“You big baby, it’s porridge with fruit and seeds. It’s good for you,” I say, offended, tugging the bowl to take it from him and spooning some in my mouth. Callan’s watching me fervently. “So what does one eat to be mountain-sized? Do you neck a cow at breakfast?” I joke. His shoulders are massive for starters, and those suits must be specially made for his frame.
Callan’s laugh bounces around the kitchen. He drops his head on a shake and looks up through his lashes. My mouthful of porridge threatens to choke me. Holy shit, he is beyond gorgeous. Dropping my gaze, I stare into my bowl.
“No cows,” he finally answers and yanks the bowl back, stealing the spoon from my hand and taking a scoop for himself. Slowly, the spoon disappears, and I see his tongue curve around the underside of the spoon before he pulls it away, leaving me gawking like a damn teen. He mulls the food over and nods at me. “It’s good.”
“I offered you a bowl. I don’t share.” I snatch the spoon back and stare at it, wondering if I should get a clean one. Callan seems intent on finding that out too,as he’s smirking at me. I drop the spoon back in the bowl and eat another spoonful, and as soon as I swallow, I sit back in my seat. “What brings you here at this ungodly hour?” It’s just past eight a.m., so hardly early, but he’s never made an appearance in the morning before. I don’t doubt he is an early riser. Callan is probably meticulous, organised, and routined.
“This is late. I’ve been up since five.” Just as I suspected.
“I bet you have.” I roll my eyes and continue with my breakfast. “Can I get you a drink?” I ask.
“You eat. Let me.” He gets up and moves around like he has been in here before. I watch him both with horror and confusion as he retrieves two glasses and makes us both an ice-filled glass of water. He knows my home like the back of his hand.
“Do you let yourself into my home and snoop often?” I ask with a glare. My spoon hits my bowl with a loud crack. Just how many times has he been here pulling open drawers and cupboards and looking through my life? I think of all the times I have been out, been busy, leaving him with the opportunity to walk around freely.
“No, once was enough to remember.” Totally unfazed, he takes the seat opposite me once more, and I have the sudden urge to scoop the porridge up and flick it at him.
“So I can’t enter your club, but you can walk on up here and do what the hell you like!” Oh, I am so mad. It was never okay that he allowed himself in here, but the fact that he has taken it upon himself to snoop through my personal belongings is worse. I’m about to say as much but stop myself. Nothing in this house is personal to me, and he is expecting a meltdown, so instead, I shrug my shoulders, swallowing my fury. “Whatever.” I sound petulant, young, and I imagine for once he can see our age difference. I am much younger than him. I have wondered countlessly about how old he is. Callan is far too formidable to be anything close to me in age. He is worldly, experienced, but not in any way like how I am; his life is on the cusp of every dark thought that has plagued me.
“How old are you?” I suddenly ask. I tuck my straight hair behind my ear and chew my lip, watching him back, trying not to seem hesitant and looking anything but.
“Thirty-six.” Wow. Thirteen years on me. I should possibly find that worrisome. Does he know how old I am? “Age doesn’t matter to me. We’re both consenting adults, Zara.”
I swallow the porridge. It’s thick in my throat.
“Some of those girls in your club looked pretty young,” I state sadly.
“They are all of age, and trust me when I say they have it far better in my club than where they came from.”
“That’s kind of awful,” I say softly.
“It is, but I prefer knowing they are safe within my four walls than victim to anyone else.”
“What if they wan—”
“I’m not here to discuss my club.Not all women are victims, Zara. They want to be there. They are talented dancers.” His tone is severe.
Blushing, I turn my head and reprimand myself for being so narrow-minded. I know not all men are likethem,but sometimes it’s hard to differentiate where Callan is concerned. I don’t peg him as the conservative type. He screams illegal.
“So why are you here, Callan?” I finish my breakfast, making a spectacle of cleaning my spoon in my mouth. He smiles darkly at me and takes the spoon back, and sucks on it, drawing it out of his own mouth with a pop. My heart gallops, soars, and I press my teeth into my cheek.He’s playing with you. Don't give in. Don’t react.The words whisper through my mind over and over. I should be petrified of this man, and I am, but not for the reasons I suspect others are. It’s something entirely different that has my heart palpitating and my mind racing away with thoughts that have no place being there.
He adjusts his suit and threads his fingers together, resting them on the countertop.
“I have a busy week. I wanted to see you.” He has a five o’clock shadow—a glaze of dark hair around his chin and throat. It adds a layer of roughness I’d not yet noticed from him. The tattoos and black stare, the dark suits, and offhand remarks make Callan Scott a hard man to fathom. Despite all of that, he is always impossibly clean, which just reminds me that he knows how to be untraceable—as though he has scrubbed any DNA away and is a walking apparition. He always appears in my home without being seen and leaves with little fuss; he is a ghost. Today he seems less put together. He hasn't shaved, and his usually seamless jaw is smattered with the darkest hair trying to break free. I’ve been gawking at him for far too long.
“Stare at me, more like. No gun?” I jest. He gives me a mild headshake and follows me as I move and deposit my bowl in the sink. I fill it quickly and dunk my hands in the soapy water. He locks me in again, but he keeps his distance. How does he manage such restraint? I want to fall back and feel the heat from his body enveloping mine. Is this another game? Does he torture victims like this, prolonging it as much as he can, drawing every ounce of energy from them before he finally moves in for the kill?
“Why don’t you ever touch me?” I whisper. Now is not the time to have this conversation. I am supposed to be meeting Miranda to go over my week before I leave for Greece.
“If I touch you, I won't stop,” Callan whispers.“If I touch you, I have to walk away. Are you ready for that, Zara? To say goodbye? I know I’m not.” My hands are shaking, my heart hummingbird quick. Oh, Jesus. No, I’m not, and what does that say about me.
I need to stop this. Stop him invading my life, taking ownership of most of my waking thoughts. I pull my hands free from the water and dry them, all the while aware he is a foot away from me. I don't worry about touching him as my movements have him stepping back. My elbow knocks his chest lightly, and I flick a look over my shoulder at him, waiting for any answer.
He moves and takes my chin, pulling me close to his face. His breath fans out and attacks my lashes, and I fight to keep my eyes open. I thought he said he wouldn't touch me.
“I thought you weren’t going to touch me,” I spit. I want his mouth. I want him to loosen his hold and sink into me. I want this man so completely that it mocks reason.
“You’ll know when I touch you, Zara,” he murmurs, his other hand lifting until my head is cradled in big hands whilst his thumbs run up and down my cheeks.