Chapter 6 #2
As if reading my thoughts, I notice Martha at a corner table, the town’s most notorious gossip holding court with three other women, their eyes tracking our entrance like heat-seeking missiles.
If this fake dating plan has any chance of working, it’s because of people like her, who’ll spread the word faster than social media ever could.
I also spot a few newbies, like Rachel, Travis Kincaid’s wife. Travis is older than me by about ten years, but I went to school with his younger brothers, Beau and Sawyer.
“There,” Callie says, nodding toward a table near the bar. “Harper and Kirk.”
I spot them immediately. Harper looks happy, laughing at something Kirk is saying.
He’s got his arm around her, possessive and comfortable, his fingers casually stroking her shoulder in that universal male gesture of ‘mine.’ They look like a couple, not like two people carrying on some torrid affair behind anyone’s back.
Is Callie all wrong about this? Or are they just better at hiding their guilt than I expected?
Either way, there’s something off about Kirk that sets my teeth on edge.
Maybe it’s the way his eyes keep darting around the room, like he’s constantly checking who might be watching.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask her one more time.
“Absolutely.” She grabs my arm, her grip tight. “Come on, date. Time to put on a show.”
As we make our way through the crowd, people notice us. We get a few whispers and plenty of open-mouthed stares, exactly what Callie wanted. Mission accomplished.
“Callie.” Harper jumps up from her seat, all smiles and enthusiasm, though I can see her lips wobbling. “Hey, Luke.” She throws her arms around me in a hug that’s a little too enthusiastic. “I didn’t expect to see you two together.”
An awkward silence stretches between us for three beats too long. I catch Harper shooting Kirk a look I can’t quite decipher. It appears to be part warning, part something else.
He shifts in his seat, his posture stiffening as he finally looks at Callie.
The muscles in her arm tense under my hand, and I give her a gentle squeeze, a silent reminder that we’re in this together, even if this charade is already going off the rails.
“Callie, that dress is gorgeous on you. I don’t think I’ve seen it before. I think you’re the best-dressed person in this joint. You clean up nice, too, big brother.”
Regardless of her surprise, Harper is smiling, and I glance at Callie, who seems confused. This isn’t the reaction she was expecting. Harper is supposed to be jealous, uncomfortable. Instead, she’s acting like she might be happy about this development.
Harper’s eyes dart back and forth between us, wide, beseeching. I give her a look, mentally telling her to take it down a notch.
Kirk, on the other hand, has joined us and is standing behind Harper, hands shoved in his pocket, eyes to the floor, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Kirk, I assume.” I stick out my hand. It takes him a second to acknowledge me. I shake his hand, noting the weak grip and the way he won’t glance at Callie.
“We should get a table,” Callie says, her smile brittle. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your evening.”
“Don’t be silly,” Harper insists. “Sit with us. That’s okay with you, right, Kirk?”
Kirk makes a noncommittal grunting sound but signals the waitress for another round and hurries back to their table. Yeah, he’s definitely not comfortable with this situation.
Callie looks like she wants to puke. The color drains from her face so quickly, I worry she might actually be sick.
This isn’t how she imagined this confrontation going; that much is clear from the way her shoulders have drawn up.
I recognize that stance from interrogation rooms back in Chicago.
That moment when someone’s carefully constructed scenario falls apart in real time.
It suddenly feels too crowded, with the scent of beer and perfume mingling in a way that reminds me of dive bars where nothing good ever happens after midnight.
But before I can say a word, Harper grabs her arm and practically drags her over, pushing her into the booth.
We squeeze into the small space; Callie’s thigh pressed snug against mine on the narrow bench seat. She’s tense, coiled like a spring, and I can practically taste the disappointment radiating off her. Her plan isn’t working quite the way she wanted.
“So,” Harper leans forward eagerly, “how did this happen? When did this happen? You’ve been back in town for what, a month?”
