Fran’s magnetic pull draws me closer. Her eyes fall to my lips before fluttering closed, and her chin lifts.Lean, touch, look—consent.
I am the moth. She is the flame. I’m going to combust, and I’m not sure I care.
But before my lips touch hers?—
“Callum Archie Whitaker! If you don’t hug your mother in the next ten seconds, there will be repercussions!” Tiffany’s voice travels up the stairs and into my room without any trouble at all. Man, that girl is loud. “I’m just the messenger,” she yells again. “So, don’t get mad at me!”
I pause, my lips just centimeters from Fran’s.
Her eyes flick open. “Your middle name is Archie?” Fran says, so close that with the words, I feel the slightest tickle from her lips.
“It was my grandfather’s name,” I say, inching back.
“Hey,” she says, her mouth pulling up at the corners. “I’m named after my grandfather too.”
I smirk, peering down at her. “Let’s go, Frances.”
“Don’t. You. Dare.” She huffs. “Callum, are you trying to break my heart?”
A laugh rumbles in my chest and I cup her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Very sorry,” she says.
“Very,verysorry.”
She taps her pointer to my chest. “And you’ll never call me that name again.”
“Never.”
She heaves out a breath. “Fine. You’re forgiven.”
So easy. So gentle. So merciful. “Thank you.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, steady there. “So, no kissing then?”
I groan. Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me? “No kissing,” I tell her. “You’re all caught up on practice.”
And I’m not that strong.
Forty
Callum’s mothersits at the kitchen table, chopping lettuce, peppers, and carrots. The kitchen is busy with three other members of Cal’s family, but I know this woman to be his mom by the sprigs of gray in her honey-brown hair, and by the way he passes everyone else by to reach her. He leans down, wraps an arm around her shoulders, and embraces the woman.
From her seat, she reaches for his face and kisses his forehead, patting his cheek. “Where are your manners?” she says. “Introduce your family.”
“Sorry. Of course.” He stands straight, looking over at me. “Everyone, this is my friend, Fran Fairchild. Fran, this is my dad, Brady.” Callum points to the man slicing meat on a cutting board at the counter.
The woman, stirring the bubbly pot of water on the stove, faces us, pausing her work.
“This is my older sister, Kailey,” he says, pointing to the pretty girl, her long brown hair pulled back at her neck.
Kailey smiles. “Nice to meet you, Fran,” she says.
“This is my younger brother, Asher,” Callum continues. Asher stands next to his father, two inches taller than the older man. He leans against the counter, arms folded, facing us. He sends one short wave my way.
“Hi,” I say.
“And this is my mother, Kristina.”
