“No, it’s just…you said friend. You called me your friend.”
“Well, what was I supposed to call you?”
“I don’t…I guess I don’t know.” I laugh lightly. “Sorry. It’s just that—”
“That friends don’t do what we did, Billie? What I’d like to do again?” His blue stare, so intense and sexy, has me remembering our night together (not for the first time) because I’ve logged some serious minutes remembering our night together. While doing the quarterly reports for CSLV, for example. Or when working out the kinks on a song at band practice. But I digress. Back to Cal’s pseudo-questions I have no answer for.
Cal seems to accept my silence, and I decide I like the way he says my name. Very much.
Also, that fizzy crackle of energy between us is back, big-time.
That crackle of energy that never really left, I mean. The sexual tension’s been bouncing all night, making heat bloom between my legs. I run my fingertips over my forehead and blow out a long breath. Sexual frustration is a crazy thing.
“Where are you staying?” Cal asks.
“With my parents. In my childhood bedroom, which is a riot. But any minute away is a minute well spent. So, thank you. I’ve had fun tonight.”
“I’d invite you to stay with me, but we leave early in the morning for Oakland. I’d hate to kick you out.”
“Yeah, I need my beauty sleep,” I tell him, shrugging off the sense of rejection I’m feeling. “And so do you. You have to play hockey tomorrow. So, I’m gonna go home and you’ll go to your hotel, and we’ll avoid this getting any more awkward than it already is.”
“Is it awkward?” Cal looks genuinely perplexed. “I thought I was doing better than usual.”
“You’re perfect. It’s me. I’m being awkward. I’ll call you Saturday morning and we’ll figure out the party plans, okay? We need to get our story straight. My mom can spot a lie a million miles away.”
“And you said you’re a bad actress.” He gives me another shot of dimple that should be illegal.
“No, I said I hated acting, not that I was a bad actress. It’s you I worry about.”
“You should. I am not a good actor.”
“That’s truly shocking, Cal.”
He narrows his eyes and leans in, kissing me on the cheek, the hint of beard stubble pressing into my skin in a way that makes me want to shiver. “Take this next cab, Billie. I’ll talk to you Saturday.”
I blow a kiss as I hop into the back of the cab, giving the driver my family’s Malibu address.
He stands on the sidewalk as my cab pulls away, watching with all the intensity I’ve grown to recognize as classic Calum Lefleur.
I manage to get in the house and up to my room without being seen, but my mom pops her head in as I’m slipping on my pajamas after a shower.
“Where have you been all night?” It’s not a curious question or a light one. She expected me to be here, helping with party planning or something. Dorothea (aka Ditta) Hirsch never asks a question that doesn’t demand an answer.
“Out with my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend.” Not a question. Rather, a lead balloon hitting the ground with a loud thunk.
“Yep. I met him through work in Vegas. He’s a hockey player for the Crush.”
“Right.”
“He is,” I lie as easily as if it’s the truth. “He’s my plus-one tomorrow.”
“Billie,” my mother warns with a cock of her head and a widening of her eyes.
“Ditta,” I respond with as little emotion as I can muster.
“So, you never come home. Never visit the family. We know nothing about your life these days and yet you can just waltz in here with some man we don’t know? You have a boyfriend and you can’t be bothered to tell us that?”
“It’s new with him,” I say, raising a shoulder. “No big thing.”
“Big enough that you’re bringing him to your father’s birthday party.”
“No, I’m bringing him to Dad’s party because he’s in the area for a game and I wanted to actually have a good time.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“Billie, so help me…”
“So help you what? I don’t want to be dragged around meeting douchebag studio sons with appropriate backgrounds. I don’t want to be pimped out to Kit’s celebrity crowd either. I just want to have fun with my boyfriend.”
“Your hockey player boyfriend.” Again, not a question. She raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Who probably doesn’t have three brain cells in his empty jock head.”
“Actually, Cal could have gone to MIT. He’s super smart.”
My mother purses her lips. She looks like she ate a lemon. Just as she raises her index finger to start pointing or jabbing or whatever thing she’s about to do while informing me of all the reasons I should have told her I was bringing my “dumb jock of a boyfriend” to her fancy party, my father walks in.
“What’s all this ruckus?” he asks. “My baby girl is home for two minutes and already you two are bickering. It’s my birthday; can I call a ceasefire?”
“You certainly can, Dad.” I give him an air-kiss.
“We will have this discussion,” my mom warns as she leaves the room.
My dad winks as I mouth thank you when he shuts my door, leaving me to slump onto my bed, exhausted from the exchange.
It’s well after one in the morning, and I’m totally beat, but when FaceTime pops up with Stuart’s face, I answer.
“Yo, Stu. What up?”
“Well, I was going to see if you wanted to go get pancakes at an all-night diner like we used to do in high school.”
“That’s…really random.” High school feels like such a long time ago now, and these random requests are becoming a little more regular. Which is concerning.
“Is that a yes?
“Unfortunately, it is not. I’m not in Vegas. I’m at the Hirsch compound under strict house arrest.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s my dad’s big birthday bonanza weekend. Ditta has big plans. Huge.”
“Wow, and you didn’t call me in for backup? I’m wounded.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him I invited Cal as backup. Stuart is always my plus-one, which never freaks my mom out because she knows it’s not like that between Stuart and me.
“Are you wounded?” I ask, grinning. “Really?”
“No, not really,” he says. “Well, actually, a little. I thought I was your go-to man for awkward family events?”
“Don’t take it personally. I wasn’t even sure I was going to come.”
“That’s a line if I’ve ever heard one. You may be oil and water with your mom, but there is no way that you’re missing David Hirsch’s birthday.”
“There’s no getting anything past you, Stu.”
“Because I know you. What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing!” I laugh to try to prove the point.