Callie’s face is white. Her jaw is tense. Kirk is looking a little more interested in the conversation, or in her specifically, but she’s not directing any attention whatsoever in his direction. I am though. What the hell did she see in this guy? What does Harper see in him?
“We just met up,” Callie says with a smile that could cut glass.
“Maybe this will be like a second-chance love story. Like something out of a movie,” Harper gushes. “Bad boy returns to town and falls for his sister’s friend. At least the age difference isn’t such a big deal now. Did you know she had a thing for you when we were kids?”
Callie places her hand on my thigh under the table, her fingers digging in just hard enough to leave marks. I cover her hand with mine, partly to play the part and partly to stop her from drawing blood through my jeans.
The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me.
Apparently, Callie never told Harper about our night together, so she thinks this year's hookup is romantic while Callie is using our fake relationship as a weapon. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying not to think about how good Callie’s hand feels on my leg, how her perfume is making me dizzy with memories of her.
In the noisy bar, the mostly one-sided conversation continues, forced and awkward, with Harper firing questions like she’s conducting an interview.
“So where did you first run into each other?” she asks, twirling her straw in her drink.
“Jogging,” Callie answers, her voice brittle as glass.
“That’s so romantic,” Harper gushes, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Reconnecting after all these years.”
What the fuck? Harper thinks jogging is romantic?
Meanwhile, Kirk nurses his beer, each sip longer than the last, saying nothing but watching Callie with an intensity that makes me want to punch him.
His eyes track her movements. The nervous way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how she keeps rearranging the silverware.
It’s the look of a man who’s lost something he thought was his.
I shift closer to Callie, sliding my arm along the back of the booth behind her shoulders, not touching but making a statement. Kirk’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Kirk puts his beer down on the table with a little too much force, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. The hollow thunk against the wood cuts through Harper’s latest question about whether I’ve run into Travis Kinkaid yet.
“Callie, can we talk for a moment?” he cuts in, sharp enough to silence Harper mid-sentence. There’s something in his tone—possessiveness mixed with desperation—that tells me everything I need to know about what really happened between them.
Harper’s smile falters, her eyes darting between Kirk and Callie like she’s watching a tennis match she suddenly realizes she doesn’t want to see the end of.
“We should dance.” Callie suddenly stands, bumping the table and tugging on my hand. “Come on, Luke. Let’s see if we fit together.” Her eyes widen a fraction before she spins away, probably remembering, just like I am, how perfectly we fit together.
The band has started their first set, a slow country ballad that’s got half the bar swaying together on the dance floor. I follow Callie’s rushed footsteps into the center of the crowd before slowing us down and pulling her into my arms as though we’ve done this a thousand times before.
But we haven’t. We had one night of fumbling passion in the back of a stolen truck.
That’s it. There’s no muscle memory, no comfortable rhythm to fall into.
She’s stiff in my arms, going through the motions but not really there.
Close enough that the heat radiating through that flowery dress is making my cock antsy, but her mind might as well be in another county.
I try to guide her with gentle pressure at the small of her back, but she resists even that small intimacy, like she’s afraid letting go even an inch will reveal something she’s not ready to face.
The country singer croons about second chances and roads not taken. Long ago, I memorized every curve in the darkness of that truck. Now, under these dim bar lights with dozens of eyes on us, she’s a stranger wearing the face of a girl I once knew.
“You need to relax,” I murmur into Callie’s ear.
“I am relaxed.”
“This isn’t working.”
“It’s working fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just keep dancing.”
When the song ends, we separate immediately, like we can’t wait to put distance between us.
“Let’s get some air,” I suggest, but she shakes her head.
“I need another drink.”
She heads straight for the bar, and I follow, standing silently behind her while she orders a shot of tequila. She drowns that one. Then another. And another.
“Callie,” I warn, but she waves me off.
“I’m fine. I’m having fun. Aren’t you having fun, honey?”
She’s not fine. She’s hurt and disappointed and trying to numb it with booze. I’ve seen this before, hell, I’ve been this before. It doesn’t end well. But before I can stop her, she’s dragging me back to the dance floor for a faster song.
