Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
MCGREGOR
“ W hat are you thinking?” I ask.
She looks down, shaking her head. Guilt flashes across her face.
It figures that I would fall head over heels for a woman who thinks I’m somebody else … pretending to be me. What world does that even make sense in?
My mind races back to the love letters exchanged between Mack and Callie. I thought I had a decent grasp on their knowledge of one another. I never factored emails into the mix. When I excused myself to the kitchen, I texted Mack, furious for clarification. The son-of-a-bitch has yet to respond.
This is such a mess. And the worst part is the thought of hurting Callie in any way. But I know it’s already too late for that.
If she had just walked out, taken a clue when she first showed up at my door.
But the more we talk, the more I stare at her, inhabit the same space with her, breathe in her fragrance and her air, the more keenly aware I become that I’m giving away little pieces of myself to her with each interaction.
Would it be so bad if I carried on Mack’s ruse for a little longer?
See where it leads? The questions tear me up because I’m not that kind of man …
ever . But if what she believes about the guy she’s been corresponding with fits who I am, and I feel these powerful emotions for her, could anyone fault me for wanting to settle into a happily ever after?
Even entertaining these thoughts makes my stomach churn. Yet, I can’t help myself. Because my first look at Callie was like a shot of lightning, more powerful and life-changing than anything I’ve ever felt before. I can’t let Mack screw this up for me.
Callie sits at the bar, and I realize what a bastard I’ve been since she walked through the door. “Sorry about my lack of manners tonight,” I apologize. “But being in the same room with you is overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming?” she asks, arching her brow.
I nod, no longer trusting my words. Especially when it comes to explaining what I feel when I’m around her.
I take a seat at the bar next to her, turning so my knees point towards her, enough distance between us to keep my self-control from completely fraying. But still close enough to feel the unmistakable smolder that comes with her physical presence. I can’t get enough of it, like a moth to the flame.
“Change of subject,” I order sternly, fighting against what this woman does to me. “How do you like Hollister?”
She shrugs. “Just like I remembered.”
“Wait, you’ve been here before?”
Guilt flashes across her face for a second time, in equal proportion to the relief that washes over me. I’m not the only one keeping secrets. “Yes, I’ve been here before.”
“Huh,” I remark, taking a sip of my iced tea. “Weird. This place is pretty far off the beaten track.”
“A good friend of mine lives up here.”
“Wonder if I know them.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs, pressing her lips together and making it clear she doesn’t want to say more.
Curiosity grips me. But that’s rich coming from a man pretending to be the guy who stole his identity for a pretty face. Okay, a drop-dead gorgeous face that I could, for once in my rootless, shiftless life, imagine waking up next to happily for the rest of my days.
It’s a new feeling for me. An unprecedented thought. It scares the shit out of me.
“The cowboy hat surprises me,” she says with a laugh, nodding at my headwear. “And your very slight Hispanic accent is sexy.”
Do I have an accent? Never thought about it before.
I remove the hat, internally chastising myself.
It’s not polite to wear hats inside, though I do it more often than I mean to because of living alone with no one to hold me accountable.
I run my fingers through my hair, ruffling it to offset hat head.
“You mentioned you’ve been sober for the past year and a half. I remember you talking about this in your emails, but I didn’t know it had been that long.”
Damn Mack! He obviously stole far more than my image. It’s a good thing he’s on the road because I’d ring his neck if he were here.
“How’s sobriety going for you?”
“Most days, it’s not a problem. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t sometimes feel tempted to take a drink.” Like right fucking now!
“Makes sense, especially if you’re still dealing with the stuff that made you start drinking in the first place,” Callie observes.
Her words are simple, yet profound. “That’s one way to put it.”
She takes another sip of her sweet tea.
“Is it okay?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was sitting on the porch in Alabama, drinking my Great-Auntie Myrtel’s tea.”
“Your Great-Auntie Myrtel’s? I doubt it can be that good.”
“Well, I approve,” Callie says with a sunshiny grin, her bubblegum pink tongue darting out to wet her full bottom lip.
My insides groan at the gesture. All I can think about is leaning forward to taste her mouth, suck her bottom lip between mine, and tease her with my tongue.
She catches me staring, her cheeks warming. Yep, guilty as charged and almost unrepentant.
“Has letter writing helped with your sobriety journey?” she asks.
That’s a great question. Though I’m the wrong guy to ask. A rogue thought enters my head, darting straight for my tongue before I think better of it. “Any way I could get you to quit talking about those letters and start focusing on the present? You and me?”
