An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(33)

He’s shuffling items around when I enter, his back to me, and his big, muscular body perched atop a midsized ladder that is miraculously supporting his weight.

I seize a shameful moment to eyeball him, taking supreme interest in the way his butt looks in his jeans. The faded black denim is form-fitting today, less baggy than usual, and his shirt is riding up his back a little, showing off a trace of bronzed skin. When he moves, I can’t help but—

“When you’re done looking at my ass, I’ll give you the rundown.”

Oh God.

I almost pass away.

Spinning around to look anywhere else, I hear him climb back down the ladder until he swipes the folder out of my white-knuckled grip.

“Relax. I’m messing with you.”

“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Everything is fine. I clear my throat and attempt eye contact. “Okay. Show me what to do.”

He goes over everything quickly, as per usual, and I retain absolutely nothing, still catatonic from embarrassment. But, it’s inventory, which is self-explanatory, and I’m pretty sure all I need to do is count.

I can do that.

I think.

Cal points at the ladder and has me climb up, listing off random items on the top shelf. I nod absently, surveying the parts, and then I feel his hand on my lower back.

I try to stay focused, but it’s difficult.

Electricity sparks from his touch, lighting me up from the inside out.

“You okay? Just want to make sure you’re steady.” His hand lowers a fraction when I inch up, grazing my backside. He leaves it there for a potent second before pulling away. “You won’t fall?”

“I – I’m good.”

“Good.”

Knees wobbly, I take a deep breath and head back down the ladder, ready to finish up this inventory lesson that feels far more complicated when Cal is leaning into me. He holds up the report, grazing his tattooed middle finger down one of the columns while our shoulders brush together.

That’s when I frown, my eyes scanning over the list in column two. “What’s a clitometer?”

I swear he snorts.

Running a hand over his face, forehead to chin, he looks at me as he takes a step back. “A what?”

“A clitometer,” I repeat, confused.

“A clitometer doesn’t exist. A clinometer is a tilt sensor. It’s used for measuring.”

“Oh.” Cringing at the slip-up, I backpedal. Backpedaling has basically become my whole personality at this point. “Well, part of the N is smudged on the report. It looks like a T. Like clit—and oh my God, did I really just say that word to you?”

That tiny smirk reappears as he tosses back a piece of gum and scrubs a hand down his face again. And again. After a beat, he flicks his eyes toward the wall of shelves, then back to me, saying, “It’s cute that I make you nervous.”

Filling my cheeks with air, I hold it in for a second before blowing it out. “There’s nothing cute about saying ‘clit’ to your boss. Multiple times, now.”

The smirk stretches.

I tuck my chin to my chest and bite my lip. I feel like I need to change the subject at this point, so I pivot back to his mysterious ex-girlfriend he’s never mentioned before. Curiosity trickles through me as I begin, “So, speaking of cute—”

“No, I’m not sleeping with Jolene,” he cuts me off.

Creepily clairvoyant.

His gaze swings over to me, the smirk disappearing. “We haven’t been together for a long time. We’re just friends.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine if you are.”

“Thanks, but I’m not.”

Convinced he’s lying, I keep going. “She’s really nice. And beautiful. And I would never judge you or pry if you—”

“I haven’t had sex in two years, Lucy.”

I gasp before my mouth snaps shut.

Cal tosses the papers on a shelf and turns toward me, his eyes flaring. Wild and magnetic. Burning into me like violent embers. He takes a single step forward until he’s only inches away and sweeps his gaze across my face.

And then he says in a low, steady voice, “God help the woman who breaks that streak.”

Swallowing, he levels me with a pointed stare before walking out of the storage room.

He walks away as I reach for a shelf to steady my balance.

He walks away, leaving me shaken and breathless.

He walks away, while I just stand there, dumbfounded, with a throbbing ache between my legs.





I’ve been at it for an hour, sorting through a gazillion air filters and spark plugs, grateful for the reprieve. Cal’s words have been rocketing through my brain the whole time, gripping me in a chokehold, but I’ve managed to stay focused and organized.

Honestly, the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize he was probably just making a generalized statement.

Just because he was staring right at me with his whisky eyes, intoxicating my bloodstream, doesn’t mean he was actually referring to me.

That would be absurd.

I laugh tersely at the thought.

He hasn’t come in to check on me at all, and when I peered out through the crack in the door a little while ago, I found him leaning against one of the stone-gray walls, deep in conversation with Jolene as loud rock music blared from an overhead speaker.