Page 17 of The Other Side

“Your hair is short,” I blurt.

I shed a faint smile, my hand waving around his face.

“I haven’t seen it like this since we were thirteen. But now …” A nervous snicker leaves me before I gesture a finger to his jaw. “Now, you have all this facial hair. I-it’s so different.”

A smirk crawls over his lips, his eyes sinking past my shoulders. “Your hair is longer.”

I breathily laugh as my chin dips. My fingertips play with the ends of my locks, and I decide it’s safer to keep my attention here.

“Yeah, I’m not sure what I think of it just yet. I haven’t had time for a haircut recently. Between my job and keeping up with the house, I hardly have time to do anything nowadays. I know it needs a good trim, I swear I do. I just haven⁠—”

“I like it, Callie.”

My head perks up when my name rolls off his tongue. Tears knock the rear wall of my eyes, my chest slackening as the crook of his mouth curls up. And before I can ingest my next breath, I’m crashing into his arms.

I glue my cheek to his steel chest when he squishes me against him, and a single tear wrings free.

I’m free.

I’m free.

It’s like being liberated from an iron cage you could never break yourself out of. For ten years, I’ve been punished. Forced to tread the waters of our hiatus, never knowing when or if I was ever going to swim out of it.

But I finally have.

I’m home.

He found me.

Just like he said he would.

My eyes flutter closed when his rough palm cradles the back of my head. It’s not a provocative stroke, but a soothing one as his digits caress my scalp.

He always fixed me with a simple touch, and I guess it’s true what they say.

Some things never change.

“As much as I want to hold you, we should probably go inside.” His lips graze the hair at the top of my head. He inhales, and a shiver trickles down my spine. “I’ve been waiting to ask you a lot of things. Been waiting to listen to everything you have to tell me,” he murmurs.

I grin, nodding through a sniffle. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good. Really good.”

Chapter 7

Callie Rae

Warm wood meets polished concrete in the sleek, industrial space. Rows of gleaming taps line the rear of the bar, offering an extensive selection of craft beers.

I turn my head to Brant as we walk. “What do you think?” I ask, my palms meeting at my stomach.

The ambient lighting casts over his handsome face. It highlights the rugged contours as he pokes his attention around. “I think if the beer is good, I’ll have no problem returning.”

I briefly flip my hands out. “Once I realized you were an architect, I remembered my co-workers and I coming here a couple times. Figured it was a winner for your eye.”

“What do you do? I don’t know what you do,” he asks once we reach the bar.

My palm lays on the matte finish of the counter, and I tip my chin up to him. “I work in a middle school. I’m a child psychologist.”

Just as Brant shines his pearly whites, the bartender slips in front of us. I ask for the pale ale, and Brant orders the IPA before plucking a credit card from his wallet.