12. Elodie
TWELVE
ELODIE
The moment Levi left, the tension was unbearable.
Callum stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me with that unreadable, broody expression. He should have left. He should have taken the out, turned right around, and walked home.
But he didn’t.
He stayed, and I refused to be the first one to break, so I turned and walked away.
I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to move and ignore the heat simmering beneath my skin. I wasn’t about to let some broody, muscle-bound grump make me flustered when I had a to-do list a mile long.
I spun on my heel, heading toward the barn, throwing him a glance over my shoulder. “You coming, or are you just going to stand there and glare at me all day?”
Callum hesitated and his jaw ticced.
Then, after a slow inhale, he exhaled hard through his nose and followed.
I grinned. That’s what I thought.
The heavy thud of his boots sounded behind me as I crossed the field toward the old barn. The moment I stepped inside, I was hit by the thick, heady scent of hay, aged wood, and something richer, darker—the unmistakable scent of Callum.
Something about his cologne mixed with the earthiness of the barn was unfair. Like someone had bottled pure testosterone and bad decisions and let it seep into my bloodstream.
I pushed the feeling aside, propping my hands on my hips as I surveyed the space.
“This is where I want to set up the farm stand,” I announced, tapping my fingers against the clipboard in my hand. “We’ll need a register here, some shelving along the back, and space for display crates.”
I turned toward Callum just in time to catch his gaze dragging over the room—not in a casual way, but in a way that looked ... familiar. Like he was remembering something.
Callum hovered in the entrance, his broad frame silhouetted against the daylight. He looked like he was regretting his choices, but I didn’t give him the opportunity to change his mind.
I reached for the nearest crate, shoving aside an old, dusty tarp. “All this junk needs to be cleared out.”
I felt his gaze on me, heavy and assessing. Cal didn’t move or speak. After a beat, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders back.
And then—he worked. For all his grumbling, Callum worked .
He might be broody, miserable, and allergic to fun, but damn, when he put his body to something, he put his whole body into it.
Thick forearms flexed. Broad shoulders shifted under the pull of each lift. Muscles contracted with each haul of heavy crates and long-forgotten equipment.
I should not have been watching, but I was. Not discreetly either.
I let myself look, let my eyes drag over him like I had every right to. Because Jesus —watching him work, watching him use all that power, that strength, and knowing exactly how it would feel pressed against me?
It did things to me.
Callum dropped a crate with a loud thud, stretching his neck. His gray tee was damp with sweat and clung to every hard ridge of his stomach. He caught me looking and narrowed his eyes.
“What?” I asked innocently, pretending to catalog and sort through the items on my clipboard.
He grunted, shaking his head before grabbing another heavy bin. The muscles in his arms rippled.
My mouth went dry.
I’d never seen Callum Blackwood fight, but I’d heard the stories from my sisters.
He was trained to take down enemies before they even saw him coming.
A man who moved through war zones with the kind of quiet, lethal precision that made people hesitate before crossing him.
And now, here he was—hauling crates like they weighed nothing, scarred muscles shifting beneath sun-warmed skin, every inch of him honed for battle.
I hadn’t meant to objectify him, but good lord, that man was made to carry things.
He moved with effortless power, rolling a shoulder before crouching low and bracing thick, corded arms around the wooden frame. His fingers flexed, forearms taut, veins rising as he lifted like it was nothing.
Muscles pulled, his shirt stretching tight across his back, and I was not prepared.
Warmth unfurled in my stomach, molten and slow, as I watched him carry the heavy crates to the door and set them down outside of the barn, just as I’d asked.
Then he turned, shaking out the tension in his arms. His jeans rode low on his hips as he worked. The heat inside the barn turned thick and heavy, beads of sweat trailing the ridges of his throat.
A lump formed in my throat. Callum should never have been in that barn.
But damn , did he look good in it.
We kept working, the quiet stretching long between us, the space between us shrinking by the minute. Callum didn’t just move things. He dominated the space, a storm rolling through the barn, determined and commanding, like he belonged there.
And maybe, in some way, he did.
I watched as his fingers absently traced the worn wooden beam beside him, hand gliding over it in a way that almost felt ... reverent.
Like he was ruminating over the lost possibilities.
I blinked, watching him, as a stark realization washed over me. He wants it for himself.
I swallowed hard, wrapping my brain around the fact that I’d possibly uncovered the reason Cal Blackwood was so contentious toward me. Maybe he’d wanted the farm for himself and my restoration plan had gotten in his way.
I didn’t say a word. Instead, I yanked a bundle of rope from a dusty crate. “This needs to be tossed,” I said, absently throwing it in his direction.
He caught it, scowling. “You needed me here for this? ”
“What can I say?” I grinned. “Turns out I like watching you lift heavy things.”
Callum sighed through his nose. “Christ, woman.”
I smirked and turned back to the stack of crates, reaching for a particularly large one. But the moment I bent over to grab it, Callum was suddenly there, chest at my back, his arms bracketing mine as he reached for it first.
Heat poured off him.
I froze, hands still on the crate, my heart slamming against my ribs, but he didn’t move.
Neither did I. I just stared at the tattoos inked across the back of his hand.
