6
CAL
She’s beautiful when she’s angry. It isn’t news, but up close it lands like a fresh discovery. She comes at me with heat still clinging to her skin from rehearsal, damp curls stuck to the nape of her neck, tank clinging to the line of her ribs. The studio’s perfume and salt have followed her into the suite, tangling with the low, cool breath of the air conditioner and the faint cedar on my sleeves. The afternoon is bright behind me, the harbor throwing fractured light through the glass and across her shoulders.
“Give me that.” She snatches the toy from my fingers, skin brushing skin—electric, immediate—and shoves it into her open case. The zipper bites closed with more force than necessary. “You have no right?—”
“To what?” I keep my tone level, drier than a warning and far more amused than apologetic. “Deliver your lost luggage?”
“To go through it.” Color blooms higher in her cheeks, fury braided tight with embarrassment until she glows. “What the hell, Cal? You just made yourself at home in my room? Rifled through my things? What iswrongwith you?”
“I wasn’t going through your things.” Technically true, and technicalities are my favorite sins. “Something in your bag started vibrating. I opened it to turn it off.”
Her mouth opens, shuts, opens again. “You could have left it.”
“And let the battery die? Where’s the fun in that?”
“It has a USB charger.”
“Oh?” I let a laugh slip, soft and pleased. “Energy efficient.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s not.” She throws her hands up, turns away, and back again, ponytail cutting the air like a metronome for her temper. The movement strips another inch of composure from the room, and I track it without meaning to, exactly the way she hates. “You still have no boundaries. You walk into my room, go through my stuff, help yourself to anything you want to know about my life?—”
“Well,” I settle into the arm of the chair like I have all afternoon to be provoked, “Idoown a third of this building. Technically.”
The sound she makes sits somewhere between a growl and a scream. It shouldn’t be charming. It is.
“Get out.”
I don’t move.
“Cal. Get. Out.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I fold my arms, let the quiet stretch. “We haven’t talked in six years, angel. Forgive me for wanting to catch up.”
“Catch up?” She laughs, sharp as broken glass. “Fine. I moved to California. Got a job. Built a life without four overprotective assholes breathing down my neck. The end. We’re caught up. Now leave.”
“Marketing for a magazine,” I say, ignoring the dismissal because I can. “What kind of magazine?”
Her jaw sets. “None of your business.”
“The kind that requires…” I tilt my head toward the case, toward the purple curve she tried to bury. “Hands-on research?”
“Stop.”
“I’m curious.” The truth of it warms my voice. “You used to blush at the wordkiss. Now you’re traveling with an entire collection of?—”
“I said stop.” The word cracks. “God, Cal. Do you ever just stop? Let things go? Let people have privacy. Secrets.”
Secrets.The word hits like a key turning in a familiar lock.
