Home > Newest Books > Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)

Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)
Author:Krista Ritchie & Becca Ritchie

Lo whispers in the pit of my ear, “You doing alright?”

He means about sex. In stressful situations, I cope with sex—but everyone already knows this by now, unless you like to skip our sad stuff.

“I think I’m overthinking,” I say honestly. I’m clutching onto his bicep, basically saying don’t let go of me.

He doesn’t.

But he does kiss my temple and then straightens up, holding me tighter.

The elevator dings, and we slide inside. He pushes one of the buttons, and the doors shut, finally granting us a sliver of privacy.

I face him and grab onto his belt loops again. “I can’t believe that happened…pinch me.”

He pinches the skin on my elbow.

“Ouch.” I wince and rub my arm. “Why can’t this be a dream?”

“Come on, Lil. You wouldn’t want this in your dream. There are no cocks or mind-blowing orgasms.”

He’s right. “You’re so right.”

His gaze finds my swollen eye again. “Next episode of We Are Calloway, I’m speaking about this fucking idiot—see how he likes to be called the dick-thrower for the rest of his life.”

The docu-series reminds me of Daisy, and for about five months, my first incoming thought attached to my little sister has been Daisy is alive.

My eyes start welling.


Daisy is alive.

I wasn’t certain I’d ever see her again. She almost died giving birth, and that day in the hospital hit all of us like a comet slamming into Earth. Rose, the backbone of our sisterhood, was inconsolable. I couldn’t speak. I remember feeling like someone destroyed a link in my life. I’d spent my high school and college years pushing my sisters away, and now I could barely function at the thought of Daisy being ripped away.

I blink back tears. Before Lo notices my glassy gaze, I sweep out the morose thoughts and try to recall what he said. The docu-series. We’ve only released one episode of our new docu-series so far, but all the articles have been positive since it aired. We’re all eager to film more soon.

“All the other fans were nice outside.” A girl started crying when I smiled and complimented her poster. As though my acknowledgment of her existence made her year. I never thought I could bring someone that level of happiness.

It felt good.

Lo wraps his arm across my shoulders, and we watch the numbers increase on the elevator monitor. Swanky jazz music plays softly, and my mind starts taking detours.

I wonder, “You’re not going to be embarrassed to have me walk through your offices, right?”

Lo looks at me like I’ve grown antennas.

“I mean,” I say quickly, “it’s just that I’ve obviously been punched.” I point to my face. “And in a few minutes, the news will relay how it was a penis that punched me. Not to mention, I’m your wife, so all of your employees will see me and be thinking his wife was just punched by a penis.”

The elevator suddenly halts, and the doors spring open. A forty-something man in a suit and two women in business-casual dresses stand on the other side. Waiting.

Lo says bitingly, “These are taken.” He taps the closed doors button incessantly, and when they shut, he hits the stop elevator button.

My eyes widen like he’s the crazy one here. “Now they’re going to think we’re having sex on the elevator.” The fact that I’m a sex addict is so much a part of me that I don’t shy from it anymore. I only care because I don’t want to make it harder for Lo to be respected by his colleagues. I know none of us can escape gossip, but I just want to be a positive force in his life.

As Lo looks at me and as I look at Lo, I see the little boy who chased me around my family’s parlor. I see the teenager who relentlessly teased me, who stuck his tongue in my ear. Who pinched my cheeks. Who said mean things after drinking bourbon. Who held me as I fell fast asleep.

I see my best friend.

With his sharp features and daggered gaze, he snaps, “First of all, no one is thinking his wife was just punched by a penis.”

“I am.”

He cocks his head. “You’re Lily Hale. Ninety-nine percent of your thoughts are certified original.”

I smile. “What about the one percent?”

“That’s when you and I are thinking the same thing.” He draws me to his chest, his hands on my shoulders.

His strength courses through vital parts of my soul, and I inhale a heartier breath. We’re so much better together than we are separate. I wouldn’t have said that at our beginning, but now, it’s truer than anything I know.

“Secondly,” he says with that familiar edge to his voice, “you did not get punched by a penis. Some dipshit threw it at you. And it was fake.”

“Solid point.” I nod and then cringe. “I do feel kind of badly though. Like, your dick has been the only one to touch my face in so long and…”

He’s glaring. The type of Loren Hale glare that could wither ancient gardens and set fire to cities. “No, you did not cheat on me with that thing.” He pauses for a second and then reaches into his pocket. “Do you need to call your therapist? Because if you feel violated, Lil, then this is a whole other issue.”

I frown. Do I? “Maybe later.” Dr. Banning has a way of putting everything into perspective, and after seven years, she’s been a trusted ally. “I think I could use some cold peas for my eye though. That’s what you use when you get punched.”

He wears this pained look like I’m hurt, not just physically. “Lil—”

“I know I didn’t get punched, but it sounds cooler than having something thrown at me.” I’m dealing with this my way, and it’s not a bad way—it’s just the Lily way. The good news: our son is with my parents right now, so he didn’t get hit in the crossfire. This is what I care about most.

“Okay.” Lo gives in. “Then you got punched, but I’m not calling it a penis.”

“A dildo?”

He cringes. “Lets call it the thing. We don’t need to give that shitty fuck a creative name for his weapon.”

I test it out. “I was punched by the thing.” I like it. “Sounds better.”

“Thirdly.” There’s a thirdly? He pauses for a short moment, his gaze roaming my features, and then he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “There is absolutely nothing you could do or say or anything that could happen that’d make me embarrassed to be your husband.” He shakes his head and repeats, “Nothing.”

I sniff, trying to restrain incoming tears. I put my hand to my burning eye, pain increasing. “Don’t make me get all emotional.”

“Well don’t get so down on yourself.”

“Fair enough.” I feel time ticking by now, especially since people are waiting for us in his office and whoever needs to use this elevator. “Are we good?”

“Not yet.” He bends down a little, and before I locate my brain, his lips are on mine. The surprise kiss jolts me, but as the shock wears off, I sink into the embrace. My hands wrap around his shoulders, and I rise to the tips of my toes, intensifying the kiss. My eager body curves against his, and our tongues skillfully tangle together.

He grips my hips, one large hand edging towards my ass.

Squeeze it again. My mind pleads.

Instead, he swiftly tugs my body further against his, the kiss deepening. A moan catches in my throat, and I tremble, heat building between us.

He breaks apart. “Now we’re good.” His lips are a little pinker and more swollen.

I touch mine, stinging from the quick force. What a tease.

I eye Lo greedily: the few brown strands hanging in his eyes, his hair shorter on the sides, his cheekbones—yes those cheekbones that I will mention from here until eternity. You would too if you saw them.

It’s not even his appearance. It’s the way that he keeps glancing over to me as he presses the elevator button. It’s the way his pinky hooks with mine, just for a second, before he full-on cups my hand. It’s the way he spent all this time giving me a pep talk—when I know tomorrow, I’ll be there to give him one if need be.

It’s the way he feels like another extremity of myself. Like a huge, overwhelming part of me.