No. They need to leave. You’re evicted, butterflies. Right now.
“Fair point,” I say. Then I go straight into professional mode. “Well, I’m glad you asked. We can work out how I can shoot today without interrupting your schedule.”
I feel his intense gaze land on my profile. I don’t dare look at him.
Besides, he’s wearing sunglasses, so it’s not like I can tell what he would be thinking anyway, unless his mouth gives me an indicator. Like curving up in a smile. Or frowning in disappointment. Or his nose. If he wrinkled it, it could be disgust. Confusion.
Christ, I’m going down another rabbit hole, ready to land at the bottom with conundrum.
“Right,” he says slowly, with a tone that gives me pause. As if that wasn’t the answer he expected.
What does his tone mean? Is he … disappointed at what I said? Surprised?
I decide I’m overthinking everything.
This is a business meeting. A favor.
And that’s it.
We reach the motorhome, and Caleb walks up and opens the door for me. I thank him and step inside, immediately removing my sunglasses and dropping them into my purse. I glance up at Caleb, who has removed his as well, holding them in his hand along with his phone.
And when I look at him, I find he’s already studying me.
He abruptly clears his throat. “Shall we get something to eat? Then we can talk.”
“Sounds good,” I say, nodding.
The dining area is busy this morning, and there’s a line forming at the barista station. I grab a plate and head toward the buffet, hoping the french toast Caleb talked about yesterday is available, because I really do love it. I look down at the chafing dishes, and there is not only one option for french toast, butthree. I read the cards in amazement: Cannoli-stuffed french toast. Banana-bread french toast. And finally, jelly-donut french toast stuffed with raspberry jam.
“You said this was your language,” Caleb says from behind me. “I told the chefs to prepare accordingly. It looks like they not only like your language but speak it fluently.”
WHAT?
My heart leaps inside my chest, and I feel my mouth pop open in surprise. “Wh—did you …what?”
Caleb’s full lips begin to tug upward in a playful smile. “I’m sorry, that’s not my language. Can you repeat the question, please?”
I feel my neck grow hot. Nothing like being a reporter and not being able to spit out a complete coherent sentence. I try again. “You had this done for me?”
His eyes meet mine. I feel my body tingle in response.
“Yes.”
That’s all he says. It’s more like one of his press conference answers when a reporter tries to dip into personal territory. He’s not going to give me anything more than that.
Or so he thinks.
“Those one-word answers might work in a press conference, but that doesn’t work for me.” Despite myself, I feel a flirty smile pass over my lips. “Why did you go to so much trouble for me?”
Something lights in his eyes. A mischievous smile now forms on his mouth, and I find my pulse quickening in response to it.
“Because I wanted to speak your language,” he says, his voice low.
DAMN MY BODY FOR BETRAYING ME LIKE THIS RIGHT NOW.
Because every cell of mine is growing more attracted to Caleb by the minute.
“Well, you are speaking my language. Specifically, all these french toasts speak to me, so I’m going to have to have one of each,” I say, picking up the tongs and putting a piece of jelly-donut french toast on my plate. The delicious scent of eggy brioche bread, warm jam, and powdered sugar wafts toward me, and I can’t wait to try it.
