Page 78 of Chasing Callie

Her face lights up. “I haven’t had time to go since I’ve been back, part of me was terrified it would be closed.”

“Still there, and it still has those spring rolls you love.”

“Why are you still talking? Get in the truck!”

I gesture toward the passenger seat. “After you.”

She climbs in and I close the door behind her, taking a moment to collect myself before walking around to the driver’s side. The second I’m inside, I reach for her, threading my fingers through her hair and pulling her mouth to mine. She gasps against my lips, her hands fisting in my shirt. I’m hit with a wave of possessive desire. I want to take her right here, right now.

But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s not drowning in the taste of her, knows better. A man never stands between a woman and food. So I settle for kissing her until my lungs demand oxygen and she’s melting against me. We’re both breathing hard when I pull back.

Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks pink.

I memorize the desire on her face, smirk, and turn the truck on. My hand finds its way to her thigh as I navigate out of the parking lot.

The Thai food sits between us, steam curling up from the pad thai and green curry, but I can’t focus on anything except the way Callie’s nose crinkles when she laughs. She’s telling me about some disaster with the neighbor’s dog and her dad, gesturing wildly, and I’m struck by how grown up she is. She’s still the same girl I remember but there’s something more sophisticated about her now.

“You’re not even listening to me.”

“I am.” I lean back in the booth, fighting a grin. “Your neighbor’s dog has boundary issues, and your dad needs a better belt.”

“But you’ve been staring at me with this weird look.” She swipes at her cheek. “Do I have food on my face?”

“No, no,” I say quickly, rubbing my jaw and looking away.

“What is it?” she asks softly.

Shit. Now I’ve made her worry. Exhaling long and low, I focus on her. “I missed watching you grow into the woman you are now.” The words hang heavy between us. Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth.

“I mean—" I scramble to backtrack, but she sets her fork down and leans forward.

“What do you mean?”

My heart thumps a little harder. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not good with emotions, and sometimes I say the wrong thing. More often than not, it’s better if I keep my mouth shut. But looking at her now, seeing the way the light from the window catches the gold flecks in her eyes, I can’t seem to stop myself.

“I followed your social media.” The confession tumbles out before I can stop it. “All of them. Instagram, Facebook, even that artsy platform you posted on sometimes.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You stalked me?”

“Not stalked.”

“You followed all of my accounts?”

I nod.

“Looked at all my posts?” she asks.

Guilty. I swallow. “Yeah,” I rasp.

She hums. “Sounds a lot like stalking to me.”

“You make it sound creepy,” I grumble.

“What was it like then?”

I grab my beer and pick at the edge of the label, needing something to do with my hands. “I made up stories about what you were doing. What you would tell me if you would have called.”

“Stories?” She tilts her head, and there’s something soft in her voice that makes my chest ache.