Chapter 3
Chapter Three
C allie
The barn smells like sawdust and something metallic, an earthy blend that feels oddly comforting. I stretch my arms overhead, the early morning sunlight filtering through the slats in the wooden walls. The space Liam cleared for me isn’t much—just a small corner with a thick rug, a few yoga mats, and a couple of candles—but it’s enough. It’s thoughtful.
And that’s what gets me. Thoughtfulness wasn’t something I expected from a man who grumbled his way through dinner last night, making me feel like I was one misstep away from being kicked out. He was lighter when we were kids–more playful, hopeful. Maybe we all are though, before life burns us, literally.
The door creaks open, and I glance over my shoulder to see Liam stepping inside, a steaming mug in his hand. His usual scowl is in place, but there’s something softer in his eyes this morning.
“Coffee,” he mutters, setting the mug on the edge of the windowsill. “Figured you’d need it.”
“Thanks,” I say, surprised. “Are you always this charming, or is it just for me?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Don’t push your luck, Angel.”
Angel. The way he says it, like it’s half insult and half endearment, sends a shiver down my spine. I take a sip of the coffee—it’s dark and bitter, just like him—and try to hide my smile.
“You know,” I start, setting the mug aside, “for someone so grumpy, you’re surprisingly good at this whole ‘host’ thing.”
“Don’t read into it,” he grunts, leaning against a wooden beam. “I’m just trying to keep you from tripping over your own feet and breaking something.”
“Sure,” I drawl, dragging out the word. “And the cozy yoga corner was purely practical, right?”
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly hides by looking away.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “I just didn’t want you taking over my living room.”
“Uh-huh.” I stretch into a downward dog, feeling his gaze linger. “Well, thanks anyway. It’s nice.”
“Don’t mention it.” His voice is low, almost a growl, and I can feel the weight of his stare on me as I move through my poses. It’s unnerving, but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of attention that makes your skin heat and your heart race, even though he hasn’t touched me.
Yet.
Unpacking feels like an exercise in futility, considering I don’t have much left. The fire didn’t just take my studio; it took my home. My clothes, my books, my carefully curated collection of crystals and candles—it’s all gone.
I sigh, pulling out the last few items from my bag and tucking them into the small dresser Liam cleared out for me. That’s when I see it, crumpled in the back corner of the drawer: an old piece of notebook paper, yellowed with age.
My breath catches as I unfold it, the familiar handwriting sending me straight back to middle school.
“If neither of us is married by 30, we’ll marry each other. Deal? Check yes or no.”
My twelve-year-old self had checked “yes” and slipped it into Liam Grayson’s locker. I never expected him to keep it. But now, holding it in my hands, the memory hits me like a freight train.
I laugh softly, the sound tinged with disbelief. What are the odds?
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I take the note to the living room, where Liam is sprawled on the couch with Rocky at his feet. He’s flipping through Mountain Living magazine, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the note. “Remember this?”
His eyes lift, and for a moment, he just stares at me. Then his gaze drops to the paper, and something flickers across his face—something vulnerable and unguarded.
“I haven’t seen that in years,” he says, his voice rough.
I sit on the armrest of the couch, holding the note out to him. “I can’t believe you kept it.”
He takes the paper from me, his fingers brushing mine. The touch is brief, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through me. He unfolds the note, his eyes scanning the words before he lets out a low chuckle.
“I was an idiot,” he says, shaking his head. “What the hell did I know about marriage at twelve?”
“More than you do now, apparently,” I tease, grinning when his eyes narrow.
“You think so, huh?”
“Definitely.” I lean closer, my voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Because if this is your idea of wooing a woman, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
His lips curve into something that’s almost a smile. Almost. “Maybe I’m just rusty.”
“Rusty?” I raise an eyebrow. “Liam, I’m pretty sure you’ve never even been in the game.”
His expression darkens, but there’s a heat in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Careful, Angel.”
“Or what?” I challenge, my voice soft but daring.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us crackling with tension. His jaw tightens, and I can see the effort it takes for him to pull back, to look away.
“Go to bed, Callie,” he says finally, his voice low and strained. “Before you say something you’ll regret.”
I should listen. I should walk away. But instead, I lean closer, my heart pounding. “What if I don’t regret it?”
His gaze snaps back to mine, sharp and searching. He looks like he’s on the edge of something—like we’re both on the edge of something—and I have no idea what’ll happen if we fall.
“Good night, Callie,” he says, his voice a warning and a promise all at once.
I stand slowly, my heart still racing as I head for the stairs. When I reach the top, I glance back to find him watching me, the note still clutched in his hand.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind is too full—of the past, the present, and the complicated man downstairs who somehow manages to be both infuriating and irresistible.
I replay our conversation over and over, the way his voice softened when he saw the note, the way his eyes darkened when I teased him. There’s so much he’s not saying, so much I want to ask. But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I ended up here—and why, despite everything, it feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be.