Chapter 3
Danielle
Cal walks toward me holding a strawberry smoothie for me and a cup of coffee for himself.
When he hands it over, our eyes meet, and for a beat, the world narrows. His eyes are impossibly blue, like the sky after a summer storm—calm, clear, endless. The kind of blue that makes you forget what you were about to say. And oddly, it stirs something familiar.
Not a memory exactly. More like a feeling. Like I’ve looked into those eyes before, even though I know I haven’t.
“Elle?”
“Huh?” I blink, snapping out of it. “Sorry… you caught me.”
“Caught you?” he asks, a flicker of amusement in his voice.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, still unsettled. “I just had this weird sense of déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before... with you.”
"Have you…" he says, pausing for a beat, "been dreaming about me?" One eyebrow arches as a smirk plays on his lips.
"Oh, please," I say with a soft chuckle. "You wish."
Cal laughs, the sound low and easy. “Can you blame me for asking? You did look at me like I stepped out of a dream.”
“More like a glitch in the Matrix,” I tease, taking a sip of the smoothie. “Delicious, by the way.”
He watches me for a second, his expression softening. “Are you talking about the drink… or me in your dreams?”
I shake my head, unable to keep from smiling. The strange sense of familiarity begins to fade, replaced by a pull, something tempting. A feeling that seems to be the start of something special.
Cal sits next to me on the bench, the sleeve of his T-shirt pulled snug across his arm, revealing the detailed ink that spirals from his wrist to his shoulder. I try not to stare, but the artwork draws me in—layered, personal, and intricate.
"Tell me about your tattoos," I say, leaning just a little closer, unable to stop my eyes from tracing the shapes. “There’s a story here. I can feel it.”
He glances down at his arm and gives a small, thoughtful smile. “Yeah… there’s a few.”
He turns his wrist slightly, revealing the first part. "These are my uncle’s dog tags," he says. "He fought in the Gulf War. I had them inked exactly as they were. Same shape, same chain, even his name and number."
"Nathan Reed," I say quietly. “That’s… incredibly sweet.” And insanely attractive, I want to add, but don't. A man who honors his family like that? Dangerous levels of swoon.
He points to the flag just above. “That flows into the American flag. Had it done like it’s rippling in the wind. I wanted it to feel alive, you know? Not just a symbol, but a reminder.”
God, he’s humble too. There’s something about the quiet pride in his voice that makes me want to scoot just a little closer.
He shifts to show the mid-section of his arm. “That’s the eagle,” he says. “Wings half-spread, claws gripping arrows and olive branches. It’s strength and peace, both things I’ve had to fight for.”
I smile softly. “That might be the most powerful metaphor I’ve ever heard.” And sexy. Definitely sexy.
Cal chuckles. “Above that, there’s a soldier in silhouette.
I wanted something that showed sacrifice, but not in a loud way.
” His gaze shifts for a moment, to the next tattoo.
“And below that," he continues, "there’s a shield. Something that symbolizes protection and duty. A shield worn by those who protect, without needing to say a word.”
I nod, taking in the image of the shield, the sharp lines and bold design. It’s clear it’s a deeply personal symbol, and I don’t need to ask him to explain it.
“You’ve thought this through,” I say. “Every inch.”
“Yeah.” His voice drops slightly. “I didn’t want tattoos just to have them. They all mean something.”
He turns a little, pulling the sleeve up so I can see part of shoulder. A WWII-era fighter plane cuts across a sky of shaded clouds. “That’s for soaring above the things that try to drag you down,” he says, then gestures to the words. “Semper Fi. My grandfather was a Marine.”
There’s a quiet pride in his voice, but no ego. It only makes him more attractive, if that's even possible. Magnetic, grounded, respectful, strong. I didn’t know that combination still existed in the wild.
Then something catches my eye, just above his wrist, along the inside of his forearm. Inked there in clean, deliberate script are the words: She’s All I Have.
I point to it gently. “And what about that one?”
Cal glances at it, and then a flicker of something unreadable passes through his eyes. “This was my first," he says. "I had an accident at work, and I got it to cover up the scar."
"You're so vain," I say, grinning and meeting his gaze.
"I actually did it because I couldn't look at it without feeling guilty. It's a long story. One for another time.”
Something about the way he said it makes me realize there's a lot more to Cal than even this art can tell, and somehow I already know his story is one worth hearing.
