“She stayed at Darlington with her mother when she was younger,” I explain.
“And?”
“What do you mean and?” I ask, frustrated.
“I mean so fucking what. Blake, you know what happened to her and her mother. You know what happened to her father. It was always likely they stayed in a shelter. So, she froze. Big deal. She likely associates that place with a fucked-up period of her life. From where I’m standing, you are the one that's struggling with it.”
“Because she hasn’t accepted—”
He cuts me off with his hand. “She doesn’t owe you anything. She deals with the memories of what happened to her every day, and she’s doing a pretty fucking good job if you ask me. When she's ready, she’ll get help, but it won't be because her boyfriend has a hero complex.”
I jump from my desk and lean over it. “Fuck you, Marcus. That’s bullshit.” I just want to help her.
“Is it really? Have you talked to her about them yet?”
I follow his line of sight over to the photo before turning back to him with a snarl. “That has nothing to do with this.” The two things have no correlation with each other whatsoever.
“Yeah? You sleeping through the night now, Blake?” I don't answer him which, of course, is an answer in itself. I sleep like a baby when I’m with Callie, but alone, not so much.
“Exactly. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. She’s dealing, just like you. Don’t force her to do something you’re not comfortable doing yourself.”
And with that, he leaves, closing the door behind him with an ominous thud and leaving me alone to really let it soak in just how much of a dick I am and how badly I fucked up again.
Chapter Thirteen
Callie
I arrive at Emerson’s a little before 6:30, still mad at Blake but refusing to stay home and wallow. Besides, Blake is much more likely to track me down at home than come and cause a scene here.
Keeping it casual, I decided to wear a simple navy blue and white floor-length striped maxi dress with my tan wedge sandals and my favorite denim jacket. Not being in the mood to deal with the arduous task of washing and drying my thick hair this afternoon, I’d twisted it up into another messy bun, pulling a few tendrils free to frame my face.
It was as good as it was going to get.
I knock on the door, careful not to drop the wine or the cheesecake I made for dessert.
“Callie, you made it. Come on in,” Emerson says when she answers, looking gorgeous in a black pencil skirt and a blood-red blouse. She snags the wine bottle from my hand and indicates for me to come inside.
“Thanks for having me. I made cheesecake too. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed,” I explain shyly, following her into the brightly lit kitchen.
“Nonsense, you don't have to worry about that, although I never say no to wine and cheesecake,” she tells me with a smile as her husband walks up behind her and plants a kiss on her cheek.
“Hey, Callie. Ooh cheesecake.” He whips the plate out of my hands before I can even answer, making Emerson laugh.
“Cheesecake just happens to be Grant’s favorite. If you eat too much of it, honey, I’m not stitching your pants again,” she calls over to him, making him turn and glare at her.
“I feel like I’m missing something.” I laugh, sitting on the barstool beside Emerson.
“Yesterday, my sexy husband came home early because he ripped open the ass of his pants when he bent over.” She snorts, making me giggle along with her.
“They were old pants, Emmie. Besides, I don't hear you complaining about my ass,” he remarks, acting affronted.
“I’m just reminding you that you're not as young as you once were. Maybe you should lay off the sweet stuff for a while.” She winks at me to let me know she’s joking.
He turns his back to us and shakes his ass like a stripper working for tips, making me laugh so hard I almost slip off the stool.
“See, you couldn’t take your eyes off it. My ass is hypnotic, and don’t you forget it,” he yells, heading out of the kitchen. Emerson and I stare at each other in silence for a beat before roaring with laughter again.
“Okay, Callie, I have to come clean,” Emerson says when we finally get control of ourselves. “I got stuck at work thanks to a last-minute safety inspection, and Grant has been on shift all day. Gwen is having a sleepover at her Uncle Grady and Aunt Dylan’s place, so I’m going to be a lazy host and order pizza. I hope that’s okay.”
“Who the heck says no to pizza? But you could have called and rescheduled, I wouldn’t have minded,” I admonish her.
“I know but we’ve already had to reschedule twice. I was worried you were going to think we were avoiding you.”
I wave her off. “Don’t be silly, the thought never crossed my mind. I’m awesome, if I do say so myself. Everyone likes me,” I say to her straight-faced as she smiles at me.
“Well, what's not to like? Come on, I’ll show you to the living room, and you can tell Grant what pizza you like while I run upstairs and get changed.”
The sitting room is empty so while Emerson gets changed, I wander around checking out the large collection of photo frames lining the bookcase on the far side of the room.
There are pictures of Emerson standing outside what looks like a flight school, wedding photos, pictures of a gorgeous little girl with big curly ringlets that must be their daughter, and group photos filled with laughter and smiles.
Everyone looks so happy that it makes my chest pang with need. That’s what I want, I think wistfully. A family filled with love and laughter.
“My wife gets camera happy. I swear, every time I turn around, she’s taking a photo.”
I turn at the sound of Grant's voice and offer him a soft smile. “She’s capturing memories. Tiny snapshots in time where you were your happiest. I can see the love in every photo here,” I tell him honestly.
He looks at the photos. “You’re right. I never looked at it like that before. You have a big family to take photos of?” he asks, his shrewd cop eyes making me squirm.
