***
Oh shit.My eyes flutter open, landing on a ceiling that isn’t my apartment’s. I take a deep breath, and then roll over in bed, unsurprised to see the lack of Calvin Bradford in his own bed.
My mind flashes back to all the NCIS reports still tucked away in my bag I left in the entryway, and that has me flipping the covers back. I make a quick trip to the bathroom, run my fingers through my wild hair, and then ease out of his bedroom and down the hallway. I spot Calvin at the coffee pot, filling a mug—not going through my things.
He doesn’t look up. “Hope you like it strong.”
I sink into one of the chairs at the table and dig my fingers into my scalp, hoping the pain will snap me all the way awake. “If it’s weaker than miserably bitter, I’ll be disappointed.”
He snorts, which I choose to interpret as affection. He then turns, arms folded, gaze roving over me.
“Toast?” he asks. “Eggs?”
“Surprise me,” I say, and the words come out with a tremor I don’t intend. It all feels painfullynormal.Which is something I’m not even sure I’ve ever known.
He cracks eggs into a cast-iron pan, shells snapping with quick, unshowy violence. I watch the way he moves with his elbows tucked, steps always squared to the space, like there’s an invisible blast radius around every surface. There’s a scar on his left hand, a seam of shiny tissue that runs from thumb to wrist. I want to ask about it, but I’m not sure I deserve any answers.
Not with all the lying I’m doing. I fucking hate myself right now.
What would he do if I just told him the truth?
I don’t want to even think of that answer right now.
He plates the eggs and toast, a little pile of fruit, and sets the whole thing in front of me before taking his own seat. He’s silent, the kind of silent that dares you to make it awkward. I resist the urge to fill it, choosing to stab an egg with my fork instead.
He watches me eat. Not in a weird way, not like a predator, but with the focus of a man who’s learned to read intentions by the angle of a fork or the tightness of a jaw. I hate how attractive I find it.
“So,” he says finally, “What will you do once the professor gig is up?”
My pulse jumps. I force a casual shrug, tucking hair behind my ear to buy time. “Isn’t that the question of the week?”
He doesn’t flinch, his voice a little sterner. “Yeah, and I’m asking it.”
It feels like a trap. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t really have any plans.”
He takes a bit of his food, taking the time to chew and swallow before talking. “You know, you don’t talk like an academic—like the type I typically run into at the college.”
I arch an eyebrow, like my palms didn’t just start sweating profusely. “Should I start quoting Derrida? Would that help complete the box that I don’t fit into?”
He grins. “Maybe.”
“Well, since we’re doing this,” I let my fork clatter to the plate. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who lets a woman he barely knows spend the night.”
“Valid.” He lets that hang, then leans back, mug cradled between his hands. “And that would be truth, but like I said, there’s something about you I can’t get enough of. Maybe the mystery.”
I bristle, an electric flash from gut to jaw. “There’s no mystery.”
His gaze narrows. “Oh yeah, there is.”
“Tell me about your divorce,” I divert the conversation. “I told you about my shitty relationships with men who treated me like garbage. Tell me about yours.”
“Ah, yeah. Maren.” He laughs, just once, but the sound is real. “I’m not an easy man to love. I was gone a lot, and when I was home, I closed off. It was too much, and I can’t blame her at all for that. I should’ve been there for her more.”
I stab at a piece of melon, feeling my own mask slip. “I don’t see why you think you’re hard to love. I think that’s theexacttype of man most women fall for.” The comment is a shield, but it doesn’t block everything. I feel the drag of guilt, the pulse in my throat ratcheting up every time he looks away and I catch a glimpse of the first man I’ve slept with since the boat fire.
He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim as I finish my breakfast. “I think that’s generally not true.” And before I can respond, he clears his plate and mine, stacking them with a precision that borders on OCD.
“You work a lot?” I ask the question as he stands to his feet.
