An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(46)

All I can do is nod. I’m not sure which part I’m nodding at, but I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll say all the wrong things. Everything I shouldn’t say. I’ll tell him that I do want him to kiss me, to love me, and to let that love sink its teeth into me, chew me up, and spit me out.

It’s worth it for even the smallest bite.

Just a taste.

Truthfully, I don’t know if Cal could ever love me—maybe he’s only looking for a quick tryst. Someone to break his two-year dry spell. Sex, and only sex. But I know my own heart, and it’s a heart that will undoubtedly fall in love with him as it already did once before, back when I believed Emma was the stars and Cal was the moon.

I loved them both.

My adventure people.

But there’s a fine line between adventure and disaster, and I’m terrified I’ll become lost in the blur.

“Thank you again for the muffins,” I say quietly, cowardly. I glance down at his hands dwarfing mine, his thumbs dusting my pinkies. “We should get ready for work.”

He makes something like a grumbling sound, dropping his forehead to the crown of my head for a split second before pulling away. “Right.”

Cal stays out of my way for the rest of the morning, avoiding eye contact. Avoiding any contact. He doesn’t say much when I let my dogs in and prattle on about how I rescued them from Forever Young, or when I inquire about where Cricket came from.

All he mumbles is, “Found her in a parking lot.”

I can’t tell if he’s angry, or frustrated, or both, or maybe he’s just resorting back to the Cal from two months ago because it’s safer that way. I can’t blame him for it, and I never meant to give him mixed signals. The signals inside of me just happen to be mixed.

And I’m not sure what to do about that.

Either way, we leave his house shortly before eight-thirty, me in my car and Cal on his bike, and the thrum of his engine vibrates through me like his words did in his kitchen: Did you dream about the kiss I know you wanted as much as I did?

The truth is, I did dream about it.

I probably always will.





My mood brightens the moment I see the pile of boxes sitting outside the front door to the shop.

The t-shirts!

Cal steps around them, pushing through the entrance. “I’ll grab those. Pull up the client list for the day,” he says in his usual gruff tone before flipping on the lights.

I pick up one of the boxes anyway, shuffling inside with a smile. “The t-shirts are here,” I exclaim in time with the jingle bells.

Cal just huffs and pulls a beanie out of his back pocket, situating it over dark windswept hair. Then he starts carrying in the rest of the boxes while I tear open mine.

I wouldn’t say Cal was against me ordering t-shirts for the crew—and for selling to the clientele—but he was certainly resistant. It might have been the too-many hours I put into selecting a design and slogan, skipping through the bays with my handy notepad and surveying the guys for their opinions. It could have been the fact that Cal is allergic to the color yellow, which was, of course, my color of choice.

“Yellow is obnoxiously happy,” he said to me, his tone bordering on disgust. “Pick a different color.”

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Ultimately, it’s probably because Cal is resistant to most things, so the odds of him disagreeing or complaining about something are decidedly high.

Grin in full swing, I sift through the tissue paper and bubble wrap and dig down deep for the individually wrapped t-shirts to inspect my creation. When I pull one out, I’m beaming from ear to ear. “These look amazing!” I squeal, unfolding it and holding it across my chest to display.

Cal hardly spares it a full-second glance. “It’s yellow,” he gripes.

It’s yellow and perfect.

“Cal’s Corner” is scrawled across the top in bubbly letters, and a little wrench symbol rests just beneath it. Then, under that, is the slogan that won by a majority vote.

“Putting a Wrench In Your Day”

My grin broadens.

I love it so much, and I don’t even care that—

Wait.

Pulling the shirt away from me, I drag it right up to my face and squint, rereading the slogan over and over, until realization dawns.

No.

No!

There’s a typo. An awful, horrible typo, and Cal is going to kill me. Or fire me. Or both, but not in that order.

Maybe.

No, no, no.

He must notice something is amiss when I make a croaking sound and shove the t-shirt back into the box, folding it up like it never existed at all.

“What?” he says from behind the desk.

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll pull up the schedule for the day like you asked. You can get to work now. Bye.” My redirecting skills need work, I know this, but I’m flustered and don’t know what to do, so I shoo him away from the desk and take over the computer. “Oh, look, Roy has an eleven o’clock. Great.”

“So does your boyfriend.”

The t-shirts become nothing but a blip when I register his statement. Blinking half a dozen times, I turn toward him, my brows pinched together. “What? Who?”

“That bartender you were making eyes at after your show. The one who leaves you love notes.”