I slide into the seat across from Calvin, close enough to feel his presence, not close enough to touch. Or so I think.
He shifts slightly, his knee brushing mine beneath the table.
I freeze.
The contact is fleeting, but deliberate. I glance up, and he’s already watching me with that dark, intent look that makes it hard to breathe. I cross my legs slowly, pretending to adjust my napkin.
Conversation inevitably drifts toward Calvin. My dad leans forward, firing off a steady stream of questions about his work, his goals, what he and Abigail see for their future. Calvin handles each one with effortless charm, a faint smile playing at his mouth. He’s too good at this, answering with the kind of polish that makes you wonder what’s real beneath it.
I can tell Abigail is nervous because she shifts in her seat, her hand fluttering toward her wine glass before she forces a laugh. “So?” she says brightly, tilting her head at me. “How was the ride over with Blair?”
I almost roll my eyes. The deflection couldn’t be more obvious if she’d waved a neon sign.
Calvin doesn’t miss a beat. He turns toward her, but his eyes flick briefly to mine. “It was great,” he says smoothly. “I’d say we bonded, didn’t we, Blair?”
My heart stutters. His words are loaded, but he delivers them so casually it’s hard to call him out without looking paranoid. I glance up, and sure enough, he’s already watching me.
I force a smile. “We sure did.”
His knee brushes mine again, this time firmer. A line crossed. And kept.
The heat blooming low in my stomach is mortifying. I hate how my body responds to him, this man I shouldn’t want. This man whose ring my sister is wearing.
I try to focus on my food, but my fork feels useless in my hand. I can’t taste anything. All I can feel is him lighting me up from the inside out without so much as a word.
Our conversation over dinner is polite. Innocent, even. Calvin talks about work. My dad mentions the weather. My mom fusses about Paris. Abigail laughs too loudly at a joke that isn’t funny.
And all the while, under the table, he doesn’t move his leg.
Neither do I.
By the time dessert is served, I feel like I’m going to combust. My chest is tight. My skin too hot.
I dare a glance at him.
His jaw is relaxed, his hands folded neatly on the table. But when his thumb idly brushes the stem of his wine glass, I see the tension there, the crack in the facade.
He feels it too, yet he isn’t stopping.
Iwake up to the sensation of hair brushing against my neck and soft kisses on my cheeks. Groaning, I blink my eyes open to find Abigail leaning over me, her face close to mine.
“Ugh, stop,” I groan, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”
“Six.” Abigail’s voice is annoyingly chipper for that hour. She pulls back just enough for me to see her face, already fully made-up, her hair twisted into a sleek knot. “Don’t hate me.”
I squint at her. “It’s still dark outside. Why would I hate you?”
Her smile falters, just a little. “Because I’m leaving. A few weeks. Maybe a month.”
Did she just?
“Excuse me?”
“Come on.” She yanks the covers off me like I’ve had time to process any ofthis. “Walk with me.”
I stumble out of bed, the floor cold beneath my bare feet, and trail after her through the dark hallway.
“Wait, where are you going?”
