Interview with Callum Gentry
Brushing past the sofa, I set down a tumbler of Woodford Reserve on the coffee table in front of Callum. I don’t usually offer beverages to my guests—not these kinds of guests, anyway—but I want to . . . Well, I want to impress this one.
Honestly, he came a bit out of nowhere. Just popped onto the scene, fully-fledged, with a story to tell. So I did what he asked of me, and maybe I went a little bit overboard with it all, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that Callum Gentry is a bit of an enigma. Ahem. He’s also the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
“You gonna take a seat?”
At the sound of his voice, I jump a little. “What?”
Hazel eyes meet mine, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s amused. He gestures to the sofa opposite him. “A seat,” he murmurs. “Unless you’re planning to conduct this interview standin’—which I can do, if that’s what you want.”
What I want is off the table because I am married.
An embarrassed smile pulls at my lips. “No. No, we can—”
“Sit down, Maria. You’re makin’ me nervous.”
Never let it be said that I don’t know how to follow an order. I plop down with all the regal dignity of a beached whale. “Do you even get nervous?” I ask, crossing my right leg over my left at the knee. “I thought you’d go through life like—” I wave a hand, searching for the right word.
One brown brow lifts. “An emotionless robot?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly.”
“How’d you put it?”
“I don’t . . .” I manage a small shrug. “Well, I don’t actually know.”
“If you’re not nervous, then you aren’t really living, are you?”
I study his posture—the inked hands that he has splayed across his muscular thighs, the casual slouch to his massive shoulders that imparts an air of devil-may-care nonchalance. Until you look into his eyes, that is, and realize that he’s not some aw-shucks country boy from down the bayou.
Those inked hands have delivered perdition.
And those massive shoulders have born more strife in thirty-three years than most people endure in their entire lives.
Wanting to put him at ease, I give a playful smile. “I didn’t take you for a philosopher.”
He reaches for the bourbon. “And I didn’t take you for someone who likes to beat around the bush.” Over the rim of crystal, his hazel eyes sharpen. “Ask me what you brought me here for.”
Dammit. I thought I’d have more time to—I don’t know—butter him up before we started this conversation. Or at least find a way to segue into the topic delicately.
“Maria.”
“Fine! Fine.” I throw up my hands. “Let’s talk about Remi.”
His gaze shutters. “No.”
I sit up tall. “What do you mean, no?”
“She’s off-limits.”
“In more ways than one.” The look on his face doesn’t give the impression that he appreciates my attempt at a little humor, and I let out an awkward laugh. “Okay, so that wasn’t funny, but—”
“It’s not happening.”
“But she’s the reason you’re here.” Shifting forward, I sit on the edge of the couch cushion and let my hands hang between my split thighs. “No offense, but people want to learn about you and her. Together. You’ve got to give me something to work with here, Callum. I can’t just go back to my readers empty-handed.”
“You ever want somethin’ that you know is bad for you?”
“Well, I—”
“Something that you can taste without ever having?” he goes on, his voice low. “Something you can feel without ever touching?”
I watch him swirl the expensive bourbon in the tumbler, though his gaze . . . His gaze remains pinned on me.
“Well?” he prompts. “Yes or no?”
I swallow, hard. Then admit, “Once. A long, long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“I married him,” I say simply.
His lips twist, and it’s not so much a sneer as it is a smile full of self-deprecation. “Guess I’m late to the party. Congratulations on the nuptials.”
“Callum . . .”
“Ask me anythin’,” he says. “Anything that won’t remind me of her.”
This isn’t going to plan. Not that I really had a plan, but if I did, this wouldn’t be it. Even so, I give in quickly. “Favorite place in the world?”
“Canada.” He pauses, as if he’s thinking something over, then adds, “Montreal.”
“What do you love about it?”
“Never been.”
I blink. “But then how is it your favorite place in the world?”
“Dream about something enough, it’ll become your favorite. Doesn’t matter if you’ve ever experienced it firsthand.” The way he downs the rest of his glass tells me that we aren’t discussing Canada anymore. Before I can press for more, though, he clears his throat and motions at me. “Next question.”
“Right. Um . . . You can have one meal for the rest of your life. What’s it going to be?”
“My mother’s jambalaya.”
Just like that, my heart squeezes tight with empathy. Goddamn this man. I’ve spent months with him, trying to understand how his mind works, kicking myself over and over again whenever I read him wrong. He never blamed me for messing things up for him. Never got angry. Simply pressed a hand to my shoulder and asked me to try again—to try harder.
And here I am, unable to stop myself from needling him for any bit of information.
“Do you miss her?” I hear myself ask.
“I miss what I remember.” A wry smile crooks the corner of his mouth. “Which, admittedly, isn’t much.”
“I’m sor—”
A cellphone ringing cuts me off. Shifting his empty tumbler to his right hand, Callum reaches into his pocket and answers without checking the Caller ID. Immediately, I know it’s not good news. His expression hardens. A moment later, he curses in Italian under his breath while sparing me a quick glance.
“Do you want me to . . .” I trail off when I realize that he’s not listening, his entire body straining like he wants to reach through the phone and throttle whoever is on the other end of the line.
“No,” he growls at the caller, shoving up from the couch. “You wait for me, you hear? Don’t you dare—sonofabitch.” Yanking his phone away from his ear, he stares down at the screen and releases a low, displeased sound. “I gotta go.”
I jump up from the couch. “Is everything okay?”
“No.”
“Well, was that—”
“Not right now, Maria.” He turns away, heading for the door.
“But was it Remi?” I call out after him, and I’m actually surprised when he stops moving to glance back at me over his shoulder. The worry in his expression says everything he won’t admit out loud, and I give a quick, panicked nod. “Will she be okay?”
His jaw stiffens and his gaze cuts away, but his words stay with me long after he’s gone:
“She doesn’t have a choice.”
Eeep, I can’t WAIT for you to dig into Made In Ruin! This bad boy is coming THIS Friday, on November 26th, and I hope you’re ready to have your world rocked.
Much love,
Maria