Nope, not going there, big guy. After the day I’ve had, I’m already feeling emotionally bruised.
“No, it's just me now. Did you order dinner yet? Emerson said to let you know what I like.”
He knows I’m changing the subject, but he doesn’t call me on it, thankfully. Which is just as well. I would feel like an utter headcase if I dissolved into tears in front of him.
“Nope, that’s what I’m about to do. Anything you don't like?”
“I’m easy. Anything but anchovies and I’ll be a happy bunny.”
“I’m on it. Sit, make yourself at home. I’ll go order and pour you a glass of wine.”
Now he’s speaking my language. He disappears just as Emerson walks around the corner, now wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a white t-shirt saying fuck the police. I burst out laughing at the irony.
“Nice shirt,” I tease.
“It's the one item of clothing I own that both turns my husband on and makes him cringe. What can I say? I have a warped sense of humor,” she laughs.
“If I had known it was a yoga pants party, I’d have worn mine.” I pout, tucking my legs up under me on the sofa, arranging the material of my dress to cover myself.
“You should have. Not gonna lie, if I didn’t have guests, I would have whipped my bra off and pulled my ratty sweats on,” she tells me conspiratorially, knowing I would have been the same way at home.
We chat about nothing in particular until Grant comes back with the wine, letting us know that pizza is on its way.
“I thought you were bringing Blake with you this evening?” Grant questions, sitting on the sofa next to Emerson, who immediately curls into his side.
“We had a disagreement. We’ll figure it out, but I thought it would be better to put some space between us before either of us said something we’d regret.” I take a sip of wine, hoping that will be the end of it.
�
�So, how are you liking Sunnyville so far?”
Relief washes over me at the lifeline Emerson offers me. “I love it,” I answer quickly, happy to change the subject away from Blake and my tattered heart. “I wasn’t sure small-town living would agree with me. I’ve always liked having the ability to get lost in a crowd and being in a place where nobody knew who I was. But this place felt like home the moment I passed the welcome sign. I can’t really explain it.”
“Actually, I think you explained it perfectly. I left for a while myself, needed something bigger and better, but this place is home to me or, at least, the people in it are.” She lifts her head and smiles at her husband before turning back to me.
“Why Sunnyville though? We have our share of tourists, but it's not exactly the kind of place people relocate to,” Grant probes.
I swallow the bile rushing up my throat as I contemplate lying. He's a cop, he’ll know, a little voice taunts. But god, I just want pizza and wine, not the third degree. Maybe I could leave early. It wouldn’t be a lie if I told them I was feeling a little sick.
“Callie, ignore him. He’s slipped into cop mode. Grant, stop interrogating our guest. I would like for her to come back one day, thanks,” Emmerson states drolly, making Grant roll his eyes.
I chuckle but it feels more forced than before.
“Sorry,” he apologizes. “Occupational hazard.”
“It's okay. Once upon a time, I lived not too far from here. My parents… they had some issues, and I spent some time in a shelter over in Darlington.” I watch Grant swallow hard and Emerson slip her fingers through his.
“Anyway, I was having a crappy time adjusting and then I met a little girl who told me about this place. She said it was where her hero lived and, well, I figured that was a good enough reason as any. Everyone needs a hero sometimes, right?” I wasn’t meant to add the last part but when I look up, I notice Grant's eyes look wet and Emerson has gone a little pale.
“Are you okay?” Shit, I’m so bad at this peopling bullshit. This is why I don’t leave the house unless I’m forced to.
“What was the little girl's name, can you remember?” Grant asks, his voice cracking a little at the end. I frown at his odd reaction, feeling like I’m missing something, but I answer him anyway.
“Her name was Keely,” I tell him softly, remembering the pretty little girl with the shadows in her eyes.
Emerson sniffs at that and wipes a tear from her face as Grant takes a deep stuttering breath. I don’t know what's happening here, but I know it's something big. Cops don’t just get emotional at the drop of a hat unless—well, fuck.
“You’re Keely’s hero, aren’t you?”
Chapter Fourteen
Blake
I stop by my grandmother’s to check on her after dropping Marcus off. My mind is so preoccupied with thoughts of what I need to say to Callie that it takes me a moment to notice either the Mercedes parked at the end of Callie’s driveway or the perfectly coiffed woman standing on her doorstep.
“Can I help you?” I ask, making the woman turn. When she does, I suck in a sharp breath, taking in this woman's striking resemblance to Callie and know immediately this must be her mother.
“My name's Brenda Roberts. I’m looking for my daughter Callie,” she tells me, her cultured voice soft and hesitant.
“She’s out for dinner with friends at the minute. I can tell her you stopped by,” I offer, feeling really fucking awkward when her eyes start to well with tears. If there is one thing I can’t stand, it's to see a woman cry. It brings out every single one of my protective instincts.
“I don’t know how well you know my daughter, Mr…” She trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.
“Price, Blake Price.” I step forward and offer her my hand to shake. “I’m Callie’s man.”
Her eyes widen a fraction at that, again reminding me of her daughter. “Well, Mr. Price, I’m not my daughter's favorite person.” She twists her hands together looking uncomfortable confiding in a stranger.
