The rest of the morning passes uneventfully.
Murph is on schedule at the shop. We spend a few hours making a nursery out of an empty cardboard box for one of the strays who had a litter of six kittens underneath my office desk overnight, then transfer mama and babies to their cozy new home. I leave another message for the tax guy at the CDTFA about my outstanding balance. Then my attorney calls to talk about the lawsuit, and says I better sit down for his news, because it’s something else.
My stomach drops. “Oh no. What’s happened?”
Chuckling, he says, “The impossible.”
“Don’t tell me he brought another lawsuit against me?”
“No. He dropped it.”
I’m sure I didn’t hear him right. “What do you mean, dropped it?”
“His legal team filed a request for dismissal. I expect the judge will sign off on it this week.”
“I’m confused. Why would they drop the case?”
A note of pride warms his voice. “Probably because our answer to the initial filing was so good, opposing counsel decided the case wasn’t worth pursuing.”
“Wow. I’m stunned. This is really good news. But what if he changes his mind?”
“They filed the motion with prejudice. Which means that when the judge approves it, they can’t bring another case against you for the same thing.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”
“Sometimes the good guys win, kid. I’ll let you know when the ruling is final. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Thank you so much!”
“Anytime.”
We hang up. I stand behind the counter looking at the receiver in my hand, still trying to process what the attorney told me, but get distracted by the flatbed truck pulling up at the curb outside.
Strapped to the long bed is a blue Volkswagen Jetta.
Carrying a clipboard, the driver of the flatbed jumps out of the cab. He ambles through the door, taps the brim of his baseball cap in greeting, and says, “Lookin’ for an Emery Eastwood?”
“That’s me.”
“Got your car here for ya.”
Well, well. Callum works fast. He’s probably worried about what I might make him for dinner.
“Where do you want me to unload it?”
“Right where you are is great.”
He asks for my ID and makes me sign a delivery sheet, then heads back out. When he’s finished getting it off the back of the truck, he comes in and hands me the keys.
“Oh, and this came with it. Mr. McCord told me to make sure I handed it to you personally.”
Grinning, he holds out another batphone, identical to the one I tossed out the window.
I take it reluctantly, knowing that if I don’t, another one will only show up somewhere else, probably delivered by drone.
The driver pulls away as I’m saying to the cell, “Call Callum.”
Nothing happens. The screen stays dark.
When I understand why, I sigh and shake my head. “Call Daddy.”
As I knew it would, the screen lights up with Calling Daddy.
He answers after only one ring, his tone sarcastic. “Darling wife. What a surprise. I didn’t think I’d hear from you until you started hollering when I kicked down the guest bedroom door tonight.”
“So you do know which bedroom is mine. No such luck with your name, however.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’ll never, ever, not in a billion years, refer to you as Daddy.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not my father.”
“It’s not meant to be literal.”
“I don’t care what it’s meant to be. And I’m not judging anybody who’s into it, but it’s not my thing.”
He chuckles. “I know. I just like how much it annoys you.”
I say sourly, “That must be why you keep breathing.”
He doesn’t take offense at that. He merely says, “Were you calling to insult me or was there something else?”
“Actually, there is something else. I’m calling to thank you for the car. I know it must’ve taken a few years off your life to purchase a used Volkswagen.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I might change my mind and have it towed away in the middle of the night. It’s hideous.”
“It’s reliable.”
“So is an Aston Martin.”
“No, that’s ostentatious. You might as well drive around with a sign on the roof screaming ‘Look at Me!’ if you have one of those things.”
“This from the woman who chose a two-million dollar cherry red Ferrari to go on a joyride through Beverly Hills.”
“That was Dani’s choice.”
“At least one of you has sense. What time will you be home?”
The subtle change in the tenor of his voice on that last sentence makes me pause. “Why? Planning on tying me to the staircase banister as soon as I walk through the door?”
“No. I thought we could have dinner together.”
“Your lunch didn’t fill you up?”
