An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(26)

“Are you…an angel?”





Chapter 9





The weeks whizz by, and it’s almost as if nothing ever happened.

I mean…nothing actually did happen.

Nothing that would warrant Cal to make a one-eighty personality shift and suddenly start treating me like his new best friend, anyway. It was only a little hand-to-back touch that sent my pulse into hyperdrive, paired with a compliment I’ve repeated over and over in my nonsensical brain for the last fourteen days.

This is a me thing. This is me grasping at straws when the straws are the cheaply-designed paper straws that instantly dissolve the moment they touch liquid.

I have nothing to hold onto.

I’m so desperate for Cal to warm up to me—to see me as the girl he knew, the friend he grew up with—that I’m reading into every scrap of decency he shows me.

And he is decent; I’m sure of it. There’s a good man hiding behind the grouchy, untouchable mask. People wear masks when they don’t want to be seen. But, the thing is, I’ve already seen him. I know his true heart as much as I know my own, and it kills me that he’s worked so hard to bury it.

I’m spritzing glass cleaner along the main lobby window on a Friday afternoon when I hear the break room door creak open, then slam shut.

“Did you get rid of our food in the fridge?”

Glancing over my shoulder, Cal looms behind me with his hands on his hips. An olive green beanie sits partially halfway up his head, revealing scowl lines that are probably reserved especially for me. He crosses his arms over a heather gray sleeveless tee, waiting for me to provoke his anger further.

He didn’t come to my show last week. I doubt he’ll appear tonight, or at any future performances, either. Honestly, I’ll probably never know why he stopped by that night and told me in a husky, haunting voice that he thought I sang like a bleeping angel.

And that’s fine. I just need to forget that it ever happened.

I smile brightly as I swipe a rag over the cleaner and watch Cal’s eye twitch in time with the squeaky sounds. “Correction: it used to be food. It turned into a biohazard zone three months ago.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me, too. I felt like I should have been wearing one of those spacesuits from E.T.”

He makes a humming noise. “Cute.”

I can’t help but stretch the smile I’m certain he doesn’t appreciate. “I scrubbed the whole thing out and saved what I could. Three out of ten of your peach yogurts survived the purge. The rest of them expired before I was born.”

He’s not amused. Then again, Cal never looks amused, so I shouldn’t take it personally. The man hasn’t cracked a single smile in my presence since I walked through the front door for the first time over a month ago.

Sighing at my failure to get even a semblance of a grin out of him, I swivel back to face the window, my hair bouncing between my shoulder blades.

I don’t even hear him approach.

When Cal finally speaks, he’s standing right behind me, his heat emanating through the fabric of my mustard yellow sweater dress.

The low baritone of his voice follows. “Thanks.”

I hate that a shiver races down my spine at his proximity.

At the gravel in his pitch.

At the luring, bewitching energy he emits, even though he’s completely unapproachable.

It doesn’t make sense.

Cal is a paradox that has my mind reeling, my wits unraveling, and my heart all topsy-turvy, and it’s confusing the crap out of me.

I squeeze the rag in my hand and turn around slowly, schooling my face to maintain the easy smile. “Happy to help. You just needed a woman’s touch.”

He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing. There’s a heavy pause that crackles between us before he murmurs, “Is that right?”

I swear I hear a touch of flirtation in his tone.

I swear.

“Around here,” I add with a cough, wondering why I can’t ever talk like a normal human being. “With the cleaning and organizing—”

“Got it.”

My belly feels queasy as my brain regurgitates every embarrassing, accidental sexual innuendo I’ve uttered in his presence throughout the last six weeks.

It’s been a lot.

I’m about to change the subject when Cal does a double-take at the reception desk, and the temperate mood suddenly evaporates. His irritation amplifies. “Where the hell is the orchid?”

I blink. “What?”

“The orchid, Lucy. The fucking flower that’s been sitting on the desk since I hired you.”

I blink again, hesitating. My gaze skips to the newly reorganized desk, then back to Cal. He doesn’t look irritated anymore—he looks fuming. Muscles are rippling through the thin layer of cotton molded to his chest and torso, and his eyes are pinned on me, hot and accusing. “Oh, I…threw it away. It was dead.”

“It wasn’t dead.”

I’m not sure what’s going on, but the plant was definitely dead. It was so dead, its decay was contaminating the wood grains underneath it. “I – I’m sorry. I can get you a new one. I’ll run to the store right now if you want.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling a steadying breath, before dropping his hand to cup his jaw. Eyes trained on the desk, he shakes his head back and forth like he can’t process the fact that the decrepit orchid remains have finally been removed from the lobby. “I watered the damn thing every day. They keep dying on me.”