Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  The traditional, Tudor style home was revealed from the horizon like a hidden gem. The grand beauty had a sort of white elephant appeal, situated on the periphery of commercial real estate, only slightly removed from the bustling congestion a block away.

  “This is where you live?”

  Gabled dormers and lead framed windows attested to its genuine age. It must get drafty as hell in the winters. But Callan probably didn’t mind the cold, being from a place that never got hotter than sixty degrees. The stone façade likely kept it cool in the summers as well.

  He glanced at her, a strange, perhaps nervous, set to his eyes. “Aye.”

  “It’s stunning. How many tenants are there?”

  “Tenants?”

  “It’s apartments, right?” It had to be. It was far too large for one man, too costly for a bartender. Unless he’d inherited it.

  “No apartments. It’s my home. My house.”

  She gaped at him, her eyes drawn back to the sprawling front of the stone house. “You own this?”

  His hands clenched the wheel, and he nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  How? “You bought it?”

  He glanced at her, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. “Do ye not like it?”

  “Callan, it’s lovely. I just...” She was being rude. She wanted to understand how a man who worked as a bartender at a local hotel could afford something so grandiose. “What made you buy it?” Maybe he’d won the lottery.

  “I liked the stone. Like the story of the three wee pigs. Stone’s safe.”

  She frowned. That wasn’t the sort of answer she expected. But she smiled at the simplicity of it.

  He parked by the front door, beside a blue Toyota. The car was unfamiliar and not anything she recalled him driving.

  “Does someone else live here with you?” It might not be an apartment, but it made sense for him to have a roommate in such a big place.

  He shut off the car. “Aye.”

  He removed the key, closing his fist around the metal and sinking his hand to his lap. His gaze lowered and they just sat there.

  “Callan?” Had he changed his mind? “Is something wrong?”

  He swallowed, the dry sound of his throat clicking in the silence. “I’ve never brought someone te my home before.”

  Her mouth circled a silent “Oh.” Now she was nervous. “If you want to go back to my place, we can.”

  He glanced at her then. “I want you te see where I live.”

  “O—okay.” She believed him, but there was something he wasn’t telling her. “You don’t have to be nervous, Callan. I’m already in love with this place.”

  He took her hand and squeezed. His palms were warm. “I’m not legally in the States, Em’ry.”

  Now his hesitation made more sense. She laughed. “Do you think I’d report you?”

  He studied her face, a soft smile turning his lips. “I cannae go back te Scotland. There’s nothin’ for me there. And I think it would kill me te leave this country. Te leave you.”

  Her heart skittered. Leaning across the cup holder, she pressed her lips to his cheek. “I think it would kill me if you left,” she whispered, dropping back into her seat.

  His fingers rushed to the place she’d kissed, and he blinked at her. Kissing was new, but it felt right. He’d somehow managed to appear as nervous as she was about it, and that had a way of leveling the playing field.

  And despite his size and strength, he never frightened her. On the contrary, he made her feel safe and utterly protected. She trusted him completely.

  “I want to know everything about you, Callan,” she confessed softly, hoping her desire didn’t frighten him. “I don’t understand this connection I feel toward you, but ... it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever felt.”

  His lashes lowered, his eyes darkening like wet denim. “Dinnae look too hard, love. Ye might not like what ye find.”

  “I like everything I’ve found so far.”

  His shoulders lifted as he breathed. The stillness of what seemed forced composure no longer disarmed her as it once had. Callan was a thoughtful man, who moved with measured actions, seeming to always weigh the waves he might spread into the world. His patience was born of a care for others.

  “There’s....” His lips pressed tight. “You’ll see when we get inside.”

  He exited the car and came around to her side just as the front door of the house opened, a woman with long, raven black hair and a slender body emerged from the shadows.

  She looked at home. Barefoot and in cozy clothes. Emery knew immediately she lived there—with Callan.

  Insecurity trembled up her spine as Callan led her up the front steps. “Em’ry, this is Elspeth. Elspeth, this is Em’ry.”

