Chapter 24
Cal
"Meghan," I say, trying to summon the last bit of patience I still have. "You promised Hannah you'd take her Christmas shopping. You've canceled on her twice already."
"Relax," she says, clearly unfazed. "Christmas is still a couple of weeks away. I can’t make it today, but how about I pick her up tomorrow and take her for the day?"
"That's what you said last week," I remind her. "What in the world could be more important than spending time with your daughter? She's five, for Pete's sake. She needs her mom."
"Look, if tomorrow doesn't work for you," she says, with a calm that does nothing but infuriate me, "we can just forget about it."
"No, no, no," I counter, trying not to lose my temper. "You're not getting out of this."
"I'll pick her up tomorrow, then."
Click.
Every time she does this to Hannah, I wonder what I ever saw in her. Her beauty is only skin deep, and the fact that I didn’t see that until it was too late says a lot more about me than it does about her.
I’m a horrible judge of character.
"She hung up?" Elle asks. She's sitting beside me on the couch, Hannah curled up next to her, fast asleep.
I nod and take a deep breath, refusing to let Meghan ruin my mood. “Let me take Hannah to her room. Then we can talk.”
“Let me,” Elle offers, scooping Hannah into her arms in one smooth motion before standing.
Ten minutes later, she walks back into the den, massaging her neck, which tells me that Hannah must’ve woken up and Elle lay down next to her until she drifted off again.
"Cal," she begins, her tone sober. "Hannah just called me Mommy. She was half-asleep, and must’ve thought I was Meghan. My heart melted."
"Do you mind it?" I ask.
"No, of course not," she says, shaking her head. "But I’m sure Meghan would."
"If Meghan were really a mother to Hannah, even half-asleep, she’d never mistake someone else for her."
"How can Meghan be so indifferent to her?"
"That’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the day Hannah was born," I admit.
"It made me a little sad," she says softly. "I’m not gonna lie."
"Come here and sit down," I say.
When she does, I straighten and begin massaging her neck and shoulders.
She closes her eyes and leans into my touch. “Mmm,” she says. “That hurts so good. I think you missed your calling. You could’ve charged top dollar as a massage therapist.”
I brush her hair aside and press a kiss to the curve of her neck. She smells incredible—fresh and inviting, the kind of scent that wraps around me and lingers.
“These hands were made to touch just one woman from now on,” I whisper in her ear. “The only other thing they’ll ever touch again is cedar, maple, cherry.”
She turns slightly, a slow smile curving her lips. “You’re quite talented, Mr. Callahan.”
She grows quiet for a beat. I glide my thumbs along her shoulders and up the sides of her neck, applying just enough pressure to make her melt into the moment.
"Are you trying to distract me from asking about your relationship with Meghan?" Elle murmurs, her voice teasing.
I let out a breath. "Is it working?"
She gives the faintest smile. "A little."
I glide my thumbs across her shoulders, grounding myself in the motion. "It’s not easy to talk about her. Not because I miss her—I don’t. But because I made a colossal mistake. One I wish I could erase... until I remember that it gave me Hannah."
Elle stays quiet, so I go on.
"The first time I went out with Meghan, it was supposed to be about you. You’d been in the group home for a few months, and the progress... it was slow. I was frustrated. Meghan was supposed to help me understand how to reach you."
I shake my head, pressing into a knot just beneath her shoulder blade. "But she turned it into something else entirely."
"What do you mean?"
"We met at this little café—quiet place, good coffee.
I sat down ready to ask a dozen questions: How you were doing, whether you were opening up, if you'd asked about your sister.
But Meghan? She gave these vague answers.
Told me you'd come around in your own time, that kids like you needed space, not pressure. "
I pause. "And then, just like that, the conversation stopped being about you."
"She redirected it," Elle says quietly.
"She did. Smooth as hell, too. Started asking about me. My job. Said being a cop must be exhausting, trying to balance that with a personal life. She leaned in like she genuinely cared."
I exhale hard through my nose. "At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. I said my father used to be a cop, so it just made sense for me to follow that path. I kept trying to steer it back to you, but she was already locked in."
Elle shifts slightly beneath my hands, and I can feel the weight of what she’s processing.
"Then she says, ‘Following in your dad’s footsteps can only go so far. You must be carrying a lot.’ Like she was reading a script that made me feel seen. But really, she was just gathering intel."
"Did you fall for her that fast?"
"Not at first," I admit. "But she made it easy to feel like I could open up. She asked how I handled the pressure, how I managed relationships. It felt deeper than it was. Like therapy disguised as flirting."
Elle lets out a quiet breath, but doesn’t interrupt.
"Before I knew it, I was talking about how hard it was to find someone who could handle the job. She said someone like me deserved support, someone steady." I pause, pressing into another knot.
"She made me feel like she was that person."
"And you believed her," Elle says softly.
"I did." I nod. "She kissed me that night. Out of nowhere. I didn’t expect it, but I didn’t stop it either. She said, ‘I’ll see you soon, Cal,’ like it was inevitable.
And after that, I found myself stopping by the group home more and more.
Told myself it was just to check on you.
.. but deep down, I think I knew it was also to see her. "
Elle doesn't say anything, but the shift in her breathing tells me she's listening closely.
