Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Callie
As I set the table, my hand betrays me with a visible tremor. The delicate Spanish porcelain—Mom’s treasured wedding gift from Dad—clinks against the glass tabletop as I carefully place each plate.
Damn it.
I pause, drawing in a slow breath, then arrange the silverware with military precision. Forks on the left, knives on the right, as if a perfect table setting might somehow organize the chaos. “Presentation matters, Callie,” Mom used to say. “It shows you care.”
If she could see me now, fussing over place settings for a fake date that's feeling less fake by the minute.
I can’t believe I offered to cook an intimate dinner for Luke.
My goal had been to create some much-needed distance with my rules, not toss them out there, and then invite him closer.
We could have just as easily had a re-do at Pete’s.
But, no, I had to open my mouth and suggest we needed ‘practice’.
What the fuck?
The wine glasses are next, the crystal catching the setting sun through the patio door, sending ribbons of light dancing over the tabletop. I exhale on a shaky laugh. There’s no need to be this rattled. It’s just Luke. Just dinner.
Just fake dating.
From the kitchen, the sound and aroma of roasting chicken permeates the air, the sizzle of butter melting into skin that's crisping to golden perfection, the scent of garlic, fresh rosemary, and thyme combining into a mouthwatering aroma.
Mom's recipe. Simple but foolproof. When I pulled it out earlier, I ran my fingertips over the worn recipe card, the edges soft from years of handling.
The paper was so thin between my fingers that it was almost translucent in spots, where butter or oil stains had made it nearly transparent.
Nikki has the same familiar handwriting, though she makes her loops bigger.
The oven timer gives a soft preliminary beep, letting me know there are thirty minutes left. I wipe my damp palms on my dress, the cotton smooth beneath my fingers, and try to ignore the way my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s desperate to escape.
This is for show, I remind myself. Part of the plan. But as I strike a match and watch the candles flicker to life, their glow spilling across the table I’ve fussed over for an hour, I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince anymore.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven, and I nearly drop the box of matches.
I shove them into a cabinet over the fridge and smooth my dress again, like that will help. For the fifth time tonight, I fight the urge to change clothes. But the casual navy wrap with just enough cleavage to be interesting will have to do.
I take a deep breath.
Then another.
And one more for good measure as I walk to the door, my pulse pounding like a warning. I rest my hand on the doorknob for a moment and shut my eyes, mouthing a quick prayer that I’m not making a huge mistake. Then I open the door.
Luke stands on my porch, holding a gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers and a bottle of wine.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a button-down black cotton shirt that enticingly stretches across his shoulders.
His boots are freshly polished, and his hair is still damp on the ends.
The scent of clean soap mingles with the sweetness of the flowers, and he looks so good I want to eat him up.
The tentative smile on that perfectly scruffy face weakens my knees.
I could fall for this man all over again.
“Right on time,” I say, clearing my throat as I step back to let him in.
“I aim to please.”
I take the flowers, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Heat sparks where our skin grazes. “Thank you. These are beautiful.”
“Picked them myself.” The tops of his cheeks are a bit pink. “From the field behind my mom’s house.”
“Really?” I raise a brow, surprised by the personal touch.
“You used to love wildflowers,” he says simply.
And there it is, that warm, gooey feeling in the pit of my stomach. He remembers.
I lead him to the kitchen, busying myself with arranging the wildflowers in a crystal vase my mother left me, while he finds the corkscrew in the drawer I point to.
The wine bottle gives a satisfying pop as he works the cork free, and then he grabs the goblets from the table, pouring two generous glasses.
We move around each other with a heightened awareness, like dancers learning a new routine.
Every accidental brush of arms or shoulders creates this electrifying sizzle; each motion carries an unspoken promise of something more.
The anticipation coils in my stomach, and I realize I’m along for the ride, whether I like it or not.
“Something smells amazing.” He’s near enough that his body heat radiates off him.
“My mom's roast chicken. Nothing fancy.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m too aware of his nearness and how it makes my pulse stutter.