“Careful with that smart tone, wife.”
Smiling, I say flippantly, “Oh, please. You love my smart tone.”
After a brief pause, he says in a husky voice, “Yes.”
My heart skips a beat. A rush of heat prickles my skin. All of a sudden, I’m tongue tied and breathless, unsure of what to say next. “Unless traffic is bad, I’ll be there by six.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
He disconnects, leaving me flushed and unsettled.
The afternoon passes in a blur. I keep myself busy organizing shelves and tidying up, but my thoughts are a chaotic mix of anticipation and anxiety. Every so often, when my gaze wanders to the Jetta parked outside, my heart races.
When the day winds down, I leave Murph to lock up the shop, and I head out to the car. Trying to calm my nerves, I take a deep breath before I start the engine. I tell myself it’s only dinner, but the thought of spending a quiet evening alone with Callum is both exhilarating and terrifying.
I know I can’t trust him not to punish me for the lunch I made him.
I also know I can’t trust myself to resist if he tries.
I pull into the garage a few minutes before six and find Callum in the kitchen. He’s standing at the stove, dressed casually in jeans and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms.
The sight of him is somehow both comforting and disturbing. My heart flutters at the thought of spending an intimate evening together.
“What on earth is going on here?” I set my handbag on the big white marble island and move closer.
He turns and smiles at me over his shoulder. “I’m cooking you dinner.”
To cover my pleasure at that surprise, I say drily, “Uh-oh. Should I have the poison control center on speed dial?”
Chuckling, he turns back to the stove. “Not everyone in this marriage has quite the refined sense of vengeance you do.”
I take a peek at what he’s cooking, then stare in disbelief at the rich cream-and-mushroom sauce simmering in the pan alongside golden chicken cutlets.
“You’re making chicken marsala? I love chicken marsala. It’s probably my favorite…”
When I glance at him, he’s smiling down at me, a genuine, warm smile that reaches his eyes.
“Meal. Which of course you know,” I say, my voice cracking just a little.
“Does it bother you?” he asks softly, his gaze intense.
“Yes. It’s strange that you know so much about me.” Sighing, I add, “But also, weirdly, no. But I might have been dropped on my head a lot as a baby. My father was very uncoordinated. He was always bumping into the furniture and tripping over his own feet.”
He murmurs, “I wish I could have met him. Your mother too. They must have been incredible to raise a daughter like you.”
Our eyes lock. My stomach churns with nerves, and I blush. “Thank you.”
He glances at my mouth, his gaze intense. “You’re welcome,” he says, his voice low and husky.
The moment stretches out until Callum turns back to the stove. I take a moment to reorient myself, then say, “So you cook. Guess I was wrong when I told Sophie you couldn’t even boil an egg.”
He chuckles, clearly amused. “I’m used to people misjudging me. Why don’t you pour the wine, and I’ll meet you in the dining room? The table’s already set.”
He gestures toward an open bottle of Pinot on the counter near the stove.
Feeling guilty over his comment about being misjudged, I nod silently and take the bottle of wine into the dining room. The table is set for two, with lit taper candles and an arrangement of fresh cut flowers in the center.
I stop and take a moment to appreciate the view.
It’s undeniably romantic that he went to all this trouble. Thoughtful too.
Especially for a man who shackled me to his bed and left me there overnight without batting an eyelash.
He walks in with two plates as I’m pouring the wine into crystal goblets. He sets the plates down, and we take our seats across from each other. Then he raises his wineglass for a toast.
“To my wife, the only woman I’ve ever met who uses infant shit as a condiment.”
I pick up my own glass and smile. “Consider it a wedding present. Cheers.”
Our gazes meet over the rims of our glasses as we drink, but I have to look away after a moment because the eye contact is too intense.
The food is delicious. I’m surprised, but probably shouldn’t be. Callum seems to have more surprises up his sleeves than a magician. We make small talk for a while, chatting about our day, until I remember my misgivings about Tracy, and my mood sours.
