But he’d shown up at the cafe, hadn’t he?

I grabbed the closest thing to me, gripping the wooden stirring spoon in my hand as my feet dragged themselves to the front entry. Twisting the lock, I wrapped a fist around the knob and turned, opening the door an inch to see who it was.

My shoulders relaxed, my grip on the spoon loosening. “Callan?” 

He eyed the crack in the door, probably wondering why I wasn’t opening it further, then in less than a second, realization struck. Taking a step back, I pulled the door open wider.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He held a grocery bag up in his hand. “Figured you might want company.”

A crease formed between my brows. “What’s that?”

His eyes fell to the spoon in my hand. “Why do you have a spoon?” 

Dropping my gaze to the utensil, I twisted it in my fingers, momentarily having forgotten that I was even holding it. “I, uh, I thought you were someone else.”

His face fell, his hand that was holding the plastic bag falling to his side. “Sage…”

“I know, silly me. A spoon wouldn’t save me.” Nothing will.

He stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him, then folded himself around me. “Baby, you should’ve called me.”

But calling him would’ve let on to how scared I was, and in my experience, men either loved scared women or they hated them.

“I’m okay,” I lied. I wouldn’t be okay until he was behind bars, but even before, it took me years to stop looking over my shoulder. 

“You know you don’t have to lie to me,” Callan murmured, running his free hand down my back.

“I promise, it’s much better than the truth,” I told him.

The rough timbre of his voice vibrated through his chest, giving me the comfort I so desperately needed. “I only want the truth with you. No matter how bad it may be. Remember my rules?”

I inhaled deeply, a sense of calm washing over me now that Callan was here. How could I forget the rules he instilled in me that night in front of his mirror? Yet even then, he hadn’t demanded anything. He laid a path for me to follow if I chose to. 

Pulling back slightly, I looked at him. “Only truths, then.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Only truths.”

After he removed his lips from my skin, I looked down at the bag. “Did you buy me groceries?” 

He grinned, removing his hand from around my waist to grab the handle of the bag, holding it open. “I brought ingredients to make cinnamon rolls.”

Arching an eyebrow, I said, “Middle of the day craving?”

A blush heated his cheeks. “I wouldn’t say I was craving cinnamon rolls.”

The unspoken words clung in the air, tension radiating between us.

“Hmm. I wonder why you’d bring the makings for them, then,” I wondered out loud.

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I want you to teach me.”

I wanted to learn a lot of things from him, but Callan taking an interest in what I did and wanting to learn how to do it himself? My mouth would’ve dropped open if it wasn’t for me asking, “To bake?”

“Yeah. What else would you be teaching me with all of this?”

A warmth spread through my chest, crawling up my neck as I smirked. “How to have fun with it, too.”

***

“You want me to just wear this?” Callan asked, holding the fabric up in his hands.

I nodded.

“No boxers?”

“That’s up to you.”

I’d immediately dragged him down the hall to my bedroom and rifled through the dresser to find my spare apron. If this was supposed to be all about having fun and getting my mind off everything else, I was going to take advantage of it. I’d much rather have my attention on his body instead.

“Alright. Out,” he instructed.

“I don’t get to watch?”

He smiled, waving his hand at me to shoo. “You’ll get to see the final result.”

Watching Callan strip in front of me seemed a lot more enticing than the cinnamon rolls now.

“Go on. Close the door behind you.”

I let out a hmph and turned around, pulling the door shut and heading back to the kitchen. I’d debated changing into an apron myself, but kept my pajamas on instead. The shorts were a bit too short, the top a bit too flimsy, but I doubted Callan minded.

I got to work setting out all the ingredients we’d need for the recipe, aside from what he’d brought, as I waited for him to come out. Minutes later, the door down the hall opened.

I grabbed the cinnamon from the cabinet and turned to find Callan standing in the opening to the hallway with one arm propped up on the wall.

My jaw fucking dropped.

My cheeks had to be a million shades of red as I took him in.

“You actually did it,” I said, disbelief ringing in my tone.

“I did it for you, and if you tell anyone—”

“Oh, don’t worry. This is all for me.” All six-foot-whatever of him was mine tonight.

I eyed the apron slung around his neck, his broad shoulders exposed. His arms were fucking mouthwatering. Muscles like that should not be allowed. He was all toned, tanned, and delicious, and I wanted a taste.