Chapter 9: Two Very Different Boys

Delaney

By Saturday afternoon, I had decided there was something deeply wrong with men.

Not all men. Probably.

But definitely the two currently making my life unnecessarily complicated.

Callan Reid had spent the entire morning flirting with me so shamelessly that even Harper had eventually thrown a pillow at his head.

Kellan Hayes, on the other hand, had barely spoken to me at all, and somehow that felt worse. Silence from him had a weight to it, like a closed door I kept walking past.

Movie night at their house wasn’t supposed to start until seven, but Harper had insisted I come over early. Apparently, “movie night” required approximately six hours of preparation. I still wasn’t sure what we were preparing for. The apocalypse, maybe.

Their house sat about ten minutes from campus, tucked into one of those older neighborhoods where enormous oak trees arched over the street and dropped golden leaves across the lawns.

The houses were far too grand for college students, with wide porches and tall windows glowing warm in the late light. I had questions. A lot of them. Especially when Harper swung the front door open and revealed a sprawling living room, a kitchen the size of my entire dorm floor, and enough bedrooms to house all seven of them comfortably.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “What kind of drug operation are you people running?”

Harper stared at me. Then she burst out laughing. “We don’t sell drugs.”

“That’s exactly what someone selling drugs would say.”

From somewhere deep in the kitchen, Jett shouted, “We prefer organized crime!”

Naomi yelled back, “Shut up!”

I grinned. Yeah. I liked this place. Too much, probably.

Harper hooked her arm through mine and dragged me inside, past the soft couches and the shelves crowded with mismatched books and framed photographs. The whole house smelled like garlic and warm bread and something faintly sweet.

“Come on. I need help picking snacks.”

“You need help opening bags?”

“No. I need emotional support.”

“For chips?”

“For decisions.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You love me.”

I opened my mouth to fire back, and then I stopped. Because I almost said yes. The realization hit me harder than it should have, a small warm jolt right in the center of my chest. I covered it quickly.

“We’ve known each other for like five minutes.”

“Still counts.”

She skipped off toward the kitchen, and I followed.

Callan leaned against the marble counter with his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, a knife flashing in his hand as he cut vegetables. Actual vegetables, bright peppers and glossy tomatoes, arranged in tidy piles across a wooden board. I stopped in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

He glanced up. “Cooking.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

I narrowed my eyes. He smiled. Callan had one of those smiles that made it very difficult to remember why you were irritated, warm and easy and slow to arrive, like sunlight spreading across a floor. It was dangerous in an entirely different way than Kellan.

“You cook?” I asked.

“Very well.”

Jett snorted from the far side of the kitchen. “Debatable.”

Callan flicked a piece of carrot at him. Jett caught it in his mouth without even looking. Show off.

Harper began digging through a pile of grocery bags, paper crinkling loudly. “Laney, tell Callan his pasta is overrated.”

“I’ve never had his pasta.”

Callan looked right at me, his dark eyes steady over the cutting board. “I can fix that.”

There was something about the way he said it. Too smooth. Too deliberate. Harper made a strangled noise beside me, and I ignored her with all the dignity I could muster.

“Are you asking me on a pasta date?”

Callan didn’t even hesitate. “Would you say yes if I was?”

Oh.

Well. That was unexpectedly direct.

Jett suddenly found the refrigerator extremely interesting. Harper stopped moving entirely, a bag of pretzels frozen in her hands.

I felt heat creep up my neck and settle across my cheeks. Callan watched me, patient and waiting. His expression was playful, but beneath the play there was something real, something quiet and honest that made my pulse skip.

“Maybe,” I said.

His smile widened. “That’s not a no.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.”

I shook my head and turned toward Harper before my face could betray me any further. Unfortunately, she looked absolutely delighted.

“You two are disgusting.”

“Nothing happened,” I said.

“Yet,” Callan added.

I flipped him off. He laughed, a low and unhurried sound that rolled through the kitchen.

God. This was bad. Very bad. Because I liked him. And I was starting to suspect he knew it.

An hour later, Harper sent me upstairs to fetch blankets from the hall closet.

The staircase creaked softly beneath my feet, and the upper hallway stretched long and quiet, lined with closed doors and lit by a single lamp that cast a honey colored pool against the wall. I was halfway down it when I heard a door open behind me.

I turned.

Kellan stepped out of one of the bedrooms.

Of course he did. Because apparently the universe had decided one attractive man wasn’t enough trouble for a single afternoon.

He wore dark jeans and a black shirt, his hair still slightly damp as though he had just come out of the shower, a few stray strands curling against his forehead. I hated how unfairly good he looked doing absolutely nothing. His green eyes settled on me, cool and clear as sea glass.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Brilliant conversation. Truly groundbreaking.

I pointed vaguely toward the closet. “Harper sent me for blankets.”

“Third door.”

“Thanks.”

I walked past him. Or tried to.

“Kellan?”

“Hm?”

I turned back. The hallway suddenly felt narrower than it had a moment ago. “Are you mad at me?”

His eyebrows drew together. “No.”

“You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m always weird.”

I almost smiled. “Different weird.”

He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m fine.”

There it was. The universal male lie. I folded my own arms in answer.

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

He stared at me for a long second. Then he looked away, toward the window at the end of the hall where the evening light was thinning to amber, and that bothered me more than it should have.

“Nothing.”

I sighed. “You’re terrible at conversations.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By everyone?”

“Mostly you.”

“Smart people.”

That finally earned the smallest hint of a smile, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Then his gaze shifted toward the stairs, toward the muffled laughter drifting up from below.

“Callan likes you.”

Oh. That was unexpected.