I could feel every inch of him behind me—broad chest, solid thighs, the brush of his stomach against my lower back. He hadn’t meant to get this close. It had just happened, and now we were both standing there, breathing like we had just run across the field.
“Move,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t.
Instead, I turned my head slightly, my pulse hammering as I peeked just enough to catch his expression, and fuck .
His gaze was heavy, heated, locked on my mouth like he was barely holding himself back.
I licked my lips, which was a mistake. His hands flexed, grip tightening around the edges of the crate, his chest rising and falling in a way that made my thighs press together.
I wanted to press into him and feel all that strength against me.
Instead, I took a slow breath. “You’re staring,” I whispered.
Callum’s jaw ticced. His nostrils flared, but he didn’t move, and neither did I.
The barn was hot as hell, the summer heat pressing in, and I could feel sweat prickling at the back of my neck.
I cleared my throat. “Water break,” I muttered, ducking from his embrace and adding distance between us so I could breathe.
I reached for the cooler near the barn entrance and cracked open a water bottle. I tilted my head back as I drank deep, desperate for the relief. A stray drop escaped, slipping down my chin, trailing the column of my throat.
I didn’t think anything of it, until I felt him watching.
Slow. Intense.
His eyes moved over me like he wanted to lick the drop from my skin.
My breath hitched. My pulse jumped.
I lowered the bottle, swiping my thumb across my damp lower lip, my tongue darting out to catch the moisture.
His hands curled into fists like he was physically restraining himself from tearing me apart.
But I didn’t smile or tease—I just stared right back.
Breaking the spell, I twisted the cap onto my water bottle and dropped it back into the cooler with a loud thunk .
We had work to do. Old brooms and rogue tools were shoved in every nook and cranny of the barn. Everything needed to be cleared and gone through. I didn’t have time for sexy staring contests with a man who was waiting for my downfall.
We worked in heavy silence. The huge barn shrank around us as we practically ignored each other.
When my hands became caked in dust and grime, I reached for the old hose coiled near the barn entrance, twisting the spigot with more force than necessary.
The second I lifted it, a rogue spray shot from a crack in the hose, dousing me in an icy stream before I could jerk it away .
Water sprayed everywhere—over the dusty barn floor, over the crate, and all down the front of my shirt.
I gasped at the sudden chill of the icy water, the white fabric instantly clinging to my skin.
Callum cursed, and I looked up to find him staring again.
Not at my face, but at my tits, because, of course, the thin, soaked fabric of my tee was obscenely clinging to my skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t, because Callum looked wrecked .
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fists clenching at his sides like he physically had to stop himself from reaching for me. His pupils were blown, jaw locked so tight it could have cracked.
The air between us ignited.
Heat licked up my spine, fire spreading low in my belly as Callum’s eyes dragged over me, lingering, devouring.
I knew exactly what he was thinking. I could feel it, and I wanted him to do it.
I had never been so attracted to a man I barely knew, but something about Cal seemed to short-circuit my brain. He exuded confidence and capability—like he was the kind of man who knew how to keep a woman safe in and outside the bedroom.
He was nothing like any other man I’d known—least of all my buttoned-up, cheating-ass ex.
What was his name again? Oh, right. No one cares.
Callum took a sharp step back, like distance was the only thing saving him. “Fucking hell.”
I tilted my head, playful and teasing, despite the wild pulse beating at my throat. “Something wrong? ”
Callum didn’t answer. Just exhaled, hard and uneven, dragging a hand through his already mussed hair.
His fingers flexed at his sides again, like he was fighting himself.
And, damn it, I wanted him to lose that fight.
I took a slow, measured step forward, erasing the distance between us.
His nostrils flared.
I gestured between our bodies. “Are you going to do something about this?” My challenge was barely above a whisper.
Callum’s eyes flicked to my mouth, and then, in the span of a breath, he was on me.
His hands grabbed my waist, his body caging me against the stacked crates as his mouth crashed against mine.
Hot.
Hard.
Unyielding.
I gasped, parting for him immediately, and Callum groaned into me. It wasn’t a soft kiss. Not tentative. Not testing. It was fire and frustration, all sharp teeth and a rough, claiming pull—like he’d been holding back and finally let go.
Finally.
His fingers dug into my hips, like he needed to anchor himself. I pressed forward, arms winding around his neck, drinking him in, breathing him in.
A rumble came from deep in his chest, and I felt it everywhere.
I fisted his T-shirt, pulling him closer.
Callum growled, pressing me back against a beam. The feel of him—hard muscle, solid heat, pure want—sent a pulse of fire straight through me.
His tongue swept over mine, and I whimpered, my thighs clenching.
Callum groaned like he felt it, too, one hand sliding down, gripping my hip, and dragging me flush against him.
His cock was thick and hard, pressing against my stomach, and I wanted him everywhere.
Wanted his hands up my shirt. Wanted his mouth lower. Wanted to sink against him and never come up for air.
But just as suddenly as it happened, Callum ripped himself away, like he had just realized what he had done. His breaths were ragged, his hands still gripping my hips, like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to.
I licked my swollen lips, swallowing past the ache in my chest. His eyes were still on my mouth, still hungry. He took another step back, and his hands dropped.
Cal ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “Fuck.”
I just smiled, because, yeah. He was so fucked.
And so was I.