishment on her fingers, a small smile on her face.
Of course, I already know all of this information.
“I own my own interior design company,” she continues, her smile spreading, “and I take only a handful of clients a year. The projects tend to be larger than your average living room makeover, but I still get emails requesting I come and flip someone's house.”
I smile back at her, enjoying the evident pride she feels in her work.
“Now,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “a question for a question.”
