An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(70)

Fiddling with a stubborn curl in front of the mirror, I call out, “Come in!”

I hear the door creak open, and I shuffle down the hallway to greet him in the foyer.

My heart lurches when I spot Cal looking as dapper as I’ve ever seen him. It leaps like it’s trying to reach him somehow. Like it wants to plow through his chest and dance with his. Dressed up in a coal-gray dress shirt and black slacks, hair slicked and tamed with product, and his goatee trimmed to a shadow of stubble, he looks like he stepped straight out of a Men’s Wearhouse ad. He’s fiddling with the button of his barrel cuff when his head pops up.

He does the epitome of a double-take when he spots me standing at the base of the hallway. “Jesus Christ.”

I flush from head to toe. Cal doesn’t even pretend to be unaffected by the effort I put into my appearance, and the fire in his eyes is almost enough to burn down my steeliest walls. Gulping hard, I fidget under his stare and duck my head. “Sometimes I clean up okay,” I laugh lightly, flattening the skirt of my dress with clammy palms.

The veins in his neck pulse, his pupils blown. “A girl as sweet as you shouldn’t look like sin,” he murmurs, voice full of grit. “Brings me to my goddamn knees.”

I glance up, eyes widening, breath catching in my throat. I’m not even sure how to respond to that. Maybe I should force a weird laugh, or maybe I should run away. Maybe I should thank him.

Maybe I should strip.

Mercifully, Alyssa sweeps up behind me, smacking my butt as she passes. “Isn’t she stunning? A next-level hottie.”

Cal hardly spares my friend a glance as she moves into the living room to retrieve her purse and high heels. His eyes are locked, loaded, trailing me from bottom to top in a slow pull. All he manages is a throaty, “Yeah.”

I go with the weird laugh. “Ha…ha,” I mutter awkwardly, wringing my hands together. “You look great yourself. Really great.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares at me, drinking me in.

“Everyone ready?” I look around, my chest feeling fuzzy and tight.

Me, Cal, Alyssa, my willpower to stay fully clothed all evening.

Alyssa chirps an eager “yes,” and then we all pile out the door. When Cal’s hand presses to the arch of my lower back, then makes a languid dip to my backside and lingers, heat blooms all over, sheathing me in white-hot surrender.

My willpower doesn’t stand a chance.





It’s the embodiment of a dream wedding. The ballroom is sprinkled with pinecone centerpieces, tasteful red flannel, warm candlelight, and mason jars filled with sprigs of greenery and holly berries. Rustic winter charm welcomes us to the reception as I glide through the double doors with Cal’s hand pressed to the expanse of skin exposed through my backless dress.

The music is soft, the laughter loud. Gemma and Knox’s friends and relatives mingle in small circles while a flurry of waiters pop in with trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne flutes. My eyes pan to a giant Christmas tree that stands in the far corner, decorated in red and gold ornaments, and tinsel glinting beneath grand chandeliers. It takes my breath away.

After locating our table number, Cal guides me to table seven off to the left, where Alyssa is already sitting and chatting with someone I don’t recognize. He snags two glasses of champagne on the trek over, and I take it, sending him a grateful smile. Even though there’s an open bar tonight, I don’t plan on drinking more than one glass of champagne—mostly because I’m driving.

Also because the last time I drank more than a glass of wine in front of Cal, I straddled him. And then I got stuck in a t-shirt on his guest room floor.

“Lucy!” Alyssa waves us over with her bacon-wrapped date. “God, that ceremony had me bawling. Those vows,” she says when we approach, collapsing against her chairback. “Tell me you cried.”

“I cried.” I take a seat in the chair Cal pulls out for me, smiling my thanks as he situates to my right. “It was beautiful. Makes me want to have a winter wedding someday.” My heart pangs with remorse because I know I’ll never have a winter wedding someday.

Cal takes a sip of his champagne. “Your birthday is coming up,” he states.

Glancing at him, I rest my chin in my hand and stretch a smile. “You remembered my birthday?”

“Of course. It’s the same day as Christmas.”

I suppose that makes it pretty convenient to remember, but I can’t help the tickle of warmth that rushes through me, regardless. “We should spend it together this year,” I suggest.

His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You want to spend your favorite holiday, and your birthday, with your boss?”

“We both know you’re more than just my boss, Cal.”

That’s the truth; he knows it, and I know it. The precise definition of our relationship is decidedly ambiguous, but still—we’re more.

More than co-workers.

More than acquaintances.

More than friends, even.

More than what we can become.

And when Cal takes another sip of champagne and glances away with a small nod, wrapping an arm around the back of my chair, his fingers tickling my bare shoulder, the flimsy thread of friendship dangles between us even more precariously. I already feel the snap of it. A tether giving way to the ultimate ruin.