  The closer she fell into her orbit the more intimidating the woman’s beauty became. “Callan’s told me so much about you,” Elspeth said.

  Strange, because Emery hadn’t known she’d existed until this very minute. She nodded shyly and followed the woman inside. Her accent put a timestamp on her relationship with Callan, dating back to his time in Scotland and jealousy slammed through her.

  Callan’s thumb rubbed softly against the back of her hand, soothing her nerves, but then he let go. A squeal pealed from the other room, reverberating in the acoustics of the open entryway, startling Emery.

  She gasped as a young child, a little girl, with waves of ebony curls raced into his arms. Her little body catapulted off the ground, flung by trust, and he scooped her up in a way that made Emery yearn for someone to always catch her so unflinchingly, so reliably.

  Whoever this child was, she obviously adored Callan.

  “And this is Uma,” he introduced, clutching her little body to his.

  “I painted a picture of a ladybug!” The brash yet dainty Scottish lilt that belted out of her melted something inside of Emery.

  Bright green eyes stared up at Callan—contrasting with his blue eyes. But there was no mistaking their shared lineage. The child’s dark hair matched his and Elspeth’s. And while his nose wore the markings of a few boyhood scuffles, the narrow shape of it matched hers.

  Emery’s focus skipped to the other woman’s face, noting her thin bone structure and finding no resemblance aside from their dark hair.

  Callan had a child. The realization settled over her with unexpected ease. And as he clutched the little girl to his hip, her eyes glittering like tinsel as she prattled on about her painting of a ladybug, Emery could see how deeply he adored her.

  His gaze drifted to her, the proof of his affection for the little girl radiating from his smile. His lips firmed, but nothing could hide his adoration for the people in this room—people she had no clue existed.

  “Hi there,” she finally greeted. “I’m a friend of your daddy’s.”

  Her elfin features creased, and Emery immediately regretted her assumption.

  “Uma’s my niece.”

  “Oh. I just assumed... You look alike.”

  The girl appeared around the age of five. Was Elspeth his sister? That would be a relief.

  “This is Em’ry.”

  “Pleased te meet ye, Em’ry.”

  Elspeth stepped forward and lifted Uma out of Callan’s arms. “We still have a few lessons te finish so we’ll leave you two alone.”

  A thousand questions raced through her head as she watched them leave. The details of the house now an afterthought.

  Dark tones, rich fabrics, and antique furnishings washed away as she stared at Callan. “Your niece?”

  He flushed. “I’m her guardian.”

  “And ... Elspeth?”

  “Uma’s au pair. And a trusted family friend.”

  The way he inserted the word trusted made her believe he didn’t apply it to others easily. It made her crave his trust all the more.

  “What happened to Uma’s parents?” Perhaps he had an estranged brother or sister.

  “Gone.” The single word cleaved through the air, cutting off any further questions.r />
  “I’m sorry. Your brother?”

  “My sister. And my best friend.”

  A hundred questions craved answers, but she sensed this was a subject he didn’t like to discuss. “Will you give me a tour?”

  He nodded and took her hand. The weight of his fingers entwining with hers sent heat blooming in her chest.

  He led her through an open room, so large the furniture seemed an afterthought to the architecture. Cascading shelves climbed the walls, covered in cloth spines and hardback classics.

  “You have so many books.”

  “They came with the house.”

  How did one afford all this on a bartender’s salary? The question echoed with every glimpse of luxury.

  While some women might find this level of wealth alluring, Emery found it intimidating. She’d assumed they were the same, financially speaking, but now she questioned all the times he’d been to her house. What he must have thought of her second-hand lamps and trash picked end tables.

  “Callan,” she said quietly, trying to take in all this opulence. “You’re rich.”

  He looked at her as though she told a lie. “Material possessions don’t measure a man’s worth. I’ve met men with twenty-times as much, but they were broke from a bankrupt soul. I dinnae have as much as ye assume.”