I’m right there with you, lady.
“I don’t know what else to do. I can’t fix things between us if she won’t let me talk to her,” she adds quietly, dabbing at her tears with a tissue she pulls from her pocket.
“I’ll talk to her,” I answer automatically, then wince, trying not to picture how well that conversation would go. Marcus might be right about his hero complex theory.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Price, but I’m not sure it will matter. I shouldn’t have come. Maybe she would just be better off if I leave her alone.” She sniffs again. “Tell me, Mr. Price, is she happy?” she asks with a tortured whisper before crying in earnest.
Christ, I really hate it when women cry.
“Hey, please don’t cry,” I say awkwardly and just about manage to refrain from patting her on the back. “I’ll talk to her. I can’t make you any promises because I have a habit of fucking up where Callie is concerned,” I tell her, hoping for a smile, but she continues to sob so I carry on, needing to get out of here fast. “Tell me where you're staying. I’ll call you when I’ve had a chance to talk to her. I have to go and pick her up now anyway.” I give her my excuse to leave. Now that I think about it though, that’s not a bad idea. I don’t want her to go to bed tonight without me beside her.
“Oh, thank you, that would be wonderful.” She smiles, dabbing her eyes with a tissue once more before handing me a card for the Eagleton Hotel on the edge of town. “Thank you again, Mr. Price, you don’t know what this means to me.” She offers me a soft smile that’s so reminiscent of Callie’s before turning to leave.
I watch as she climbs into her car, staring until she turns out of sight, before making my way to my own car.
As I head over to Grant and Emerson’s place, I try to come up with what I want to say. I can’t even touch the subject of Callie’s mother until I’ve fixed things between us. I don’t even know where to start.
By the time I pull up, I’m no closer to figuring out what to say than I was when I left. At the very least, I need to apologize. Climbing out of my car, I spot Callie’s junker and frown when I notice the condition her tires are in. I’ll need to get them changed—they’re almost bald in places and won't offer any grip. I wonder how receptive she would be to my getting her a new car, then snort at the thought of how that conversation would go. She’d likely run me over just to prove a point.
A light turns on above the porch before the front door opens and Grant steps out onto the doorstep with his arms crossed.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he calls but doesn’t make a move to let me in, the asshole.
“Fuck off, Grant,” I grunt, not in the mood for him right now. “I fucked up, now let me fix it.”
He stares at me with a hard look that I’m sure he uses on many a criminal, but that shit won’t work on me. Not with June as my grandmother. That woman could death-stare the grim reaper and come out on top.
“She’s just getting her jacket and shoes on.”
I sigh, before turning to look behind him.
“And there she is. Callie, someone’s here to see you.”
I watch her over Grant’s shoulder as she lifts her head to look at me, her smile falling from her face, and that hurts more than I care to admit.
“Callie,” I greet her in a soft voice.
“I thought I told you not to come,” she answers, but she doesn’t sound surprised to see me.
“I need to talk to you. It's important,” I tell her and watch her shoulders slump in defeat.
“Can I drive you home?” God, I need to touch her. I want her to come to me, but she hesitates in the doorway, shaking her head.
“I brought my car.”
“If you leave your keys, I’ll drive it back in the morning for you,” Grant offers.
She looks at me before turning to Grant with a nod. “Okay, thanks, Grant, and thank you both for dinner,” she says, talking over her shoulder to Emerson, who steps up behind her.
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“Anytime, Callie,” Emerson replies before giving her a hug and scowling at me.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll fix it, I tell her silently.
Callie says her goodbyes before passing Grant her key. She tucks her hands in her pockets and finally walks down the steps toward me.
I wait until Grant closes the door before stepping forward and wrapping my arms around her, breathing in her strawberry-scented hair. As soon as she’s in my arms, where she belongs, I relax.
“I’m sorry. I’m a dick. I should have minded my own business,” I admit, knowing both she and Marcus are right. Whatever her history is, it’s hers to live with.
She’ll let me in when she’s ready.
“Come on, let's get you home.” I tug her toward my car, and once I have the passenger door open, I lift her inside, all without her making a peep.
She doesn’t speak until I’m buckled in and pulling out of the driveway.
“I thought you were going to give me some space.” Her voice is quiet and lacking its usual warmth.
“You were the one who wanted space, but I never agreed to that. Call me a dick, throw something at me, but don't ask me to stay away from you. I feel you pulling away. If I give you space, I might never get you back.”
I might not be ready to analyze our relationship, but I know I’m in too deep to let her go. She’s dug her way under my skin and if I want to keep her there, I need to give a little more than what I’ve been taking. So, I start talking, surprising us both.
“The six of us were as close as brothers,” I begin, making her turn to look at me. I can feel her staring at my profile as I focus on the road, silently urging me to go on.
“It was our second tour. We were in an area that had been deemed safe, delivering medical and food supplies to one of the hospitals. We had been there a few times and there was this little boy, Malik, who I took a shine too. He was four years old and missing his left leg and right arm below the elbow, thanks to a landmine.”
“Oh god,” she whispers, reaching for my hand, linking our fingers together.
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