The question says it all. I’m struggling with a way to move her past her ill-placed crush on Mack over to whatever’s blooming between us in the present. After all, those damn letters are the biggest single obstacle standing in our way.
I’ve got the man’s cabin, and I can even settle into “Mack” as a nickname, considering all my buddies call me McGregor anyway.
And seeing as the timeline Mack fed her sounds like my own, that wouldn’t be a problem, either.
But those goddamned letters and emails could spell out my misery if she continues to fixate on them.
“But your letters were beautiful, Mack. They’re half the reason I’m here.”
Well, there goes my heart … I frown, furrowing my brows.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
I open my mouth to correct, “I’m not Mack.” But something stops me—yearning. I need this woman.
Trying to find a way to be both straightforward and extend our conversation without her running off angrily, I observe, “The letters aren’t an accurate reflection of who I am, Callie. I don’t want you to be misled by them.”
“What do you mean?”
“They served their purpose. But I don’t want to hear about them anymore, alright?” My voice comes out like a growl.
Callie’s eyes round, and her eyebrows arch, the sunny expression wiped from her face. “Well, you don’t have to be such a grouch about it.”
“Maybe not, but I’m serious, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, pressing her lips tightly together. “You know, if this isn’t a good surprise, I can leave. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
“You’re not upsetting me,” I murmur gruffly, working to soften my expression. “Things have just been hectic lately.”
“Why?”
I open my mouth, ready to discuss moving.
But it hits me like a ton of bricks. I can’t explain that to her either because she’s been addressing letters to this cabin for months now, and God only knows what Mack told her about how long he’s lived here.
Deception curls around me like a vice-grip.
Before I know it, I’ll be neck-deep in somebody else’s lies.
“There’s that sour expression again. Maybe I’d better go,” the gorgeous black woman says, hopping to her feet.
I should let her. It would be the best outcome for both of us. After all, what I said earlier is true. She can do better than me.
But my gut nudges me. So does the ache behind my ribs. If she leaves now, I will always regret it.
“Sorry,” I apologize, the words stinging my mouth. I’m not used to admitting when I’m wrong, but there’s no other way. “I can be grumpy as hell sometimes. Especially when something unexpected happens?—”
“Something you don’t want to happen.” She cuts me off with a dazzling smile that contradicts her words.
“That’s not it at all,” I grumble, stepping forward. She smells like roses and honey, and everything good in the world. I wonder if that much goodness might counteract my bad. “Even when things I want show up, I tend to be an asshole about it.” My voice drops at the end, matching my resignation.
“And why’s that?”
Aware we’re not in letter-writing territory, I determine to take advantage of this chance to form a real intimacy with her.
One that isn’t tainted by Mack’s charlatan antics.
I run a hand through my hair, my stomach a black pit as I realize intimacy requires trust and confiding. I suck in both these areas.
Swallowing loudly, I confess, “Because I grew up in an alcoholic home. Lots of fighting and violence. Verbal, physical, emotional. The only constant was the unpredictability. If that makes sense?”
She nods, licking her bottom lip. My eyes trace the move, simmering with longing.
“I learned young never to count on anything or anyone. Never make future plans. Always expect the worst, and no other possible outcome because hope hurt too much.”
She listens conscientiously, asking, “How do you think those experiences continue to impact you today?”
“Are you sure you’re a personal shopper and stylist and not a psychologist?” I tease. I know about her career from her Mountain Mates profile.
She giggles, shaking her head. The moment feels genuine, heartwarming. I want more moments like this with Callie. I need to make her laugh again.
I reflect for a second before answering, “I tend to be a darker thinker than I should be, a pessimist. And I’m still a shitty planner. Maybe that’s why I chose the military, because it came with firm regimentation and things laid out for me.”
“Your childhood had to be challenging. I’m sorry you went through that,” she says, her face and voice softening. “I grew up in a two-parent household. My childhood was blessed compared to so many of my friends. I can’t imagine what it was like for you …”
“Pure chaos,” I mutter. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because I want you to have a better understanding of who I am and how I operate. And I want you to understand why the unexpected, even the good unexpected, screws with me.”
She nods. “And you’re also telling me because you want to clue me in on things you left out of your letters and emails?”
This again? Is she ever going to let this subject go?
Alarm tightens her features. “Oops,” she says, covering her mouth. “I’m sorry. You specifically said you didn’t want to talk about those again.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug. “Human nature. Tell someone they can’t do something, and it’s all they can think about.” Like me, trying not to stare at her plump lips and fantasize about her taste.