by Cecy Robson
“So what are you thinking?” she asks.
I adjust the phone against me. “I don’t know. I’m hoping it’s a good sign. Last night, things sort of changed between us. Callahan didn’t have to come charging when that idiot shoved his tongue in my ear. I could handle myself—and you, and Hale, and everyone were already moving in. But not only did he swoop in and get involved, he was majorly pissed.”
“You’re not kidding. When I looked up to check on you, he was clear across the other end of the bar. I don’t think I had the chance to blink and he was suddenly there, ready to pound that shithead to dust for getting too close to you.”
Becks was right. Callahan had been watching out for me, something I hadn’t been expecting. And that rage he met that guy with? That there was a wolf set to pounce on his prey.
“Did you know he fought his way through the crowd to find you?” she says, pulling me out of the memory of him leaping over the bar.
“What? No.”
She laughs. “Hale was trying to rip me off that slutty girl―you know the one wearing those awful orange shorts?—and when he finally did I saw Ninja Turtle go all Transformer looking for you.”
As her best friend, I semi-interpret this to mean Callahan got mad and raced to find me. “And you didn’t tell me this why?” I press.
She waits. “I sort of forgot seeing how Hale was giving me the eye. I think my catfight with that tramp got him all hot or something―”
“Becks!”
“Hey. I’m sorry. Hale was . . . well, you know how cute he is—anyway that’s why I’m telling you now!”
I scrunch my eyes closed. “So you think I may have a shot?”
“You may not have lassoed him, but you sure did snag his attention.” She sighs. “Just be careful. If I didn’t think he was dangerous before, that all changed when he grabbed that monster of a man by the throat like he was nothing. Trin, he knows how to fight. . .” Her voice trails. “And judging by how he handled that asshole, he knows how to do a lot more than knock someone on his ass.”
I’m not stupid. And I’m not as naïve as people think. But there’s something about Callahan that tells me there’s a lot more to him than brute strength.
My voice softens. “Callahan wouldn’t hurt me,” I tell her. “I’m sure of it. But even if I’m dead wrong, you know I’d never allow anyone to mistreat me.”
“Trin, I hear what you’re saying, and I am listening,” Becca says quietly. “But there are ways a man can hurt you that have nothing to do with his hands.”
Sunday comes. Two days after the brawl at Your Mother’s. My hair is brushed to a sheen and I’m wearing my best―well, dark blue bikini top and jean shorts that is. I show up an hour earlier than usual to set up, even though I’m off today, too.
I finish prepping, adjust the schedule per requests, clean up the office, and then spend the next twenty minutes twiddling my thumbs. There’re only so many things you can do with that whistle.
Mason does a double-take when he sees me and finds everything done, the muscles along his stocky build bulging from his early morning workout. Unlike Sean, he tends to be more staid. Well, except around me.
“You working today, Trin?” he asks.
“Darlin’,” I reply. “I’m what you might call a responsible team captain. Even when I’m not working, I’m working. My heart and soul are part of this crew and this here beach. If you bleed, I bleed. If you weep, I weep. If you need a snack, I eat one right there with you.”
He looks at me over his sunglasses. “You’re waiting for Callahan, aren’t you?”
Wow. It’s like he has super powers or something.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“It is,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. He straightens. “But it looks like you don’t have to wait much longer, here he comes. “My head whips to the side. “Made you look.”
I’m smacking his arm silly when he motions down the beach. “Oh, wait, Trin. He is here. He’s coming now.”
“Yeah, right. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, you suck―” He grabs my shoulders and spins me. I’m ready to whoop his ass when I see a very familiar and gorgeous figure headed my way. “It’s him.” I turn around and smack his arm again. “Did you have to man-handle me in front of my man?”
“Says the crazy woman attacking me.” He turns around and waves. “I’ll see you later, Trin. Sorry you can’t take a joke.”
“Later, Mason, sorry your momma named you after a jar.”
He laughs, despite it not being the first time he’s heard that one. He’s a good guy, that Mason.
So here’s my dilemma: I’m here, but I’m not here. And now that dreamboat of a man I’m here for, but not supposed to be here for, is headed toward me. Is this a good time to remind myself that everything usually makes more sense in my head? Probably not.
I brush off my sandy shorts and walk toward the water’s edge. I keep walking, pretending to dip my feet. As he nears, I offer a small smile, followed by a small wave. Pathetic? Probably. But it’s all I got, folks.
Instead of waving back―or heaven forbid, smiling―he surprises me by slowing to a stop next to me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he mutters back.
I’m trying not to look at him. Really I am. But considering he’s not wearing a shirt and beads of ocean water are drizzling from his perfect pectorals, down his eight pack abs, to where his black board shorts rest low on his hips, it’s awful hard not to. If it means anything, I’m real proud I’m not wiping drool from my mouth.
He frowns as his eyes scan me from head to toe. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Oh, cause it’s hot and it’s summer.”
I can tell he’s working not to roll his eyes. “Don’t you have a uniform to wear?”
“I would if I was working, but I’m off today.”
His brows furrow tighter and he angles his chin. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m in charge so sometimes I have to come in on my days off to make sure everything’s okay. It may not look it, but I run a real tight ship.”
