Sometimes Moments (Sometimes Moments, #1)(29)

With a reassuring nod to herself, Peyton put the lace back in the drawer and felt around until cotton hit her fingertips. It was a comforting feeling. Cotton wasn’t as daring as lace. Why she had that sort of underwear, she didn’t know. But she never wore it. Lingerie was not her expertise. She wasn’t even sure when she’d last worn a matching set. She’d always felt it was a symbol for her life. Nothing ever matched and different pieces never fit. Instead, they always had to adjust.

Realising the extent of thought she had put into underwear, Peyton quickly slipped the pair on and rummaged in the next drawer until she found flannelette pyjama bottoms. Then she silently dressed herself. Once she was satisfied with the articles of clothing on her body, she began to towel-dry her hair. After a few minutes, she placed the damp towel over the railing of her bed and walked out of her room.

Each step that she took she ensured was long and slow. Taking time away from being with Callum was better than actually spending those minutes with him. She had offered him forgiveness. She had given him an out, and he still hadn’t taken it. He was stubborn as ever, much to her displeasure.

The flicking of ember flames caught her eye as she stepped into the darkened kitchen. The entire room was filled with lit candles. For a moment, she let herself enjoy the thoughtfulness of the extravagant use of wax. And as quickly as she enjoyed it, she forced herself to hate it. She walked towards the kitchen table and was just able to see the length of it—with the help of two lit vanilla candles.

Peyton pulled out a chair and sat down, ensuring that he heard the groan she let out. She blamed the storm, but she knew it was higher than that. She had to direct her hatred for such circumstances to Fate. And Fate was a sinister bitch when it came to Peyton. Let’s not forget Divine Intervention; she was even worse. Or he. Whatever gender, Peyton hated Divine Intervention as much as she hated Fate…and Death, too. All those bastards were working hand-in-hand against her.

A plate was placed in front of her and she looked at it. A sandwich. Perfectly cut into triangles with the crusts removed. Her heart was the first to react, becoming heavy and uncomfortable. And then her mouth formed a frown. Memory Lane was becoming an allying bastard, too.

“I’m hoping you still like Vegemite and cheese sandwiches. You had it all there, so I assumed,” Callum said as he sat in the chair in front of Peyton.

He gave her a faint smile before he stared at the candle; the flame reflected in his eyes. Not liking the circumstances she was in and the pressure on her chest, Peyton leant forward and blew out the flame that he was looking at intently.

“What was that for?” he asked. The light from the other candle on the table made his cheek visible.

Peyton sat back and gave him a shrug. “I’m not one for romance, and these candles are a red alert for me. I’d rather we eat in the dark since my first request of you to leave my house isn’t happening.”

“Fine,” Callum said before he moved closer to the last candle on the table and blew it out. Only the light from the candles behind him made some things visible. “I’m not trying to romance you, Peyton. I don’t want that.”

She rolled her eyes, not caring if he could see or not. “Me, either.”

“You don’t?”

She smirked at the curiosity in his voice. She didn’t want him to seduce her, purely because she knew her heart couldn’t withstand him for much longer.

“No, Callum Reid. You are the last man who I want romancing me.”

She was just able to see a smile on his face. And that didn’t make her feel satisfied with her response at all. She couldn’t figure him out. She had given him what he wanted, yet he wouldn’t take it. He was far too much of a mystery. A challenge her heart wanted to conquer and claim.

A tremble coursed through her. She blamed it on those feelings the seventeen-year-old she had been had harboured for him. Not the twenty-one-year-old. No, that Peyton hated the man who sat in front of her.

“Glad we can agree on something. You know you can be pretty stubborn, Peyton. Always have been. Guess with time it’s gone from pretty stubborn to definitely and proudly stubborn,” Callum pointed out.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. “I’m not stubborn. You’re a challenge not worth my time. Been there, done that. I’m over you.”

There was no quick reply like she had expected. Instead, she heard the sound of a matchstick. Then the candle to her right was lit and then the one to her left. Callum blew the matchstick out and placed it on the table.

Peyton missed the darkness that had consumed him. The light provided a detailed look of anguish on his face. Her breathing became shallow, hardly reaching her lungs.

“How’d you get over me, Peyton?”

She heard the break in his voice. He hadn’t seemed to notice it, but she had. That vulnerability made her heart leap, filling it with useless hope.

“It was easy.”

“How easy?” he asked.

Peyton sensed the hurt in his question. “It was a completely and utterly simple task,” she stated as she sat up and uncrossed her arms. Then she picked up the sandwich and took a large bite, internally cursing him for having remembered one of her favourite foods.

“Do tell,” he said with a raised brow.

“What’s to tell, Callum? It’s simple. You ripped out my heart, crushed it in your hands, and forced it back in my chest. You left me with a gripping ache for four years. That’s how I got over you—because I had to. Because life made me.”