“What?” he demands suddenly.
I look up from my plate. “Pardon?”
“Your face just dropped. What’s wrong?”
Frowning at him, I say, “It’s uncanny how you do that.”
“Don’t change the subject. What’s wrong, Emery?”
I set my fork down slowly and admit, “I was just thinking about your secretary, Tracy.”
“What about her?”
“How long has she worked for you?”
“About four years.”
Four years. That’s a long time. Definitely long enough to train her to be your obedient cum slut.
Inspecting my face, Callum drawls, “Dear wife. Are you jealous?”
“No.”
He chuffs out a laugh. “You seem to forget I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Which is odd, isn’t it? Considering you barely know me.”
His voice drops, and his eyes start to burn. “I know all about you.”
“Hmm. Your detective friend.”
We gaze at each other across the table, the tension cracking, until he says, “I told you I wasn’t fucking anyone else. That’s the truth.”
“That sounds like an equivocation.”
“How so?”
“You said you’re not fucking anyone else now. How about in the past? Did your dick accidentally find itself inside her?”
He licks his lips and grins at me. “No. But I wish I could say yes, just to see what your reaction would be.”
“Don’t start patting yourself on the back for your trust, billionaire. You nearly ripped the head off one of my customers just for standing next to me.”
Without a hint of shame, he admits, “I did. And the same thing will happen with any other man you stand too close to. So do the male population of Los Angeles a favor and keep your smiles for your husband, or you might find yourself standing in a pool of someone else’s blood.”
When I gape at him in disbelief, he chuckles and takes another bite of his chicken.
I swallow a big gulp of wine, then set the glass down on the table with more force than necessary. “For a brief moment there, it felt like we were a normal couple enjoying a night in.”
“Normal is overrated. And if you ever start to doubt that, go for another ride in the Ferrari.”
“Let me just eat this meal in peace, please. My blood sugar is getting dangerously low. I could black out and forget murdering you.”
I take out my aggravation with him on the poor chicken marsala, which doesn’t stand a chance. Meanwhile, my husband watches me, his expression amused.
“Callum?”
“Yes, wife?”
“Stop staring at me.”
“Never.”
“Try.”
“Even if I tried, I couldn’t. It’s my favorite thing.”
Something in his tone makes me worry.
His look of amusement has changed to one of primal hunger, that predatory glint in his eyes that surfaces at random moments, always catching me off guard.
My breath hitches. My heart starts to pound. An electric charge shivers over my nerve endings. From one moment to the next, I go from being annoyed with him to feeling like a mouse who realizes there’s a cat crouching right behind it, ready to pounce.
Holding my startled gaze, he says softly, “Sweet little lamb. I’ll give you a five-second head start.”
“No.”
“Five.”
I say sternly, “Don’t you dare start that counting thing.”
“Four.”
“I’m not kidding. I won’t run. I’ll stab you with my fork.”
“Three.”
My voice comes out breathless from nerves. “Callum, stop it.”
His smile could send every demon screaming in terror straight from the depths of hell.
“Two.”
My mouth goes dry, my pulse goes haywire, and the hair on my arms stands on end.
“One.”
The air turns to fire. For a split second, neither of us moves.
Then Arlo walks into the room, and I nearly die of a heart attack.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCord, but there’s someone here to see you.”
“Send them away,” Callum says, still staring hungrily at me.
“I would, but I’m afraid he insisted.”
When Callum turns toward him, frowning, Arlo says, “It’s your father.” He glances in my direction. “He wants to meet your new wife.”
Closing his eyes, Callum mutters, “Fuck.”
“Should I pull the fire alarm to provide a distraction?”
Grim, Callum shakes his head. “No. Let’s get this over with.” He sends me a lethal look. “And let me do the talking, understood?”
“Whatever you say, billionaire,” I reply, wondering what Callum’s problem with his father is.
Whatever it is, I think I’m about to find out.