His gaze skips to where Sean and Craig are trying to impress the new girls with their chicken arm farts. “You’re right, it doesn’t look it.”
I make a mental note to kill them later and I shrug. “Just boys having fun.”
Without looking at me, he motions ahead with a tilt of his chin. “I’m headed that way if you want to come. Unless you have to keep working on that tight ship of yours.”
By now Sean and Craig are pumping their arms to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb. “Nah, I’m sure they’ll be fine without me.”
I follow when he pushes off, both of us fall into that nice steady pace we developed. I wait for him to say something. When he doesn’t, I race a head to catch the wave sweeping and kick up water to splash him. He’s come to expect only smooth moves and maturity from me so I can’t exactly let him down.
“Something on your mind?” he asks, ignoring the water trickling along his firm and ogle-worthy abs. His tone sounds annoyed, but the tilt to his lips suggests otherwise.
“That was something the other night wasn’t it?” I say, resuming my pace beside him. “Obnoxious New Yorkers always coming down here causing problems.”
“They weren’t from New York,” he tells me.
“Jersey?”
“Nope.”
“Canada?”
He presses his lips tight. “They were from Texas. I caught sight of their license plate right before they sped off.”
I blow out air. “Well, that explains it. All the crazies are from Texas.”
“I’m from Texas,” he rumbles.
I bat my hand in true “pa-shaw” fashion like I didn’t just insult him and everyone he knows. “Oh, I’m sure you’re the exception. You, your momma, your daddy, your brother―”
“I don’t have a brother.” Again the edges of his mouth curve.
“Sister?” I offer.
“Three,” he admits.
“Okay, I’ll make the exception for them, too―and maybe a couple of first cousins.” I scissor out my hands. “But I draw the line at second cousins twice removed. They’re always a freaky bunch.”
“Is that right?” he asks.
“Yes. Like I said ‘dem Texans are nuts.”
For once I shut my mouth, even though I think I maybe entertaining him, however mildly. We hit the end of the beach and turn around. He stays quiet, but by now it’s been like ten whole minutes since I said anything, and if you’ve been paying attention you know that’s a lot for someone like me.
“So you’re from Texas,” I say.
“That’s right.”
“Did you play football?” I ask. “I know football’s real big there.”
Although it’s a fairly simple and not very personal question, he seems hesitant to tell me. “You can’t be a country boy in Texas and not play ball,” he finally answers.
“Were you the quarterback? I can picture you as a quarterback.” I toss him a wink. “A mighty, mighty quarterback.”
And lookee here. There’s that almost grin, again.
“I was a first string lineman,” he admits.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Hmm. I bet all the pretty girls were just lining up so you could deflower them, huh?”
His head ever so slowly rotates my way, but then he catches himself resumes his attention ahead. “No. I think the quarterback took care of all that.”
It occurs to me then how much I love messing with him. “Did it bother you, not having all those girls to deflower? You can tell me seeing how we’re BFFs and all.”
He smirks, but mostly I think to squelch his widening grin. “Believe it or not, I didn’t care,” he answers.
He slows to a stop as my post comes into view. But I’m not ready to let him go.
“We can keep going if you’d like,” I offer. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” He frowns, appearing either confused or unsure so I add, “Besides, that man in my bed is shackled good and tight, he’s not going anywhere till I set him free.” I throw out a hand. “Don’t worry. I left the remote in his hand and plenty of water so he’s fine.”
The way Callahan straightens, makes me think that maybe I pushed the joke too far. But then he shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with you,” he mumbles.
“I think you might have mentioned that once or twice,” I remind him.
I wave to my boys as we sprint past the station, ignoring the growing twinge in my thighs. But the further we run, the more that twinge develops into a steady burn. I was always a runner, and participated in cross-country all through high school. I kept up my stamina by running every other day while I was in college, but after Hunter and I broke up, I hiked up plenty of miles dealing with the stress and the depression that followed—so many in fact, I was able to participate in my first half marathon this past Spring.
I pride myself on keeping fit, but by now, Callahan and I are a few miles in, and in my haste to meet him, I never bothered with breakfast. So instead of teasing Callahan a little more, like I’d really like to, I focus on steadying my breathing and pushing through the ache.
“You all right?” Callahan asks.
“Yes. I’ve gone longer.”
We glide across the sand, our strides purposeful and even, both of us working harder to maintain our pace. He seems to want to ask more, but doesn’t.
When I’m sure he won’t ever speak again without being prompted he asks, “How long?”
“Twelve miles.” I crinkle my forehead. “We are talking about running, right?”
He loses his footing, but then catches himself, and semi-smoothly resumes his gait. My muscles are tightening so bad I should focus on breathing. But watching Callahan lose his footing and his composure is too much to resist. No. He’s too much to resist.
“Ever have a one-night stand?” I ask.
“What?—Jesus.”
I breathe deeply so I can keep talking because hey, Trinity Summers is on a roll.
“I won’t think less of you if you have,” I tell him. “You’re young, these things happen.”