  Yet this place had to be worth over a million dollars. “What did you do before you were a bartender?”

  His glance turned away. “I fought for money.”

  “Like boxing?”

  “Aye. Sort of. A wee bit grittier.”

  “You must have been very good.”

  “I was undefeated. But in the end, I lost everything that mattered.”

  The humble sadness of his words tugged at her heart. She noticed a pattern. Every time Callan opened up and unveiled a secret about his private life, it came with a painful truth.

  He seemed no stranger to adversity. His sister, Uma’s mother, was gone—along with his best friend. It must have been a tragic accident. He spent the first half of his life fighting and lost everything important to him. His journey had definitely taken a toll on him, but it made him who he was today.

  Under the vaulted ceilings and high wood frames that swallowed her, he towered like a gentle giant. His fragility shook her to the core, beautiful and precious, something to guard close to her heart.

  Dust particles danced in rays of light seeping from the large windows. An enormous desk, not from this century or the last, sat in the center of the room facing the mammoth fireplace. Did he sit there?

  Her fingers trailed over the corner, wanting to touch everything he put his hands on in a typical day. She wanted to feel him through the objects he held.

  She inspected the books lining the lower shelves, but not all titles were written in English. “What language are these?”

  “French, I believe. Some might be German.”

  “Do you speak French or German?”

  He smirked. “I have a hard enough time gettin’ people te understand my English.”

  She laughed. “I love the way you speak.”

  His eyes lit. “Ye do?”

  She loved everything about him. Her gaze fell on familiar red leather, and she stepped closer. Nothing written on the soft spines.

  “These are yours.” His journals. At least two dozen. She dragged her fingers over the spines, deeply curious about what hid inside.

  “Your fingers are teasin’ over my most private thoughts, love.”

  She stilled and pulled back her hand. “Oh.”

  “Would you like somethin’ to drink?”

  Worried she might be intruding on more than his thoughts, she eagerly left the library and followed him to the kitchen. Ornate, wooden cabinetry covered the walls, but the appliances were state of the art.

  “Em’ry?”

  He caught her staring. More than staring. She’d never been inside such a house, and her face seemed set on ogle. “Sorry. This place is just ... unexpected.”

  “Things, love. They’re just things.”

  “But this is a part of you.” And she didn’t recognize these parts. A strange panic to know all of him climbed into her chest.

  Callan’s quiet mannerisms led them back to the library. Sitting beside him on the oxblood leather couch, she clutched her glass of iced tea in both hands, body perched on the edge of the cushion, knees drawn together.

  “Does it make ye nervous bein’ here with me, love?”

  Her stare lifted from the overwhelming collection of books and turned to him. “I’m never nervous around you—not in a bad way.”

  “But in some way?”

  Concerns churned, and she pushed out a shaky breath, nodding. The back of his index finger made a slow glide along the top of her hand, and she watched the gentle way he touched her, fascinated.

  Shallow breaths tightened her lungs as heat swirled low in her belly the way it hadn’t swirled in a long time. Flecks of emerald and sapphire danced in the icy blue seas of his eyes. And she was lost, drowning in an ocean of Callan.

  “What has ye thinkin’ so hard?”

  Transfixed, she stared at him. She coveted his secrets, wanted to know every part of him. Why he sometimes looked as though sorrow had swallowed parts of him and he’d always be somewhat incomplete. How he looked like a rugged warrior with a first-hand account of hell but spoke like an eloquent poet and acted like a guardian angel.

  “I want to know you, Callan. I want to know all of you, and then I want to learn the parts of you that you’ve yet to learn.”

  An invisible force field fell over his face, shielding his expression in an imperceptible veil, couture and well-worn. And while he barely moved, she saw in his stillness that he tried to hide from her.

  She placed her glass aside and turned to face him on the leather sofa. His hands were cold when she took them in hers—chilled.

