“Hell no. There is no way I would risk losing my job for that.”
Of course not. Arresting a Kane on anything less than tax fraud or a murder charge would be cause for immediate dismissal.
I sigh. “Why did you bring him here instead of the guesthouse?”
Wyatt grabs the handcuff keys from his belt. “Since I can’t arrest him, I thought it would be a fun way to torture him.” He leans forward and places both his hands on the doorframe. From Cal’s vantage point, it probably looks like he might even be kissing me.
“You’re asking for it.” I give his shoulder a shove.
“I’m doing it to save you from him sniffing around.”
I peek over Wyatt’s shoulder to find Cal throwing daggers with his eyes. “Be careful uncuffing him. He looks pretty pissed off.”
Wyatt laughs as he jogs back to his car and opens the back door. He is quick to unlock the handcuffs and send Cal on his merry way with another tip of his hat.
“See you tomorrow, Alana!” Wyatt shouts at the top of his lungs.
Cal looks over his shoulder. I can’t make out the expression on his face since he is turned in the opposite direction, but I get a good look at his curled fists. He keeps his eyes on Wyatt until his taillights disappear down the driveway.
Cal walks slowly toward the house, drawing out the process. He still hasn’t looked directly at me, so the closer he gets, the harder my heart pounds.
“So, first night here and you’re already getting arrested.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my legs at the ankles.
He looks up with narrowed eyes. “Technically, I was detained.” He rubs at his wrists.
I shake my head. “What were you thinking, trying to assault an officer?”
“Are you fucking him?” he asks through gritted teeth.
My heart rate spikes. It’s one thing to accuse me of sleeping with someone else, but it’s a completely different issue for him to think I would sleep with his old best friend. Instead of allowing my irritation to guide my reply, I choose a different tactic.
“Would it matter if I am?”
Oh, Alana. You know better than to taunt him.
His nostrils flare. “Hell yeah, it matters. You should hear the way he speaks about you.”
Wyatt, I hope Delilah gives you hell when you get home. “It’s none of your business who I hook up with.”
He rubs his clenched jaw, as if it can erase the tic. “You can do better than him.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“What a glowing review for a guy who probably couldn’t find your clit even if it was labeled with a neon sign.”
I choke on my laughter, killing it before he has a chance to hear it. “Cal.”
His nostrils flare. “What?”
“Wyatt was right. You are jealous.”
He scoffs. “I’m not jealous.”
“Good, because if you plan on staying here, you’re going to be seeing Wyatt a lot. I’d hate for things to be…uncomfortable.”
Stop baiting him.
It’s hard not to when he is clearly jealous yet won’t admit it.
So, what if he is? It’s not like it matters.
Each of his fingers flex before curling back into themselves. “That’s fine.”
“Are you sure? You did try to choke him less than twenty minutes ago.”
“And I’d do it all over again if I heard someone talking about you the way he did.”
My heart beats harder against my rib cage. “Like what?”
“Like you didn’t matter to them.”
My control over the situation slips, along with the protective shell I keep around my heart. “Cal…”
This is exactly what I was afraid of if he came back. It was always easy to pick back up where we left off every summer, like no time was lost between us.
But we lost more than time over the last six years since he left.
We lost out on whatever future we might have had together.
He breaks eye contact first. “Whatever. It was stupid of me to get pissed. So long as he makes you happy, that’s what matters.”
This is the Cal I fell in love with. The selfless man who would stop at nothing to make me happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness in the process. It reminds me so much of how he was before the pills, alcohol, and lies.
Before the betrayal.
“I’m not dating Wyatt.” My confession rushes out of me.
His brows shoot up. “What?”
“He married Delilah almost a year ago. They’re celebrating their first wedding anniversary in September.”
“Wyatt got married to Delilah?”
I cross my arms against my chest. “Yup. I guess you were too busy trying to choke him out to notice the shiny wedding band on his finger.”
“Shit. You’re right.” His cheeks flush. “But if you aren’t with Wyatt…” His voice trails off.
“If I’m not with Wyatt what?”
He clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“You sure about that?”
He tips his chin up at me. “I’m sure. Night.”
“Good night.”
He stomps off the porch steps and disappears down the path toward the guesthouse.
What the hell was all that about?
I shut the door behind me and lean against it. My legs tremble beneath me, the weight of our conversation making me unsteady on my feet. If this is day one of Cal living here, I can’t imagine what’s to come.
I’m busy folding laundry upstairs in my bedroom when something heavy thuds above me, right where the attic is located. Cami knows better than to go up there, so that only leaves one person who could have caused such a loud noise. The same person who has spent the last three hours upstairs doing who knows what.
I haven’t seen Cal since he went up there with a single cardboard box. He only spoke five words to me, most likely because he was still upset after everything that happened with Wyatt yesterday.
A second crash, this time much louder, has me running for the stairs at the end of the hall. My lungs burn from exertion as I bolt up the steps two at a time.
I storm into the attic. It’s impossible to see much past the stacks of boxes nearly reaching the support beams.
“Cal?” I call out.
A groan from somewhere to my left has me working my way in that direction. The attic is a maze of boxes, chests, and containers, so it takes me longer than I’d like to find Cal laid out on the floor like a starfish.
He doesn’t move at the sound of my footsteps, although his fingers twitch at his sides. His eyes remain screwed shut as I kneel beside him and scan his body for any injuries.
“What happened?” I ask.
He doesn’t sit up. “I fell.”
“And you didn’t think to get up?”
“The room keeps spinning,” he slurs.
Concern has me jumping into action. Is he having a stroke? Or maybe something with his brain? “What—” My question is cut off at the sight of the half-filled bottle of premium vodka spilling out beside him.
Of course.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen this story play out time and time again with Cal, yet the sick feeling weaving its way through my stomach has me curling my hands into tight fists. Years’ worth of anger rises to the surface at the sight of him plastered on the floor, unable to sit up from how much alcohol he consumed.