He says nothing so of course now I have to. “So the times that you have, were they like a lot? Or was it more like one here, one there―Oh, but don’t tell me if it involves more than one girl, or a man, or crazy shit like on a roller coaster. That sort of thing is personal.”
“And this isn’t?” he fires back.
“I’m just saying―”
“All right, you want to go there. Have you ever had a one-night stand?”
He means to shut me up. If so, he needs to invest in duct tape. “Yes. Twice. But it’s not really my thing.”
“You’ve had one-night stands?” He emphasizes the first word, but the rest is distinctly quieter.
I smile thoughtfully. “I had a bad breakup last Christmas. Afterward . . . I don’t know, I was sort of lost, and maybe a little desperate. So, I did.” I look up at him. “What about you? Have you had your share of hook-ups? Or are you more the committed type?”
He returns to his more solemn demeanor, making me think I somehow hurt him by asking—and I absolutely want to kick myself for it.
I start to apologize only for him to interrupt. “I had a couple of steady girls in high school. Nothing real serious. After I enlisted, I didn’t have the time or opportunity to meet anyone.”
“That makes sense.” I wait then say, “What about when you weren’t in active duty? Or when you got out?”
He thinks about it. “That’s when I had my share of . . . interactions.”
“Oh,” I answer, giving away the sadness I suddenly feel.
Aside from caressing his face, I haven’t really touched Callahan. Not like I’ve wanted to. It bothers me to learn there’ve been plenty of women who have stroked a lot more than his beard. It’s not that I’m surprised. Not by a long shot. That doesn’t make the news easier to swallow.
Callahan isn’t a good-looking man. Nope, not at all. Callahan is hotter than fried chicken sizzling in Hades. The waves of his dark brown hair have lightened significantly over the past few weeks, giving his ravishing blue eyes an extra sparkle. His thin beard crawls along his jaw, up and over full lips that can alter him from rugged hunk, to sexy god when they pull back into a grin.
“Have there been many of these interactions?” I ask, my voice so quiet it surprises even me.
“No,” he admits before cutting his eyes my way and offering a smile that flips my heart. “It’s not really my thing either.”
Ah, and there’s my smile, too. “Good,” I say.
He slows to a stop when we reach a path lined with palms and mangroves to our right. “This is where I get off,” he tells me.
I wipe some of the perspiration from my brow and peek down the path. A ranch, covered in weather-beaten grey shingles, rests further back among the ancient trees. The trim and newly erected deck are painted in a fresh coat of bright white, and the roof and windows appear brand new. I take my time admiring the work he seems to have put in, permitting my breathing to relax.
“This is old man Callahan’s place,” I say after a moment. “I take it you’re related?”
He nods. “He was my uncle. I was named after him.”
“Now that I know where you live, I figured as much.”
He crosses his arms, appearing to look at the house without really seeing it. “Did you know him?” he asks.
“Only a little bit,” I answer. “I’d see him around town now and again. At the post office or supermarket.” I speak slowly, watching his chest rise and fall as his breathing starts to settle. “He was a nice man, gentle. But mostly kept to himself. Were you close?”
“When I was younger we were.” He bends when something catches his attention in the sand. He lifts a small rock with a sharp tip. I barely catch sight of it before he flings it into the dense brush. “My daddy wasn’t around much so my uncle tried to be there for me as much as he
could.”
Like so many times before, Callahan’s face gives nothing away. But his stance when he said “daddy” stiffened in a way I’ve never quite seen. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, feeling the depth of my words down to my bones.
He cocks his head, frowning slightly as if expecting me to press for more information. But while I want to know everything about him, I’d never force him to share something he’s not ready for.
“My parents divorced when I was a few months old,” he admits, watching me closely. “With only girls in the house, my momma felt I needed a strong male’s influence. So she asked her brother to step in and be the man my father never was.”
Just when I think Callahan can break any more of my heart, there goes another chip. My daddy is my hero. He’s always been there, ready to catch me when I fell and cheer me on when I got back up. But now is not the time to tell Callahan as much, not when he still seems hurt by the father he never quite knew.
“I’m glad your uncle was there to guide you,” I say.
“I am, too,” he murmurs. “But our time together was always limited. He’d visit every summer, holidays; things like that. But his home was here, and ours was in Texas.” He shrugs. “When I was trying to decide what to do with my life, he’s the one who convinced me to go into the Army. We lost touch after I finished boot camp. I think the last time I spoke to him was about a year before he died.”
I close the space between us, unable to stomach the sadness in his voice and place my hand carefully on his arm. “You must have meant a lot to him for him to leave you his home.”
He watches my hand as it slips from his arm. “I suppose,” he says, returning his attention to the house.
I’m not sure how many times the waves crash behind us, or how many gulls soar over our heads in their mad rush to fish. But it’s not until a dragonfly zips between us that Callahan once more speaks. “You seem worn. If you want, I can give you a ride back to your post.”
“You’re not going to ask me inside for breakfast?”
His head jerks back to face me. “What?”
I regard him with a pensive expression I have to work hard to muster. “It’s the Southern and hospitable thing to do,” I remind him. And if that’s not bad enough, I add, “After all, I did save your life.”