An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(43)

Smirk still in place, Cal grips me around the waist with two impossibly strong hands and picks me up off his lap, placing me on the ground as we both rise from the couch. “A conversation for another night,” he says, gradually releasing his hold on me. “Come on. I’ll show you to the guest room so you can crash.”

I feel like I might actually crash face-first over his kettlebell weights, so I reach for his forearm for balance as we make our way to the staircase.

Cricket is nowhere to be found when we ascend to the main level, but my dogs are quick to ambush us, trailing my heels while Cal guides me down the short hallway to one of the spare bedrooms. My duffel bag already sits in the center of the twin bed, housing a pair of embarrassing Halloween pajamas that are a surefire way to douse this flame crackling between us.

Nothing says, “Take me now!” like a giant pumpkin onesie.

“I’ll let you change or whatever,” Cal says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Sheets are all washed. I have an extra pillow if you need one.”

Glancing around the quaint space, I smile, touched by the hospitality. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” I tell him.

He gives me a quick sweep with his eyes, nodding. “You bet.”

Then he turns to leave, closing the door behind him.

I drink in a deep breath to steady my balance, libido, and racing heart. Everything is in disarray. I’m not a huge drinker—usually just a glass of wine, or maybe two if Alyssa is instigating—so the three ultra-full glasses are sending me into a tailspin.

I was straddling Cal’s lap.

Breathe, Lucy.

He wants to put his tongue inside me.

Breathe, Lucy!

God, I can’t think about that. As soon as I’m sobered up, I’ll have to tell him why we can only be friends, even though my body is still reacting to the feel of his hands on me, his lips against my ear, and his erection digging into my inner thigh.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Centering myself, I start digging through my overnight bag, searching for a distraction, and cringing when I pull out the onesie.

What was I thinking?

I guess I was going for comfort—as if I was heading up to Papa’s bear cabin to play backgammon by the fireplace while the record player serenades us with Dean Martin’s greatest hits.

Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing.

I shake my head at myself and reach for the edging of my t-shirt, tugging it up my body in an attempt to replace it with the mortifying jack-o-lantern bodysuit.

Keyword: attempt.

I realize in a dizzying instant that it doesn’t want to come off. Tugging and wriggling, I try to inch it up farther, but the damn thing won’t budge. The shirt manages to get stuck around my breasts and shoulders, clearly two sizes too small.

It’s fine.

This is fine, and there’s no reason to panic.

I begin to sweat when I still can’t get it off no matter how many times I twist my arms in a thousand different ways, and my heartrate escalates as I imagine myself trapped in this godforsaken state for all eternity. I should have burned the shirt the moment my boobs grew in.

Wishing I had taken my mother up on gymnastics lessons, I bend over and awkwardly shimmy, stretching my arms, and even sticking my foot in the center of the shirt to force it over my upper body.

It doesn’t work, and the wine isn’t helping my cause, so I immediately topple.

No. This isn’t happening.

My ancestors have survived plagues, bears, and all those diseases from Oregon Trail. I refuse to be wiped out by a fifty-percent polyester blend. But I consider letting that happen because the idea of just becoming a living, breathing clothes rack sounds more appealing than asking Cal for help.

Unfortunately, he must have heard my ass hit the floor, because he materializes through the door, to my utmost horror.

“What the fuck?”

“Nothing!” I yelp. I’m a misshapen, writhing pretzel on his guest room rug, and my grandma-bra is on full display. “Everything is fine.”

“What the hell is happening?”

“I’m stuck in this shirt, but I got it.” I huff and tug and twist. “I’ll get it. Almost there. You can go.”

Please go. I’ve already lost my dignity, so at least let me die in peace.

Cal does the opposite and moves toward me, reaching down to pull me to my feet and sit me on the bed. He just kind of stares at me for a few seconds, unblinking. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Can you go? This is humiliating.” My skin is sheened in sweat and decorated in pink splotches. My cheeks are fire engine red, and my hair looks like I was electrocuted a couple of times. “Cal, please.”

“Christ…I’ll go grab scissors.”

He stalks out of the room before he sees my eyes bug out, the thought of anything sharp and pointy touching me causing me to panic further. When he returns a minute later, I’m near tears. “I’m sorry I’m such a disaster,” I moan, blowing out a pathetic breath.

Cal’s expression softens. “You say disaster, I say adventure. Turn around.”

I do as he says, allowing the compliment to temper my climbing anxiety as he takes a seat beside me on the mattress.

Cool metal skims across my spine as Cal positions the scissors and carefully begins to snip at the fabric. “I see how attached you are to this shirt, so forgive the butchering I’m about to do.”