An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(18)

His throat bobs when he finds me again, his gaze trailing briefly over my soaked blouse with a flickering of heat. When our eyes meet, he mutters in a low voice, “I’ll see you Monday.”

I manage a pathetic nod as he moves backward toward his bike, t-shirt molding into the planks of his abs and chest and suctioning to his skin. “Okay. See you.”

Pivoting around, he hops on the bike.

The rain dies down as the engine revs to life, like it was just a blip, like it was only meant for us. I remain standing idly in the grass, shivering as he drives away.

Cal acted like he didn’t care, like his visit didn’t mean anything, but I saw the thinly veiled worry reflecting in his eyes.

I swear I saw it.

And I know it had to mean something.

Emma’s words sweep through my mind as I watch the taillights of Cal’s motorcycle evaporate into the fog and mist.

When you care about someone, you worry about them, no matter what.

That’s just the way it is.





Chapter 7





“What the hell is this?”

I fly around, my hair whipping me in the face when Cal appears from out of nowhere. I’m assuming he came through the front door, but even the jingle bells failed to pull me out of my artistic trance. “Good morning,” I beam, a pink dry erase marker tucked inside my hand. When his question registers, tone matching the disgruntled look on his face, I frown. “What is what?”

“The doodles, Lucy.”

I glance down at the multicolored board sprawled across the reception desk that’s decorated in hearts, stars, and smiley faces. “It's your new welcome board. It has your specials and rates. It's like a menu, but for cars.”

“It looks like I'm signing up for circle time at the Montessori school.”

Deflating like a popped balloon, I try to defend why I showed up at six o’clock on Monday morning in hopes of sprucing up the shop and its lackluster first impression. “Well, you're Cal's Corner. It's a cute name, so I thought you needed some cute marketing.”

“No.”

It appears our rain-infused encounter on Saturday did little to breach his cast-iron walls.

“I think the customers will appreciate it,” I continue, shaking off his bad attitude. “This place is like a gloomy mancave with sterile walls and weird smells. I added a little table with a wax warmer.”

Cal stands in front of me in a pecan-colored beanie, white muscle shirt, and faded blue jeans. Tufts of velvety dark hair sprout from underneath the hat, acting as a boyish contrast to his skull and rose neck tattoo and overgrown stubble. The furrowed brow adds his own unique flare to an otherwise basic ensemble.

He takes a long sip from his thermos, glancing at the glowing warmer perched beside the water cooler. “Is that why it smells like a strip club in here?”

“It’s black raspberry and dark vanilla bean,” I provide.

“Why is it shaped like a merry-go-round?”

Chewing on my lip, I float around the side of the desk to join him in the center of the lobby. “It reminded me of that time we went to the carnival. You, me, and Em—”

His eyes flash with warning.

“—immense amounts of fun.” I cough into my fist. “If it’s too weird, I can get a different one. They have floral prints. Fun patterns. Some are shaped like owls.”

He already looks irritated with me, and the sun has only been up for an hour. Muttering something incoherent under his breath, Cal steps toward the desk and sets his thermos down, leaning over to fetch a file folder.

I counter his silence with more chatter. “I’m sorry again about Saturday. I didn’t mean—”

“Stop apologizing. It’s not a big deal.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m unprofessional.”

“I don’t.” Flipping through the loose papers, he tosses the folder back down and gives me his full attention. “I wouldn’t say no to some wardrobe adjustments, though.”

I blink. “What? Me?”

“Yeah. Here.” Cal moves behind the desk, rummages through a cardboard box in one of the cabinets, then tosses a t-shirt at me. “Wear this.”

“Why? I didn’t know there was a dress code.” Fisting the grubby shirt etched with a band logo, I give it a quick whiff. Then I gag. “It smells like feet.”

“It’s Kenny’s.”

“Does Kenny use it to clean his feet?”

“Not anymore.” He gives me a deadpan look, waiting for me to put it on.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious. My guys are a bunch of horny teenagers, apparently, and I don’t want them staring at you like you’re a piece of meat.”

My face flames with the fire of a trillion suns. I instinctively glance down at my chest, noting the small amount of cleavage peeking out through my citrus orange tank top, my longtime scar on display. “Oh. Well, I have a cardigan I can wear.”

“That works.”

Swallowing, I force my eyes up until they meet with his. A flicker of vulnerability skates across his expression, akin to two days ago when we stood in my front yard. He clenches his jaw, the veins in his neck dilating.

“I, um…I know you always saw me as a little sister, Cal, but I’m all grown up now.” I stretch a smile, partly charmed by his protectiveness, while still mildly mortified. “I appreciate you looking out for me, though.”