by Ev Bishop
Jo propped the two fishing rods she’d brought “just in case” against a stack of driftwood, then leapt lightly onto a big rock about three feet away. She held her arms out and leaned her head back. Callum could almost feel her pulling the clean, cool wet air into her lungs, and he inhaled too.
She pivoted to face him, feet still planted on the rock, and grinned. “So what do you think? Isn’t it glorious? Your own private river and wildlife adventure. All the best salmon run here with the changing seasons, Coho, Springs, Sockeye, Pinks—and Rainbow trout too, my favorite.
It’s magical. That’s what he wanted to say, or something equally lame—but he wasn’t able to speak right away.
Jo’s ecstatic expression faded and a blush heightened the color in her already pink-with-the-wind cheeks. She hopped off the rock.
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing, nothing. I’m just making inner notes. Does it have boat access from the road, a ramp or something?”
Jo chewed her lip and her toe nudged a black-ringed stone out of its hole in the sand—a nervous habit he, again, remembered from their youth. When she met his eyes, her own were serious. “Yep. Boat access from the highway and directly from the main driveway. You know where you parked?”
“Yes?”
“Well, if you’d gone to the left of the pole shed, there’s a lane that meets up with the road to the ramp. And the best thing? The ramp’s maintained by the Department of Highways.”
“Because there’s a small settlement of people on the other side of the river.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I keep forgetting you’ve been here forever, that you know all the exciting little places I’ve forgotten—or never learned about while I was here.”
I’m an outsider. Different than you. I see things in new ways. She might as well have put up a banner—except she wasn’t saying any of those things intentionally and he knew it.
She picked up the rock she’d dislodged and put it in her pocket.
He smiled at the romantic, sentimental gesture—but her tone was all business now and that was his fault. He was sorry for it.
“Two boats come with the property, just simple aluminum things, but the motors are in good shape, and I used to work for a guy who did small engine repair. I can maintain them, no problem.”
Callum consciously fought to keep his jaw from dropping. What kind of life had she lived? Working in a rewind shop, running her own restaurant? Hadn’t she gone to school like everyone else? “You did? You can?”
Jo shrugged. “Yes, but a lot of sport fisherman prefer fishing off the bank or wading into a prime spot—and there are plenty of those around here.” She hefted the rods, turned back toward the trees, then hesitated. “Actually”—she moved decisively left—“let’s take the road back. It’s not as pretty, but it’s more practical.”
The return walk went quickly because they kept a good pace. Jo didn’t leave any quiet spaces in the conversation for idle looking about, or pause to point out whimsical details. By the time they reached the house, he had a good idea of how many tourists the area attracted, what the peak months were, how many visitors were just general holiday-takers, how many were drawn specifically to fish or hunt, and how many were business people. She also discussed, for reasons he didn’t understand at first, what the local arts community was like.
“There’s a lot of potential here for retreats or small conferences or workshops,” she explained.
“I’m impressed. How’d you find all this out already?”
“It wasn’t difficult. We have a Chamber of Commerce.”
Ah, of course. And it was a pretty rudimentary market assessment. Callum flushed, realizing his being “impressed” was a little condescending.
Jo stashed the rods in a case by the cab of her truck, and they climbed the stairs at the backside of the house. As they walked toward the door, a large porch swing on the west side caught Callum’s eye. All the better to watch the sun set, he thought.
Jo paused and scooped up a wine bottle, a stemmed glass and a plate with the remains of what looked like assorted cheese from a small glass-topped table with a base constructed from the roots of a tree.
“I thought I’d caught all the mess—sorry.”
He wanted to pull her onto the swing’s wide seat, tuck the wool blanket crumpled welcomingly in the corner of the chair around them, and watch the sky. He wanted to apologize for how he’d disappointed her with his reaction to the river. He wanted—
He wanted.
“Come on,” she said. “I think you’ll like dinner a lot. I cooked in camps for years, but I’ve also taken culinary art courses. I can feed a crowd, or cook up the sexiest—er, fine or intimate, I mean—dining experience for two you can imagine.”
“‘Sexiest’ sounds fun,” he said.
She laughed. “Sorry, sir. It’s not that kind of establishment.”
Inside the house, Callum was taken with the small changes and improvements she’d wrought in the week or so since he’d been there with Samantha. The living room, homey and comfortable to begin with, was clutter-free. Flames flickered and danced through the glass in a big-bellied black woodstove and the beaten up leather couch called to be sunk into—perhaps with one of the novels jam-packed into the shelves that lined the far wall. A south-facing window showed off a flank of gold and red deciduous trees, then a row of evergreen, topped by ridges of navy, snow-dusted mountains stretching into the chilling, purple sky.
The dining room table, a massive slab of ancient cedar, looked like it could support a feast to feed and seat twenty people, but also seemed equally, if surprisingly, conducive to, well, there was that word again, intimate parties.
Jo had set their places directly across from each other on the furthest end of the table. Beautifully tarnished brass candleholders stood off to the side of the plates, creating a small, personal eating space despite the grandness of the large table. He could imagine how the light would play on the soft, polished red wood.
