Maybe this drink is doing something to my blood after all. I can almost sense its exact path through my body, mingling with my cells, flowing through my veins into the most remote capillaries.
A pulse thumps low in my belly. My muscles soften.
Warm. Languid.
Callum passes into my line of sight. I’ve been avoiding looking at him. But why? It’s time to stop worrying what other people think. They don’t really care about me. They’re too busy having their own fun.
So whyshouldn’tI watch Callum? He’s laughing and shouting as he moves with the other dancers. His large body spinning, advancing, retreating with surprising grace.
And hisjoy?—
It’s explosive. It bursts from him. How can a man who’s known such hardship be this happy?
But Callum doesn’t feel self-pity.
Unlike so many modern guys who feel sorry for themselves, yet their lives are unfathomably luxurious compared to what he endures every day. I’ve known football players burlier than Callum. And yet he’s fiercer somehow. Scarred and rough, and even a little scary.
Then he smiles—and those stony features crack, transforming him into something impossible to look away from.
My mind flashes to the graveyard, to the language on some of those old gravestones. Epitaphs to braw lads, straight-limbed and bold-hearted. This is what they meant. Callum is all those antiquated-sounding things.
The reel ends. One song flows directly into the next.
Callum links arms with yet another girl. She laughs, tilting her head just so, her fingers grazing his chest. And then…she lets them linger.
For one beat. Two. Three.
The relaxed warmth that had pooled in my belly goes ice-cold. Callum spins her away again. The movement is fast and fluid.
It’s simply the dance. Just part of the steps. I’m the one who insisted he go out there. Which means this burn in my throat—it’s not jealousy. It’s not longing.
It’s only acid in my stomach from too much drink.
The men arrange into an outer circle, clapping in time as the women link arms and twirl inside. As if all this obsessing has summoned him, Callum looks up. His eyes shoot straight to mine. Everyone hop-steps forward in a new move.
But his gaze doesn’t budge.
His partner finds him. He twirls her. But his eyes stay with me.
“You’re like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream.”
A male voice startles me so much I actually squeak.
Hamish.
He steps from the shadows, sliding onto the bench beside me like he’s been watching all along.
Chapter
Twenty-One
The young Campbell chortles like a drunken frat boy. He nudges me, like it’s all in good fun, but I’m not amused.
It’s hard not to compare him to Callum. Callum teases me constantly, yet somehow, I never feel like the joke.
“So…” Hamish leans close. “Who is it?”
“Who is who?”
