Page 149 of The Storm

“Oh, he’s here now?” Nick says. “That’s like a present just for me. Thanks.” He looks at me and smirks like we’re both in on the joke.

My traitorous lungs immediately forget how to function properly.

“Is it?” I manage.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve watched one of Callum’s PR training sessions. They do mock interviews, and he’ll be confidently wrong with every reply, while you get to watch Marcus’s soul slowly leave his body.”

“That’s slander,” Callum says. “I’m delightful. It’s why people scramble to interview me.”

“No.” Marcus’s voice again, closer this time. “They interview you because you keep saying stupid shit and giving them soundbites. It’s like you can’t help yourself.”

He appears in the doorway, holding a tablet and an iced coffee.

In the few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve learned there are two categories of people in Callum’s orbit.

There are the football players. Massive men in expensive hoodies who communicate almost exclusively through slaps, insults, yelling at the massive TV in Callum’s living room, and somewhat problematic dares.

And then there are the PR people, agents, and managers. Marcus belongs in the second category. He’s sharply dressed even on a random Tuesday evening, every light brown hair in place, his expression firm and serious, with a faint trace of amusement mixed with the exasperation on his face when he looks at Callum.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Save me, Callum mouths at me before he sighs and follows Marcus.

And then it’s just me and Nick.

“Want any help with those?” I nod at the bags on the floor. I’m not sure why I offer. It’s not like I’m dying to stay here any longer than strictly necessary. I don’t want to accidentally be a witness to any type of PDA. Or domesticity. I think that would somehow be even worse. I mean, Nick clearly feels at home here. He has a fingerprint that opens the front door and everything. But right now, him being with somebody else still feels theoretical in a way. I’d like to keep it that way.

“It’s fine, Blue,” he says. “I can handle some groceries.”

“Yeah, no, I know. Just that Callum’s kind of… my job, I guess? So I figured that falls under my… jurisdiction.”

I feel my face go warm while Nick’s lips twitch.

“Feeding him is kind of my business,” he says. He does it neutrally enough. Even gently.

It’s a necessary reminder. Food is Nick’s love language. Of course feeding Callum is his business. Something I should stay away from.

“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m off, in that case.”

I pat down my pockets for my phone, but I can’t find it, so I look around for it for a bit before I realize I’ve had it in my hand the whole time.

“Idiot,” I mutter to myself.

Nick chuckles.

I glance at him and make a face.

He’s still grinning when I turn around.

I try to breathe calmly, but it’s starting to feel like I’ve just run a mile at full speed. This room is hot and my face is hot, and I really am an idiot.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, and when I turn around he seems about as surprised that he asked the question as I am.

“I haven’t gone home yet, have I?” As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.

“I’m making chicken piccata.”

I’d have to be an idiot not to see the invite, and it’s not that I don’t realize he’s asking me to stay. It’s more that I’m having a hard time figuring out why. I assumed a truce meant being civil when we run into each other but otherwise keeping out of each other’s way. This offer almost feels friendly.