"I always like your distractions," he says with a smile.
"I always like distracting you," I say, and take a sip of water.
He takes another sip. "A bit random, but have you ever thought about getting married?"
The question hits me like a punch to the chest. I blink at him, certain I misheard.
"What?"
He smiles, perfectly calm, like he just asked about the weather instead of dropping a bomb in the middle of a Monday afternoon.
"Marriage," he repeats. "Have you thought about it?"
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Why?"
He sets the glass down on the side table and leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"We had a conversation once," he says slowly, "about you wanting to have kids. But never marriage."
I remember that conversation. Lying in bed one night after we'd slept together, when everything still felt fragile and impossible. I'd mentioned children in some abstract, hypothetical way, and he'd said something about not being able to imagine wanting that with anyone before.
Before me.
I shrug, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing in my chest. "I guess they go together. Well…" I pause, reconsidering. "They don't have to, but I'd like them to."
Callum picks up his drink again, takes a slow sip, and looks at me over the rim.
"Four kids?" he asks, smiling.
I let out a startled laugh. "Four kids? God, Callum, it's hard enough asking a woman that. I mean…" I press a hand to my chest, laughing despite myself. "I'm scared about the pain of having one, and you want me to go through it four times?"
He sets down the whiskey and comes to the couch, sitting beside me. His hands cup my face, thumbs tracing the curve of my lips.
"I want to have one hundred kids with you," he says, and then he kisses me.
It's nothing like the kiss from before, not hungry or demanding. This one is slow and sweet.
When he pulls back, I'm breathless and flushed. "Well, when you do that, I'm tempted to give them to you."
His smile widens. He stands, straightening his jacket, and there's something new in the set of his shoulders.
"I've got plans for you, Zaria. You just wait."
"Oh, I'd…"
A sharp knock at the door cuts me off.
Callum's expression shifts in an instant, soft warmth replaced by the cool mask of the Don. He walks over to the door, unlocks it, and pulls it open to reveal his assistant, a middle-aged womannamed Catherine who's worked for the family for years. She looks apologetic but urgent.
"Mr. Killaney? There are some lawyers here. They say it's urgent." She hesitates, glancing past him to where I'm sitting on the couch. "They're looking for a Zaria Quinn. Or Zaria Donoghue?"
My stomach drops.
"What?" Callum's voice sharpens. I stand, my legs suddenly unsteady. "Where are they?"
"Conference Room B."
