Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Understood,” Mrs. Sweeney interrupts. “I remember those days when I was nursing a broken heart. Surround yourself with friends, Calliope. You have all of us, and Sean too. He’s a great friend.”
Nodding, I finally turn to look at my boss.
“I can’t argue with that.” His gaze drifts from Mrs. Sweeney to me. “I’m a hell of a good friend.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sean
Mrs. Sweeney just dropkicked me into the friend zone with Champ.
Who knew that hanging out with people who are old enough to be my grandparents would result in a very unwanted cock block?
Calliope’s gaze drifts from my face back to the half-full wine glass on the table in front of her.
She’s been slowly sipping at it all night, leaving behind the imprint of her soft pink lipstick against the rim of the glass.
I’m so infatuated with her that I’m tempted to keep it as it is for a few days so I can stare at it.
Jesus. I’ve got it bad for her.
I haven’t crushed this hard on a woman in forever.
“I should call it a night.” Mrs. Sweeney plants her hands on the top of the table to gain leverage to help her get out of my oversized dining room chairs.
They were a housewarming gift from my mother. The listing for them on the website she purchased them from should have come with an ‘objects are much larger than their cited dimensions’ because they’re as big as they are uncomfortable.
I would have sent all eight of the chairs back, but my mom insisted they fit the apartment’s aesthetic.
Whatever the fuck that means.
I’ll replace them soon with something more streamlined. I like simple and subtle when it comes to the interior of my home.
I’m out of my chair and heading over to Mrs. Sweeney in an instant.
I offer my hand. She takes it with a firm grip, using me as the leverage she needs to get to her feet.
“There wouldn’t happen to be any leftovers, would there?” she quizzes with a bounce of both of her graying brows.
“I already packed it all up for you,” I tell her. “I’ll grab it before I walk you home.”
“We’ll walk her home.” Mr. Durkman is on his feet, too, as is his wife.
Mrs. Fields downs what’s left of the wine in her glass before she’s up and ready to call it a night.
Calliope slowly stands too. “I’ll go too.”
“No,” I spit out. “Hang out for a minute. I want to show you something.”
It’s my dick, but my respect for her and good old-fashioned manners won’t allow me to whip it out when the coast is clear, so I smile.
“All right,” Calliope says with just enough trepidation in her tone to suggest she might make a break for the door when she can.
I sprint to grab the leftovers before walking my guests to the door, chatting quietly with them about when we’ll do this again.
I know that most of them have grandchildren they don’t see often, so in a sense, I’ve stepped into that role for them. I’ve done that happily. I miss my grandparents. Two have died. The other two are off traveling the world, so my time with them is limited to video chats and phone calls.
As the door shuts behind my guests, I take a breath.
I’m alone at last with Calliope.
I start toward her, but the sound of my phone ringing stalls me.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, making my way to where I left it on the dining room table.
Calliope laughs. “Something tells me that your work is never done.”
“You’ve got that right,” I say as I scoop up my phone and read the name on the screen. “It’s Decky. He can go to hell.”
I silence the ringing and look up to see Calliope smiling. “Why does your brother call you Saint?”
That’s a lot to unpack, so I give her the condensed version. “My grandma first called me Saint because I was always the kid who helped out anyone who needed a hand. I outgrew the nickname, but Decky hasn’t let it go.”
She leans closer to me, tilting her chin up, so our eyes meet. “I think it suits you.”
That is a compliment I don’t deserve, so I divert. “Just like Champ suits you.”
She gifts me a brilliant smile. “No one but you calls me that. I found that apron at a second-hand shop months ago. Everyone who works at the bar wears it.”
“No one wears it better than you do.” I look into her eyes. “Are you ready to see something spectacular?”
“I’m ready,” she says.
I hold out a hand to her. “Come with me, Champ.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Callie
I knew the building had amenities, but I didn’t realize it had a magical garden in the form of a courtyard on the roof level.
The concrete beneath our feet is the only thing that isn’t vibrant and welcoming.