“Mmm—a little.”
“Well, you are standing in the fridge,” I say, placing myself right in front of her. She’s so close, and while cool air streams from the open box behind her, warmth resonates from her body. I could remind myself that I’m not looking for love, or I could feel every bit of what I’m feeling.
“I think we have white milk,” she says, spinning aroundand facing away from me. With her head in the door, she says, “Expired. A week ago.Ew.”
I reach for her hand, tugging her up and out of the way of the fridge door. “Water is great.”
“Water,” she whispers, but she doesn’t make a move for the cupboard or sink. Instead, her fingers thread through mine, and her eyes drop to my mouth. “Don’t let your ego go crazy or anything, but I’ve never seen anything like you on a soccer field.”
Blindly, I find her other hand at her side and lace our fingers together. We face one another, hands together, eyes glued to the other. “Well, I did have luck on my side.”
Fran swallows, tracing her bottom lip with her tongue. “Callum,” she says inching closer. “What would you say if I kissed you?”
I swallow, pulse racing, heart speeding as if I just sprinted a mile. The closer she draws, the more the air feels charged. “I mean, you can never have too much luck.”
With that, cheetah Fran thrusts forward, but this time, I’m ready and inches away. She’s an easy catch. Her arms wrap around my neck, and I knot mine around her back.
“I thought you said you wanted to make your own luck,” she says, her breath warming my lips.
“I do.Eventually,” I say, my nose brushing hers, my skin simmering with her nearness. Fran surprises me at every turn. And she’s making me surprise myself.
She smiles, brightening up the dim room we stand in. And that’s when my body and mind can no longer withhold. I crash my lips to hers—not a question outside a bar, not a pressured move in front of my team.
Just me.
Just Fran.
And the cold breeze from her refrigerator.
I kiss Fran at the door of her fridge until an alarm blares—a cuckooing bird chiming, startling me into a leap at least two feet away from her.
“What is that?” I say, unconvinced that we aren’t under attack.
“Just the cuckoo clock. It chimes every hour.”
I slap a hand over my heart. “I thought we were under attack. That some warning alarm was going off.”
Fran slides up against me once more, one arm around my neck. I just laid some serious kisses on Fran.
Crap.
“It’s just an old clock. Rosalie’s grandfather made it,” she says.
“Fran.” I shake my head. “I like you, and you’re beautiful. Sometimes when we’re together, I forget?—”
“Forget what?” she says, arm still around me.
“I forget that you’re looking for something serious. I forget that relationships don’t really work for me.”
She nods, untangling her arm from around me. I’ve messed everything up, and it’s going to cost me Fran’s friendship.
Crossing her arms, she peers up at me. “You forget?” she says, but she isn’t frowning, not like she should be.
I swallow. It’s the worst excuse ever.
Her head tilts to the side, but her eyes stay focused on mine. “Good.” Turning, she taps the fridge door closed. “It’s late. You can take the couch.”
The couch is fine.The cuckoo clock, on the other hand, is not.
