Fight or Flight(65)

“And you’ll not be back tomorrow evening?”

“If it was anyone other than Roxanne Sutton, I’d say yes, but that woman will trap me there for as long as she legally can.” I let my frustration show. “I’m sorry. I thought we’d at least have one last night together.”

“And we will.”

“But you’re tired.”

“Ava.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not leaving Boston without another taste of you.” He glanced around, missing my cheeks flush with arousal, and spotted a waiter. Waving the man over, Caleb ordered, “A pot of black coffee.”

I snickered as the waiter hurried off to do his bidding. “The things a man will do for sex.”

Caleb grinned. “Not just any sex.”

Pleasure shifted through me at the compliment.

“Let’s make this meal a quick one, eh?”

I nodded my agreement. “That sounds like a plan.”

“So …” He leaned back in his chair. “You promised me last night you’d tell me how it went with Nick.”

Unwilling to spend our last few hours together discussing my ex, I gave Caleb a quick summary of events, watching his features harden with anger as the story went on. “But thankfully he’s gone now and I don’t really want to spend any more time talking about the asshole.”

“What a prick,” Caleb said vehemently, just as his coffee arrived. The waiter’s eyes rounded at the aggression in Caleb’s voice as he placed the coffee on the table, but my companion didn’t even notice. He was too focused on me. I gave the waiter a reassuring smile and he hurried away.

“It’s done. Let’s talk about something else.”

His expression said he wanted to call Nick a few more names first, but he poured himself a coffee and made an effort to look relaxed. “What do you want tae talk about?”

On a rush of sentimentality I shouldn’t be feeling, I blurted out, “I want you to know I’ve had a lot of fun with you these past few weeks. I’m glad we decided to be friends.”

“With benefits,” he teased.

I smiled. “Yes, definitely. It’s been far more pleasurable than the usual friendship.”

He lowered his gaze to his coffee, shielding his thoughts from me. “You know, I was thinking that at some point I’ll be back in Boston again. Probably near the end of the year.”

My pulse raced at the thought of seeing him again. “Oh?”

“If you’re not attached, I’d quite like us tae do this again when I’m in town.”

“I’d like that.”

Caleb’s eyes finally found mine. “Aye?”

“Yes.” I nodded, serious. “I’m going to miss you in my bed, Caleb Scott. And in a hotel bed. And against the wall. And in the shower.”

He grinned, wicked and full of want. “Don’t miss me just yet. We’ve still got tonight.”





Nineteen



SIX WEEKS LATER

I can’t believe you dragged me to Faneuil Hall on my day off,” Harper grumbled after the third tourist in five minutes bumped into her.

I hid a smile, heading toward my target. “It’s raining, it’s miserable, and you know what that means.”

“Clam chowder, yeah, yeah.”

“Not just any clam chowder. The best clam chowder.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Hey, don’t let the fact that it’s produced in a heavily populated tourist area sway your judgment.” I threw her a mock look of annoyance as we wandered into the Irish pub I’d been heading for since the moment I stepped out of my apartment that morning. “This right here is the best clam chowdah in Boston.”

“Yeah, apparently everyone else thinks so too.” Harper gestured to the busy pub.

Damn.

No seats.

Disappointment hit me much harder than it should have considering this quest was merely about food. But lately, when anything went marginally wrong, I seemed to take it dramatically badly. “Oh man!”

“We’re just leaving.” A woman sitting at the bar called to us, her accent drawing my attention.

“Aye, ye can have oor stools,” the man next to her said as we slowly made our way over.

Scottish.

A pang of longing hit me dead center of my chest and then spread out like a burn across the entire area.

“Hey, thanks,” Harper said as we watched them pull on their jackets and get up off the stools.

“No problem. The clam chowder is bloody amazing.” The woman gave us a cheery smile.

“You’re from Scotland?”

She nodded. “Aye. Glasgow. Just here on a wee anniversary trip.”

“Oh?” I wanted her to keep talking. “How long have you been married?”

“Thirty years,” her husband announced proudly, either because it was an impressive amount of time or because he’d actually remembered.

“Wow.” Harper shared a wide-eyed look with me. “Uh, congrats. That is awesome.”

“Yeah, congratulations.”

“Oh, thank ye,” they said in unison.

“Here ye go.” The woman stepped aside, patting the stool at the bar. “Enjoy.”