I tried to keep my face neutral. “Okay?”

Kellan looked at me again. “Just thought you should know.”

“I figured.”

His jaw tightened. Interesting. Very interesting.

“Does that bother you?” I asked.

“No.”

Way too fast. I raised an eyebrow.

“Kellan.”

“What?”

“You know you’re a terrible liar, right?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not lying.”

“So if I went on a date with Callan tonight, you wouldn’t care?”

His entire expression changed. His shoulders stiffened, and his mouth flattened into a hard line, and suddenly I felt as though I had stumbled across something I was never supposed to find.

“I didn’t say that.”

I stared. 

“Why would you care?”

He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch me. Just close enough that I became painfully aware of how much taller he was, of the warmth that seemed to come off him, of the faint clean scent of soap and cedar.

“I don’t know yet.”

My heartbeat stumbled. That was not the answer I had expected. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, and then it returned to my eyes, darker now, and far more serious.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m figuring it out.”

I swallowed. “Kellan...”

“Hey!”

Harper’s voice echoed up the stairwell, bright and carrying. “Did you two fall into the linen closet?”

I jumped. Kellan didn’t. He simply stepped back, and the moment shattered like a dropped glass.

“I should get the blankets,” I muttered.

“Probably.”

I turned away, my face burning. My hand had just closed around the cool brass handle of the closet door when he spoke again.

“Delaney.”

I looked back. He hesitated, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Be careful with Callan.”

My stomach tightened. “Why?”

“Because he gets attached.”

I stared at him. “And you don’t?”

Something unreadable crossed his face, quick and shadowed. “No.”

For some reason, that answer disappointed me. Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. I barely knew him.

“Good to know.”

I pulled open the closet, and the smell of cedar and clean laundry rolled out to meet me. His voice came quietly from behind.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t.”

I froze.

By the time I turned around, he was already walking away down the hall, his footsteps soft against the wood.

Asshole.

Movie night began with an argument over what to watch. Obviously.

Jett wanted horror. Harper wanted romance. Naomi wanted everyone to shut up. Rhys claimed he didn’t care, which somehow translated into criticizing every single suggestion.

The debate raged on for a full twenty minutes, punctuated by thrown popcorn and dramatic sighs. Eventually, we settled on some terrible action movie involving explosions, spies, and a plot nobody understood.

I ended up squeezed onto the couch between Harper and Callan, a soft blanket draped over our laps. Kellan sat in an armchair across from us, half in shadow, lit only by the flicker of the screen. Which would have been perfectly normal. Except I kept catching him looking at me. And every time I did, he looked away.

At one point, Callan stretched his arm along the back of the couch behind me. Smooth. Very smooth. I glanced at him, and he smiled with perfect innocence.

“Comfortable?”

“Are you?”

“Very.”

Harper made an exaggerated gagging noise. “Please flirt quieter. I’m trying to watch this incredibly realistic car chase.”

I laughed. Callan leaned closer, and his voice dropped low enough that only I could hear it.

“You know, the pasta offer still stands.”

I kept my own voice soft. “Is this actually a date?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No pretending. No stupid games. I liked that more than I wanted to admit.

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

I thought about it while an explosion lit the room orange and gold. Then I smiled.

“Okay.”

His eyes lit up. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

He looked ridiculously pleased with himself. And despite everything, I was pleased too.

Until my gaze drifted across the room.

Kellan was already looking at us. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone. Then he stood.

“I’m getting air.”

He crossed the room and slipped out through the front door, and it closed behind him with a quiet click. Callan sighed beside me, long and low.

I looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Oh, absolutely not. I pointed between him and the door. “You two need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Saying nothing when it’s obviously something.”

Harper started laughing. Callan rubbed a hand over his face.

“So?”

He glanced toward the door, and then back at me, and for a moment the easy charm slipped from his features and left something gentler behind.

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have right now.”

I narrowed my eyes. Callan smiled, soft and a little rueful.

“Sunday. Seven?”

I stared at him for another long second before giving up. “Seven.”

“Good.”

The movie rolled on in a haze of gunfire and dramatic music. Twenty minutes later, Kellan came back inside, bringing a breath of cold night air with him.

He didn’t look at me. I told myself I didn’t care. Then I spent the rest of the movie wondering why that was such an obvious lie.

When I finally left, a little after midnight, Callan walked me to my car.

Kellan had offered first. Callan had beaten him to it. That had led to a thirty second stare down in the front hall that Harper loudly referred to as “National Geographic bullshit.”

I was still laughing about it when Callan opened my car door, the hinges squeaking in the quiet street.

“Tomorrow,” he reminded me.

“Seven.”

“Don’t cancel.”

“Bossy.”

“I prefer enthusiastic.”

I rolled my eyes. “Goodnight, Callan.”

“Night, Laney.”

I climbed in and settled behind the wheel. Before closing the door, I glanced back toward the house.

Kellan stood on the porch, one shoulder against a pillar, a dark shape against the glowing windows. Watching us. Again.

I should have been annoyed. Instead, my stomach did something stupid and fluttering.

Callan followed my gaze. For the briefest second, his smile disappeared, and something wary and tired flickered across his face. Then it was gone, and he looked back at me.

“Drive safe.”

“I will.”

He shut my door gently. The engine hummed to life, and I eased away from the curb, the headlights sweeping over the sleeping lawns. As I pulled down the street, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

Callan remained near the driveway, hands in his pockets. Kellan remained on the porch, still as a statue.

Two completely different men. Two completely different kinds of attention.

And somehow, against every ounce of common sense I possessed, I was beginning to want both.

That was going to become a problem.