"I remember the night you supposedly ran away," I continue. "Meghan was a wreck. Crying. Said she'd filed a report. Told me she let her guard down because she wanted to believe in you. Said every time you promised to do better, she believed it, and now she felt like a fool."
"She lied to you," Elle says quietly.
"I know that now." I pause. "But that night... she came over, said she wanted to make a plan to find you. She cried on my shoulder, looked like she was blaming herself. And when she got up to leave, she stood at the door—eyes red, voice raw—and I wiped a tear off her cheek."
"And she stayed."
"Yeah. She stayed. And a year later, I married her."
***
The last time I spoke to Richard Brewer, I told him I wouldn’t be moving to Manhattan after all.
"That's too bad," he said. "I was looking forward to working with you face to face."
"I was too," I admitted. "But staying here won’t affect my deadlines."
"I have all the confidence in you," he replied. "What made you change your mind?"
"My life is here," I said, without elaborating.
"I understand. It would be a big adjustment. The option to relocate will always be open, especially when your business grows. It’ll make more sense to be here."
"Thank you," I said. "Maybe in a couple of years, when I’ve got my footing, I’ll reconsider."
"Well," Richard said, a new excitement in his voice, "there's a new high-rise being built in Indianapolis. We’ve just been commissioned to furnish it."
I could hear the enthusiasm in his tone. "It's a big job, executive suites, boardrooms, conference rooms. All of it. And after showing the client a few options, they liked your work."
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to absorb it all. Six custom pieces, and now a full-blown project? It's a massive job, one that could make a name for me in the high-end furniture world.
“How many pieces are we talking?” I asked.
“Start with ten. Desks, tables, chairs, bookshelves. Executive-level work. We’re not looking for anything too flashy, but we need something that will scream professionalism while still keeping that personal touch that people will notice when they walk into the space.”
I felt the weight of the responsibility sink in. This could make my career.
“What’s the budget looking like?” I asked, already thinking about the materials, the time it would take, the logistics of it all.
Richard didn’t hesitate. “Generous. You’re looking at around eighty grand for those ten pieces, minimum. And if this goes well, there’s more work coming your way. We’re talking high-end, top dollar.”
I scribbled a note on my pad. That was more than enough to keep me going for a while. But I knew this wasn’t just about the paycheck, it was the opportunity. A project of this scale could change everything for me.
“So here’s the plan,” Richard continued.
“We’ll start with prototypes. I’ll need you to build one desk, one table, and a few chairs to show the client.
We can’t start mass-producing until he’s given us the final approval.
But once those prototypes are done and we get the green light, we’ll move fast.”
“Got it,” I said, already thinking about how to pull this off. “I can’t make everything myself. I’ll need a factory to replicate the designs.”
“You’re right,” Richard said. “That’s where I come in.
I’ve already got a few contacts at some top-tier manufacturing shops.
We’ll make sure they use the same quality materials—walnut, cherry, oak—whatever you specify.
They’ve got CNC machines that can replicate your designs with precision.
Everything will be done in-house, but we’ll keep your original touch.
We’ll still have the final say on the details—whether it’s the finish, the engraving, the edges.
You’ll be in control, just from a distance. ”
I leaned back against the workbench. This was the next step. My one-man show about to become a brand.
“And how long do we have to complete this?” I asked, already calculating the time it would take to produce ten massive pieces by hand.
“Nine months,” Richard replied, the tone of finality in his voice.
“We’ll need the prototypes in twelve weeks—after that, once the client signs off, production begins.
The factory will take it from there, based on your specs and finished samples.
If all goes smoothly, everything will be in place before the grand opening.
It’s a tight window, but the client understands quality takes time. I know you can deliver.”
“Nine months, huh? Alright, I can work with that,” I said, my mind already in motion. “I’ll get started on the designs and order materials. Once we’ve got the prototypes, we’ll let them make the rest.”
Richard went on to talk about the specifics of the project, the scheduling, and the logistical side of things.
As we wrapped up the conversation, Richard’s next words stopped me cold.
“When I presented your designs to Mr. Fletcher, he was impressed. He really loves what you’re doing.”
I swallowed hard. “Vincent Fletcher?”
“That’s the one,” Richard said, oblivious to the weight the name carried. “He’s got very particular taste. This could be the start of something big, Cal. This building, this job, it could open a lot of doors for you.”
I hesitated, then cleared my throat. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding down the line... Vincent Fletcher is my ex-father-in-law.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I used to be married to his daughter. He... wasn’t exactly thrilled about it back then.”
Richard let out a low whistle. “Damn. Does he know you design furniture?”
“Last time I brought it up,” I said, “he called it a hobby.”
He chuckled softly. “Boy, was he wrong.” He paused, then asked, “You okay moving forward?”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “I am. I'll make sure he gets the best.”
“Alright then,” Richard replied. “I’ll have the final approval soon. We’ll talk again when we’re ready to get started on the prototypes. Thanks, Cal. This is huge.”
I hung up, the weight of what it all meant settling in. Vincent Fletcher, the the man who once looked at me like I was nothing more than a placeholder in his daughter’s life, is impressed with my work.
The irony? In ten months, he’ll walk into a building filled with furniture I designed.