“I remember your mom's cooking,” he says softly, eyes tracing the curve of my shoulder as he speaks. “She sometimes fed me when I came over to pick up Harper.”
The mention of his sister tugs at a thread of friction in the room, but I push past it, focusing on the small contact of his body brushing mine and the subtle fragrance of soap and wildflowers that clings to him.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t we take our wine to the living room while we wait?” I intend to go for casual, but I’m positive the slight quiver in my voice betrays me.
“Sure.” He hands me a glass, and our fingers touch again, lingering this time, a whisper of heat against my skin.
Tipping my head back, I meet his gaze, and he’s so focused on me, it’s like looking up to the sky and being warmed by the sun.
I take a slow sip of wine, letting the rich berry notes bloom across my tongue, all while sneaking glances at him over the crystal rim.
The subtle brush of his knee against mine makes my breath hitch.
His eyes darken, and the space between us seems to shrink, a magnetic pull neither of us can resist.
At the last second, I spin and cross to the couch, perching on the end, while he takes the other.
“So,” I say, setting my glass down and turning to face him fully, adjusting my posture like it matters. “How's the sheriff business going?”
Even as the words leave my lips, I’m aware of the quiet sizzle that hums between us, an undercurrent that promises there’s more to tonight than chicken and wine. But I forge on, desperate to get us back on track with this date, which is not really a date, but is quickly becoming a real, live date.
He chuckles.
God, even his laugh is sexy.
“Slow. Nothing like Chicago.”
“Do you miss it? The city?”
His expression shifts, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “Parts of it.”
I sense there’s more to the story, but before I can ask, the oven timer beeps its five-minute warning. Where in the world did the last twenty-five go? My stomach flutters as I realize how much I’ve been enjoying just being near him.
“Excuse me.” I busy myself with getting dinner on the table, but it’s a struggle to focus. Every glance at him makes my tummy do this funny dip, and the practicalities of plating the food and topping up drinks suddenly seem like a thin excuse to avoid admitting what’s happening.
And I’m not sure I want to admit what’s happening.
Once we’re seated across from each other, with the food between us, something shifts.
The conversation flows more easily than I expected.
We discuss the library, his new deputies, and town gossip.
We catch up. We talk about everyday things, like the stray cat I’ve seen wandering around town; he’s seen it too.
I laugh more than I have in weeks, my nerves replaced by a disarming warmth.
Every word, every happy curve of her lips, every slight touch is charged with something I can't name. Or maybe don’t want to.
But I find myself leaning toward him when he speaks, cataloging the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
And when our gazes lock, I glance away first, afraid he'll see the truth.
Oh, Lord. This isn’t a fake date at all.
“That was incredible,” Luke says, setting his napkin beside his empty plate. The candlelight catches the hopeful interest in his eyes, and something flutters in my stomach that has nothing to do with Mom's roast chicken.
We clean up together in companionable silence, his hands careful with the delicate dinnerware, our fingers occasionally brushing as we pass dishes between us. The domesticity of it feels dangerous, like we're playing house in a way that's becoming less pretend by the minute.
“Dessert in the living room?” I suggest gathering the fresh fruit and cream I prepared earlier. “More comfortable than these dining chairs.”
Once settled on the couch—this time with barely a breath of space between us—I hand him a dish of strawberries and peaches with a dollop of fresh cream.
A comfortable silence stretches between us as we savor the sweet fruit.
The evening has shifted somehow, the casual energy of dinner giving way to something more consequential, and Luke's eyes have that faraway look I noticed earlier when I mentioned his job in Chicago.
I watch him for a moment and see the way his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
“You never answered my question from before,” I say gently. “About Chicago. Do you really miss it?”
He takes the last bite, lips glistening from the cream. His hand lifts the wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid like he's searching for courage in its depths. Something in his expression makes me apprehensive.
“I miss the work,” he says finally, voice quieter than before. “The challenge, the rush of it. But I don't miss why I left.”
“Which was?” I ask gently, fearful of what he may say.
He hesitates, staring into the glass for what seems like forever. When he speaks again, his voice is filled with anguish. “My partner was killed six months ago.”