Unfortunately, the ease they’d enjoyed at the start of the afternoon, temporarily reestablished with their small joke about sexy dinners, had died.
Jo glanced around the house’s interior, but the lines in her brow and the tension in her mouth said she found none of the charm Callum was seeing. “So . . .” she said.
“So?”
She clapped her hands lightly, some decision apparently reached. “So, I’d thought I’d try to give you the experience of being a guest here—that it would be, if you’ll excuse my attempt at manipulation, the best way to win you over and convince you to try to change Samantha’s mind . . . but now I’m thinking you’re more of a hard numbers guy. What would you prefer? Just an all-out nice evening and a taste of what I think guests would come back for—or an equally good dinner, but eaten at the kitchen table with my business plan?”
“You’ve developed a hard copy plan?”
“Complete with a market analysis and projected financials.”
“Really?”
Jo nodded, but her eyes narrowed—consciously or not, he wasn’t sure. Shit, he’d sounded condescending again. But that’s not how he meant his comments, either time. He was just fascinated by the variety of divergent things she was proficient at. He did the same thing day in, day out—and had for years.
She moved out of the soft, sensual light of the dining room toward the bright galley kitchen. “Wine or coffee?”
The question should’ve been simple, but Callum found it anything but. His answer would reveal his choice. Wine? A night of fun and a lovely glimpse into Jo’s home as her guest and, if he could be so lucky, her friend. Coffee? A cut and dried business dinner.
He wanted wine, dammit. And an appetite-teasing starter, followed by a rich, satiating main course . . . then, maybe even dessert. Something decadent. Would she offer different wines for different parts of the meal? Was the meal in parts? He couldn’t smell anything cooking yet. . . .
But he didn’t want to
mislead her. He suspected that with her passion, if she just had some money to invest—and a little extra to carry her until the venture started to turn a profit, she would be successful. But, unless Samantha and Jo herself had steered him wrong, she had neither of those things.
And Samantha, though she looked like she could afford a financial risk, or at least to wait for her share, was convincingly adamant that she wouldn’t be swayed. He could have the best night ever, believe in Jo’s vision one hundred percent, but what difference would it make? The place had to be sold. He didn’t want to pretend otherwise and get Jo’s hopes up. She was too much of a dreamer. It wasn’t his fault.
“Coffee sounds great,” he said. “Thanks.”
Jo opened her mouth—then closed it without speaking, nodded, and led him to a sunshine yellow table covered in papers.
“What would you like as an appetizer?” she asked, smiling and handing him a cup of some dark deep roast poured piping hot from a stainless steel carafe. “Spinach salad with chèvre, strawberries, and almonds, or pan fried zucchini cakes with tzatziki?”
“Is it too late to change my mind?”
Jo cocked an eyebrow.
“The coffee smells amazing, but if you’re still offering, I’d love a glass of wine. And the zucchini patties—but only if you’ll let me help.”
Callum stretched with a satisfied grunt and surveyed the remains of their dinner spread out beneath the candlelight, wishing he had room for one more bite. “Well, I know what I’m telling Samantha.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. That you tried to kill me with food.”
Jo leaned across the table and smacked him. He caught her hand and held it—an action that felt both delicious and slightly taboo but also completely natural and right.
“Seriously though. That steak was, well, beyond description. And those scallops? You’re a wonderful chef.”
Jo looked down at their joined hands resting on the cedar table, then waggled her eyebrows. “Yes, and I have the failed restaurant behind me to prove it.”
Callum wanted to believe the flush on her skin was caused by him, not the wine, not the food, not the heat from the candles glowing beside them . . . definitely not by embarrassment over something stupid like a business gone wrong. Him.
“What happened with all that anyway? From just the little I know of you now, it’s hard for me to imagine you not doing well.”
Jo gently disentangled her fingers from his and stood up. “Ah,” she said, resting her hands on her stomach. “So good—but I don’t think I left room for dessert.”
“You made dessert too? You are trying to kill me.”
Jo grinned. “Do you want to sit soft for a bit first?” He must’ve looked confused because she added, “Settle in the living room—you know, sit soft? And would you like that coffee now?”
“Not so much, no,” he said. He grabbed the remaining bottle of wine and their glasses and trailed after her. A woman in jeans was well worth following, he thought—then the lawyer in him amended that statement to something more specific. Jo in jeans was well worth following.
She turned, smiling like she’d read his mind, then laughed when she saw he’d brought the dregs of the wine. “Is there anything left in that?”
“Oh, yeah, at least a mouthful or two.” He pretended to swig straight from the bottle and wondered when he’d turned into such a goof. He was as hammered—and as transparent—as his brother Brian.
She plunked down in the middle of the couch. “I have a gorgeous port—”
“You do have a gorgeous—”
She held up her hand, but giggled. “Whoa—but if you want it, it’s on the bookshelf between Mary Shelly and Bram Stoker, and you have to pour it.”
“Well, I’m definitely in need of a cab anyway, and since the fare’s going to be ridiculous I guess I should make it worth it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even think—”
“Don’t be sorry.” He poured them generous drinks, and settled on the end of the couch, freakishly pleased Jo had taken the middle. The couch wasn’t big. Her thigh was only inches from his. “I’ve loved every minute of it.”
