Page 147 of The Storm

I turn slightly toward him and hold out my hand. He blinks at it for a second and hesitates for another before he takes it.

I regret it almost immediately. It’s the feel of his palm against mine. Skin against skin. Somehow familiar and foreign at once. Nick’s fingers curl around mine. My breathing hitches the slightest bit. My shoulders tense and loosen in a beat.

Jesus Christ, it’s just a handshake.

Only it’s not.

Not with us.

Not after everything.

Nick clears his throat, but he doesn’t let go right away either. Instead, his thumb brushes over the side of my hand in this absent little movement that looks almost involuntary.

This tiny movement scores a direct hit directly beneath my ribs.

I pull my hand away. My fingers curl into a fist for a second and then I stretch them out.

“Truce,” he says, like he’s signing a contract. Sealing a deal.

The handshake lingers between us, and we’re sitting too close to each other. And neither of us seems to know what to say or do now.

Nick snaps out of it first. He gets up abruptly, all business.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says. “Early day tomorrow, I guess. Now that you’re employed and all.”

I get up too. We stand opposite each other, only a few feet of space between us. He looks at me, and I allow myself to look at him. His dark hair is shorter than it used to be, the messy waves trimmed into a neat haircut. But his eyes are the same as they were once upon a time. Dark enough to drown in.

Nick absently shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and the movement draws my attention to the rest of him. The broad line of his shoulders beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The chest that’s wider than it used to be. Long legs and muscular thighs.

For just a moment, I’m transported back in time to when we were more than a reluctant truce.

When we were everything.

My gaze flicks briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes.

It’s difficult to look away, but I force myself to get it together.

It’ll do me a lot of good to remember that there is no more everything between me and Nick.

Now there’s less than nothing.

FORTY-EIGHT

INDY

Over the following weeks,I settle into Callum’s routine.

He seems competent enough on TV. Not that I’m the best person to judge that since I don’t give a fuck about football. In real life, the guy’s ridiculously disorganized. It hasn’t even been that long since Dia quit, but it kind of feels like Callum’s been on his own since kindergarten.

I don’t hate it. Instead, I dive into un-messing somebody else’s life with gusto. I manage his schedule and I answer his emails. I organize travel plans and make sure he has a closetful of clean jerseys and shorts and shirts. I coordinate appointments with trainers and physical therapists, keep track of his meetings, and remind him of the obligations he keeps forgetting about left and right. I pick up dry cleaning, deal with deliveries, and stop him from impulse buying expensive nonsense online at least twice a week. Turns out keeping a professional athlete functioning actually is reminiscent of babysitting.

I don’t love the job, but I like it. Honestly, maybe not the job part itself, even. I just like being useful. I like having somewhere to be in the morning. I like the steady rhythm of solving small problems throughout the day. I like having a distraction. I like it a lot.

“You’re late,”I tell Callum when he walks into the apartment.

He stops and blinks at me. “I’m here. How am I late if I’m here?”

“You missed your meeting. Bridge is not happy.”