This time she’s looser, more animated, but also sloppier.
The tequila has melted something in her, but what’s emerged isn’t joy; it's raw determination tinged with hurt. She’s grinding against me in a way that would be sexy if it wasn’t so desperate, her hips moving to a rhythm that doesn’t match the music.
Over her shoulder, I see Harper watching us, her expression a complicated mix of confusion and concern.
Kirk’s eyes are narrowed, his hand clenched around his beer bottle so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
Whatever Callie hoped to accomplish tonight, it’s not happening.
Instead, we’re putting on a show that’s painful to perform and probably worse to watch.
“Callie,” I try again, but she silences me by pulling my head down and kissing me hard, and it’s a total disaster.
Her lips are too aggressive, her tongue too insistent.
Our teeth clack together almost painfully.
When we break apart this time, her eyes are red-rimmed and filled with disappointment and the realization that this isn’t working the way she’d hoped.
“I want to go home,” she says quietly.
I search her face, finding nothing but exhaustion and disappointment in her eyes.
The fierce, confident woman who stormed into my life again has momentarily vanished, leaving behind someone smaller, more vulnerable.
It hits me then. This isn’t just about making Harper and Kirk jealous.
This is about Callie proving something to herself.
And watching that plan crumble is breaking something inside her that I suddenly, desperately want to protect.
“Okay. Give me your keys,” I say gently, not touching her but close enough that she could lean into me if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
The drive back to her place is more awkward than the drive to the bar. She’s quiet, deflated, staring out the passenger window at the dark Texas landscape rushing by.
The radio plays softly between us, some melancholy country song about regrets and lost chances that feels too on-the-nose for comfort tonight.
I want to say something, anything, but I don’t know what.
Back in Chicago, I could talk down armed suspects and negotiate hostage situations, but here, with this woman who knew me before I knew myself, words fail me completely.
The headlights catch on a faded billboard for Sweet as Sin Bakery at the edge of town, and I’m reminded why we started this charade in the first place. But sitting here with Callie’s profile illuminated by passing streetlights, those reasons are flimsy compared to what’s happening here.
When I pull into her driveway, she finally turns her defeated gaze my way. “That was terrible.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I’m sorry. I thought...” She sighs deeply, and her shoulders slump. “I don’t know what I thought.”
I turn off the engine, suddenly reluctant to end this disaster of an evening. “Maybe we just need practice.”
She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Practice at fake dating? God, that’s depressing.”
“Callie—”
“Thanks for trying,” she interrupts, already opening her door. “I’ll figure something else out.”
She leans over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, for the benefit of nosy neighbors, I assume, but something shifts in me, a decision made in microseconds.
Maybe it’s the lingering scent of her perfume, or the way the moonlight catches in her hair, or simply that I’m tired of pretending that my feelings for her are just part of an act.
Whatever it is, I turn my head at the last second, and her mouth lands on mine.
Her lips are soft as pillows, and for a moment, we don’t move; we just enjoy the connection, the pressure, our breaths mingling.
This isn’t like the forced performance at Pete’s, with its clashing teeth and mismatched rhythms. This is something else entirely, something real and raw that cuts through the alcohol and disappointment of the evening.
It’s like finding a piece of myself I didn’t realize was missing, right here in her car, with the engine ticking as it cools and the distant sound of cicadas creating a symphony outside.
For the first time since coming back to Cupid’s Creek, I’m almost certain this is where I’m supposed to be.
When she slowly opens her mouth, I slip my tongue out to test the waters. The spark that was missing on the dance floor shoots through me as she whimpers and her fist curls in my shirt, pulling me closer.
She sucks on my tongue, and I groan deeply, leaning in to devour her. We kiss like it’s been years since we last tasted each other. When I lift my head to take a much-needed breath and open my eyes, I’m staring into ones that are just as dilated and surprised as I’m sure mine are.
But then she’s pulling away, scrambling out of her own car, and rushing toward her front door without looking back.