“Even though we didn’t crack open my business plan once?”
“Especially because.”
Jo laughed. “Nice.”
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the fire, sipping the deep, full-bodied port—and Callum was a little shocked. He’d always remembered how animated they’d been together, how he could—and did—tell her anything and everything. How they laughed and talked nonstop. He’d forgotten until now how easy she was to be quiet with, too. How he could just sit with her, let his mind wander and not be pressured to entertain, inform, educate. . . .
“We’re just like before. I feel like you never left,” he said suddenly—then muttered almost angrily, “Wow, I do not need this drink.”
Jo didn’t contradict his words or seem put off. She just laughed. “Yeah, you’re still a lightweight.”
After a little while and a few more sips, she turned sideways on the couch and sat cross-legged. “You asked about my bankruptcy—the restaurant.”
“I thought maybe you didn’t hear the question.”
“No, you didn’t. You assumed I didn’t want to answer, and you chose not to press.”
He shrugged.
“I had a partner, otherwise known as a common-law husband.”
“Oh. Well, I know about being burned by one of those all right. I have a treasure of an ex, too.”
“He liked to have businesses—and all sorts of other things I found out too late—on the side.”
“What? Like other women on the side of you?” Callum had had enough to drink that his self-censor button was thoroughly turned off. “Was he a fucking imbecile or what?”
Jo’s laugh was hilarious to him, like she literally said, “Ahaahhahahahaaha” and it made him laugh too. And then she answered quietly, “I don’t know. Maybe he was, or maybe I was. Maybe I am.”
He shook his head. “No, not you. Your ideas are great.”
“But?”
“But—”
“No,” she interrupted suddenly.
“No?”
“Let’s not talk about any ifs or buts tonight.”
It was late when they finished dessert—a baked pumpkin cheesecake with a pecan bottom and warm caramel topping—and more round-bottomed glasses of port.
“You were right,” he said.
“Of course I was—but about what?”
“You do make a sexy dinner.”
He wanted to make her smile the way she was smiling right now every time he saw her. . . .
“Thanks,” was all she said and disappeared into the kitchen with the dirty plates. She reappeared a few minutes later, a quilt in hand.
“If you want, if it’s not too weird, you could sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
She shrugged. “It’ll save you fifty bucks at least—and it’ll drive Samantha mental. Make sure you bill for every hour.”
He laughed. “Well, thanks.” He stretched out on the couch.
She snapped the quilt in the air and let it settle over him.
“I feel about eight.”
“Ha—you look almost thirty-five and drunk as a skunk.”
“Touché,” he agreed happily.
Jo bent over him and for one blood-surging minute he thought she’d kiss him. “Good night, Callum. I had a surprisingly good time tonight.”
“Me, too—equally surprising.”
She was about to straighten up when he reached out. “May I?”
“May you what?”
He touched her hair. “It feels the same,” he said and closed his eyes.
“Weirdo,” she said, but he heard the smile in her voice and knew her dimple was showing again. “Sleep well.”
Chapter 7
Jo lifted a small end table, tiptoed over to the couch, and set it down without a s
ound. With equal care and quiet, she slipped back to the kitchen and returned with a heavy mug and a small note she’d just written: Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Sorry to duck out. I wanted to be here when you woke up, but forgot a prior engagement. Coffee’s on in the kitchen. Help yourself to whatever you want to eat.
She smiled down at Callum’s dead-asleep form; he’d always been able to crash out like no one else she knew. Sometime in the night, he’d stripped to his T-shirt and boxers and pushed his blanket half off. A small shudder of heat quaked through her belly as she appreciated the peep she got of one long, heavily muscled leg. What did the man do all day? He didn’t get his physique from sitting at a computer. His square jaw had a shadow of stubble that she wanted to touch.
Wow, creepy much? she asked herself and had to stifle a giggle so she didn’t destroy her silent exit thing.
Out in the yard she whistled for Hoover, took one look at his matted fur and caught one whiff of his foul stench and clipped him to his lead. “The only con to this place—the abundance of rotten fish guts left at the river for you to roll in,” she muttered. Hoover smiled happily, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Jo freshened his water dish with the outdoor tap, then washed her hands with the dish soap she kept tucked on a small shelf under the fish-cleaning table her uncle had conveniently rigged up years earlier.
“You’re gross!” she said cheerfully to Hoover as way of good-bye. He wagged his tail, whining as she headed to the truck. “Oh, don’t fret. I’ll be ba—ack,” she promised, doing a terrible impression of the Terminator—but she couldn’t help it. She was in that good a mood. Maybe, just maybe, Callum was someone Samantha would listen to. And even if he wasn’t, hadn’t they had fun? Her stomach clenched remembering his hand on hers—how naturally he’d caught her fingers and held her hand. And those eyes of his—how they burned with every emotion that moved him like they were lit with a gas flame.
She hated, but also loved, how he seemed so much like the old Callum she had known and adored. Her Callum. Be careful, she warned herself, be careful—but the inner warning was more like a plea.