47. Hope

After leaping onto Cal and smothering him in rabid affection it took me a minute for me to truly take stock of what was happening.

It wasn’t the romantic moment I had hoped for. He still smelt of that warm oak and cinnamon, his crazily rumpled messy brown curls immediately filled my head with images of washing him down in a huge bubble bath.

But his arms didn't wrap around me, pressing his body to mine. No swearing to never let me go again. Instead he stood stiffly, somehow taller. His abs and v-line as sharply defined as ever and when I kissed his cheek it had the same deliciously stubbled roughness I adored.

But everything felt strange. Foreign. He didn’t yield under my touch; he remained as immovable as a statue.

His hands rested on my hips, keeping me at a distance. His dark eyes were not fixed on me, but instead on the crumpled figure of my father. The atmosphere of the room was so strange I wanted to turn around, walk out and scream at them to try again. What the hell is happen