“And Boone’s?”
“Disaster.”
“Those aren’t nicknames, they’re character descriptions.”
“Same thing.”
“We should finish cleaning,” she says, but she doesn’t step away.
“Should,” I agree, but I don’t move either.
That’s when Boone, determined to prove his nickname accurate, decides to ring out his mop directly over the bucket without looking where he’s aiming.
Water sloshes over the side of the bucket and spreads across the floor. “Damn,” he says, looking down at the mess.
“Seriously?” Wyatt demands from across the kitchen.
“It was an accident!”
“Your middle name should be Accident.”
Callie takes a step backward, probably to avoid the spreading water, but she’s still looking at me instead of watching where she’s going.
Her foot hits the edge of the puddle, and suddenly she’s falling.
Three things happen simultaneously. Wyatt drops his paper towels and lunges forward, I reach out and catch her around the waist, and Boone grabs her arm.
I can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin volunteer shirt. Can feel the way her pulse is racing under my palm. Can see the exact moment when she realizes how close we all are, how intimate this accidental arrangement has become.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Damn, that could have been bad,” Wyatt adds, his voice rougher than usual.
“Quick thinking, guys,” Boone adds, and there’s something serious in his tone that I don’t usually hear.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, we’re all frozen like that. Connected. Touching. Something electric passing between us that has nothing to do with the accident and everything to do with the way Callie fits perfectly.
Then reality crashes back, and Callie jerks away from all of us, her cheeks flaming red.
“Callie,” I start to say, but she’s already grabbing her purse from the counter.
“This was a mistake,” she mutters, more to herself than to us. “All of this was a mistake.”
“It was an accident,” Boone protests. “I didn’t mean to spill the water.”
“Not the water,” she says, looking at all three of us. “This. Whatever this is. I can’t... we can’t...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Just shakes her head and heads for the door.
“Callie, wait,” I call after her.
“Practice tomorrow at nine,” she says without turning around. “Try not to flood the kitchen.”
The door closes behind her with a click that sounds way too final.
“Well,” Boone says into the silence, “that went well.”
“Shut up,” Wyatt and I say in unison.
But even as we finish cleaning up the kitchen in uncomfortable silence, I can’t stop thinking about the way Callie felt in my arms, or the way she looked at me in that suspended moment.
