“What?” he chokes in shock. “No. I—Fran, I didn’t do that.”
“Dang.” I swallow, then drag my hand over my head. “I mean, whew,” I say, possibly a little too dramatically. “Because that would have been tragic.” I bite my cheek. I’m so notthatgirl. I do not get around. But I might not completely hate it if Callum decided to like me.
“I’ll bring the television out here. I promise, Fran?—”
“Simmer down, Mr. Excitable. I didn’t think you brought me here to seduce me.”
He lets out a breath. “Good. Because I didn’t.”
“Yeah, can we move on now?” I attempt to nonchalantly shove my hands into my pockets, but these jeans have zero space in the pocket department. So, the tips of my fingers edge their way in, and my arms pop up like an awkward puppet with a lousy master. I leave them like that for three whole seconds before clearing my throat and crossing my arms over my chest. “What movie are we watching?”
“I thought we could watchRoman Holiday. After you talked about it on Sunday, I thought I might like it.”
“Really?” My awkward arms fall to my side, and my smile brightens. “You want to watch Audrey with me?”
“Yeah. I thought we could watch the movie andtalk.”
“Okay,” I say, my heart light. “Are we viewing or talking first?” I’m eyeing Callum’s photos, and I have questions.
“Let’s watch first. Only you can’t be offended if I fall asleep. I never stay awake during movies.”
“Then you’re watching the wrong movies.”
“It’s just the TV. I’m more active, and if I’m down, I’m sleeping, you know?”
“You will stay awake in this one.”
Twenty-Three
Callum does not stay awake.In fact, I have shaken him awake for the hand-biting scene and the gelato scene. It’s the end, and he can’t miss it. I reach over to shake his hand once more, but he’s moved in his sleep. His left arm is draped over the back of this couch, and there’s—ink.
Callum Whitaker has a tattoo. Swirly script with words and numbers that I want to read. I scoot an inch closer to him, and when his breaths stay even and his eyes stay closed, I muster my bravery. I move, inch by inch, until I am breathing musk, and the warmth of his body is like a radiator giving off heat and making me sweat.
I tilt my head, glance once more at Callum’s closed eyes, and study his inner bicep. Isaiah 41:10. I don’t know that Scripture. While love lacked in my home, so did faith.
I bite my lip and dart one more look at Callum’s sleeping eyes. They don’t move at all. With whispering fingers, I trace the cursive script, just barely stroking his arm. His skin is soft beneath my touch, his muscles dense and firm. I go to trace the ink a second timewhen?—
“Fran?”
I grab hold of that solid upper arm and shake—though the man is awake. “You’re missing the end!” I say, two feet closer to him on this couch than when our movie began.
I ignore the fact and face forward, my innocent hands in my lap.
“Shoot. I’m missing it?” he says, sitting up straighter and pulling his arm from its stretched-out position.
“Shh.” I fold my arms and lean back against the couch.
We watch as Joe enters the press conference where Anne is meeting with journalists. This is the one and only love story I adore where the couple doesn’t end up together. I’d planned to explain to him why—but his bicep, ink, and Isaiah are distracting me.
“It was funny,” he says, his words sounding more like an apology. “I liked it.”
I blink and inch myself half a cushion farther from him as I turn to look at him. “You slept through a third of it.” It’s not an accusation. It’s fact.
He wrinkles his nose, giving a half-hearted shrug.
“And!” I say, swallowing down my nerves. “You have a tattoo. I saw it when I woke you. I never noticed before. Never. Ever. Not until this very second.” I stop myself from saying,And I never ever touched said tattoo.
He lifts his arm just an inch off the couch where it rested, peeking at the script. “I do.” I get another look at the thing with his arm up. The lettering is pretty and ornate. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me—but I’d like to touch it again.
