Page 33 of Shades of Grey & Gold

I look at the coffee.

I finish it—begrudgingly—then toss the cup.

Then I take the stairs two at a time, because I need to shower and change and get to that office and find Callan Reed before the day starts. I’m going to tell him yes, call it a date, please, for the love of everything, call it a date.

Bart appears at the top of the stairs, wagging as I run up.

“I know we are late,” I tell him. “Come on, hurry, hurry!”

Chapter Thirteen

Max

BySaturdaymorning,Ihave learned three things.

One: telling Callan Reed that yes, he could call it a date, did not kill me, even though my nervous system seemed deeply committed to making me believe it might.

Two: once the worddateis out in the open, it becomes impossible to shove our time together into the little boxes labeled coffee, breakfast, lunch, dinner or two adults with unresolved history discussing wrongful convictions while pretending not to stare ateach other’s mouths.

And three: Bart is a traitor.

Because it’s barely seven in the morning on a Saturday and he is currently sitting by the front door, tail thumping against the wood floor like he’s waiting for someone.

“No,” I tell him as I walk into the kitchen in my pajama pants and Boston University sweatshirt, waiting for the coffee machine to decide for the second time if it deems me worthy of another cup. “Absolutely not. I am not taking you out right now, give me twenty minutes and one more coffee.”

I’ve been up since six-thirty because I love mornings. I would love to be mysterious and sleep until ten like a woman with interesting secrets. Instead, I open my eyes at sunrise and my brain starts making lists, and Bart expects a walk before most of the town has even realized the day has begun.

I set my cup down and walk to explain to the fluffy dog that he is waiting for nothing when the doorbell rings.

I freeze.

Bart does not freeze. Bart leaps to his feet like this is his expected development for the morning.

I eye him suspiciously and whisper, “Who did you invite over?”

He wags.

A soft knock on the door and my stomach dips. Because my body has learned recently that unexpected doorbells in the early morning hours can mean men from my past showing up with coffee to bring up emotional trauma.

I point my finger at Bart as I walk towards the door. “If it’s Patrick, you need to find a new home.”

Bart sneezes.

I pull the door open.

It is not Patrick.

Callan Reed stands on my porch holding two coffees, wearing a smile and looking entirely too awake and too handsome. He’s in dark jeans, a black thermal under an open jacket, hair a little less controlled than usual, curls falling forward like he doesn’t realize he’s weaponizing them. There’s a faint shadow under his eyes, but the curve of his lips lights up his face.

My heart does something stupid.

“Morning, Sims.”

I stare at him.

Then at the coffees.

Then back up at him.