I look at his tattooed arm again, every piece telling a different chapter of his life, and think—not for the first time—Lord help me, this man is incredible.
***
"Where have you been?" Tina’s stern words greet me the moment I step inside.
"You sound just like I imagine a mom would if I’d ever had one to come home late to."
"I was about to call the police to come find you," she says, chuckling a bit—but something tells me she’s only half-joking. "We don’t exactly know our neighbor, and the idea of you going into the woods with him? Let’s just say my mind spiraled straight into a true crime documentary."
"Knowing you," I say, raising a brow, "I’m guessing it was a full two-hour special with reenactments and a dramatic voiceover."
She snorts. "Exactly. So… where were you?" The furrow between her brows eases as she crosses her arms, waiting.
"We raced to the finish line, and he lost, so he bought me a smoothie in town."
"Ooh, do tell," she says, her tone instantly lighter.
"I think he's amazing," I say, not meeting her gaze.
"Danielle Elise Keaton," she says, eyes going wide, "are you catching feelings for the ruggedly good-looking man next door?"
"No," I say, though even as the word leaves my mouth, I wonder if I’m lying. "I just think he’s really cool. He told me all about his tattoos. The important ones, anyway."
"I know you, Elle," she reminds me, pointing a finger at me like a warning. "Maybe better than you know yourself. And I know that look. A look I haven’t seen since you met that dummy Craig back in college. God, has it really been that long since you had a boyfriend? I didn’t realize how deep into a full-on drought season we both are. "
"Anyway," I say, trying to steer her back on track.
"You’ve got that look," she insists, nodding like a smug psychic who just nailed her first prediction. She presses her lips together for emphasis. "You like him."
"He's really sweet," I say, turning my face away so I can hold onto the memory—him sitting beside me, his thigh brushing mine, the quiet weight of his arm as he pointed out each tattoo. The words inked into his skin: She’s all I have.
Something shifts in my chest, sudden and sharp. My heartbeat picks up, thudding hard against my ribs. Izzy was all I had. And she was violently torn away from me.
"Elle. Earth to Elle," Tina's voice cuts through the haze, distant for a split second before snapping me back from the edge of the worst moment of my life.
"Now you’ve got another look," she says softly, her teasing replaced by something more tender. "You’re thinking about Izzy."
"You’re right," I whisper, the words catching a little in my throat. "You know me better than I know myself."
***
"You've been in a brown study for days, Elle," Tina says, staring at me for a second, her brow furrowing with that familiar concern. "Your mind's been lost in some deep place, and you haven’t come up for air."
I blink at her, confused. "A brown study? What the heck is a brown study?"
Tina gives a soft laugh, shaking her head. "It’s a term my grandmother used to use. She’d say someone was in a ‘brown study’ when they were so wrapped up in their own thoughts, they might as well have vanished from the world for a while. Deep, but kind of melancholy, you know?"
I look away, feeling the weight of her words. I haven't exactly been the most present lately, my mind swirling in a haze of missing Izzy, wishing there was something I could’ve done. But I don’t want to go down that path again.
"Come on, Elle," Tina says, her tone shifting to something lighter. "I know it’s hard, but you've gotta snap out of it. You can't spend your days locked in your head. That's not how you're gonna find Izzy."
I shift uncomfortably, my mind still stuck on the same thing. It’s been too long, and I’ve been too passive.
“I know you’re right,” I say, my voice a little thicker than usual. "But I'm getting out of it. I just… I need to take action. I'll start making some calls to hire a private investigator. They’ll find her, Tina. They’ll find my sister.”
She looks at me, her expression determined. "I'm with you. Just tell me what you need."
I nod, the weight in my chest lifting slightly, but my plan solidifying. “You know, I’ve been stuck on how to do this for so long. I’ve been holding back, afraid of what I might find. I can’t keep waiting. I need to know what happened."
The light knock on the front door serves to snap me out of that brown study Tina described.
"Are you expecting anyone?" Tina asks, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow.
"I only know one person in town," I remind her, my voice almost distracted.
"Cal," we both say in unison.
She walks to the door and swings it open.
It's him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a relaxed confidence in his stance that makes my heart do a little flip.
He's wearing jeans, a crisp white T-shirt and work boots.
He's holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, his other hand casually resting on the doorframe as he smiles at Tina.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and warm, his eyes flicking over to me, lingering a moment longer than necessary.