  “I’m not asking you to tell me anything you don’t want to share. I just want you to know the curiosity’s there. More than curiosity.” Her gaze dropped to her lap. “So much of what’s inside of me feels broken. But when I’m with you, the jagged edges don’t seem so sharp and the hurt sort of subsides. When we’re apart, I long for you to come back, I count the hours, and then I count the minutes. And I feel you before I see you.”

  She swallowed against the sense of self-imposed exposure but pushed more truth out. “I’ve never felt that way about anyone before. You settle the riot inside of me, but at the same time, you start something even wilder.” Her palm lowered, flattening over her belly. “I feel you here, with every breath. An ache I can’t soothe.”

  Her eyes prickled against the sharp pinch of tears, but they weren’t tears of sadness or fear. They were tears of truth, the brutal honesty she’d buried for so long now slipping out. And her body mourned the passing of the words, knowing the second she let them go she’d never be able to draw them back again.

  “I’m in love with you, Callan. I’ve been secretly in love with you since...”

  He severed their eye contact, and she dropped his hands when he gave the slightest pull. His shoulders rocked with audible, insubstantial breaths.

  “Dinnae love me, Em’ry.”

  Her chest pained as if a knife delivered the command. The request stabbed into her most tender parts, gutting her courage and humiliating her.

  “Oh,” she breathed, perhaps because she could think of nothing else to say, or maybe the word fell out as the hurt pushed in. She’d massively misread the situation. Or had she? “I thought...”

  Her gaze combed the vintage carpet, seeking an anchor that wasn’t there. The kiss at the hotel was only a kiss, not a relationship. Just like when he touched her before, he reached for her only to pull away. Now, the gulf between them stretched like a vacant land of barren hopes.

  She glanced out the lead-paned windows. Laden clouds gathered over a huddle of kelly green hills in the distance, bloated with dreary grays. A storm was coming. She hated driving in the rain.


  “Maybe I should go.” But she hadn’t driven. He’d brought her here, and she was trapped. Trapped like a girl who walked into the wrong bathroom. Or was this worse? She couldn’t recall a pain so sharp. His rejection of her greatest secret punctured the last of her confidence. “I have to go home.”

  She stood, and he caught her hand. “Em’ry wait.”

  Her frantic breathing cluttered the quiet library with ineloquent sounds that didn’t belong. “It’s okay, Callan. I get it. I...” She stared at his shoes, recalling the way it always came down to shoes. Her gaze tore away as she recalled another man’s shoes walking away from her as if she were no more than trash. “I’m ... baggage.”

  He jerked her arm—harder than expected—and she dropped to the sofa cushion. Her eyes flew to his, panicked by his palpable frustration. “Ye. Are not. Baggage.”

  Her vision blurred. She didn’t need his pity or coddling. She was a grown woman, and she’d put herself out there too soon.

  Her frivolous attempt to form an intimacy with the man she loved and somehow outsmart the physical now seemed like the stupidest, half-hatched plan in the world. Of course, she wouldn’t be enough for a man like Callan MacGregor.

  “I think you should take me home now.”

  His eyes searched hers. Soft winds murmured against the glass. A stronger gust pushed the antique windows against the frames like a sail filling with wind. Seeking sanctuary, she turned her gaze to the darkening sky, resting heavily on the horizon. That looked like a good place to hide.

  “I dinnae want ye to love me because I ken the moment ye do I’ll not be able to save ye from myself anymore,” he whispered, his words so low they competed with the sighing wind.

  Her eyes slowly returned to him. He stared at her in stark, masculine simplicity.

  “What?”

  Deep regret stole over his eyes and his mouth pressed into a tight line of worry. The scent of rain tickled her nose. Then came the heavy downpour against the glass.

  She actively tried to listen harder, to not miss whatever he might say, but his lashes dropped, and his brow pinched. So much pain and she didn’t understand why.

  “Callan, please...” She needed to understand what he meant. “Why would you have to save me from yourself?” Didn’t he know he was her hero?