Page 40 of Forbidden Fruit
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately. God, she can be so dramatic.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I ask, forcing my smile wider. The iPad is angled so she can clearly see me.
“Because I know you. I practically raised you. You’re not fooling me with that fake smile. Seriously, Blair, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Do you need me to come home?”
Yes, but I don’t say it. She genuinely looks worried, and I know if I tell her to come back, she’ll drop everything and rush here. I take a breath.
“I’m fine, Abby. Really. Just a bit tired. I forgot to eat last night, and I’ve been working nonstop.”
“Blair, you have to eat something. And if making the dress is too stressful, please tell me. We can just get one already made. I don’t want you to overdo it.”
“No! I’m fine. It’s not stressful. I just need to eat something, and I’m planning on taking a break to head to Mom and Dad’s. Don’t worry about me.” I force the words out, not wanting her to think I can’t handle this. I actuallyamenjoying making her dress. If I do a good job and she wears it to her wedding, where there will undoubtedly be important people, it could be an opportunity for me.
“Are you sure? Because you don’t sound…”
“I’m sure.”
“Alright. Well, I was just checking on you. I have to go, but remember, I’m just a call away if you need me, okay? I love you, Blair.”
“I love you too,” I say, finally letting my smile soften, even if it’s still a little forced.
Once we hang up, I decide now is a good time for that break. So, I drag myself into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the ache lodged deep in my chest. When I’m done, I towel off, pull on some fresh clothes, and decide to head to my parents’ place.
But the second I open the door to my room, I freeze.
Orchid petals. A soft, winding trail of them scattered across the marble floor, curling around the corner and disappearing down the hallway.
My breath catches. My heart stutters. Did he…?
I follow them on instinct, barefoot and breathless, each step amplifying the hope I’ve been trying to bury. The path leads me straight to his room. The last time I stood here was also the first, and it ended in disaster.
I hesitate for a beat, then push the door open.
He’s standing by the bed, arms crossed, like he’s been waiting. Like he knew I’d come.
A crisp white shirt hugs his frame, just enough buttons undone to be dangerous. His tie is loosened and his suit jacket is draped neatly on the nightstand. He looks maddeningly composed, and yet his eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes, burn with something wild.
“H… hi,” I breathe, instantly hating how small my voice sounds.
He smirks and God, he smells like spice and something wicked. One inhale and I feel dizzy with need.
“What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing toward the petals.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Come here,” he commands.
I hesitate. “Calvin.”
“Come. Here.”
It’s not a question. My feet move before my brain can stop them, carrying me to him like gravity has finally won.
I stop a breath away, staring up at him, and before I can say a word, he speaks. “I’m not sorry I punched him. And if I ever see him again, I might do it twice.”
I blink, a laugh rising despite myself. “You can’t go around punching people.”
“If they put their hands on what’s mine,” he says darkly, “then yes. Yes, I can.”
That stops me. The heat in his words, the brutal certainty, rattles something inside me.
