Chapter Three
Callum
By the time the sun dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the sidewalk out front, I was good and thoroughly pissed.
The new building owner was supposed to show up today.
“ Friday ,” the Ludlowes had said. “She wants to meet the tenants and get a feel for the town,” they’d told me, like it was all casual and polite. Like she wasn’t about to walk in here and gut the Rusty Stag like a trout.
But so far? Nothing.
Not a text, call, or chirpy city voice asking if I had a moment to chat. Hell, even a condescending flyer shoved under the door would’ve been something.
Instead, there was silence.
And it was driving me insane.
I’d spent the better part of the afternoon pacing, checking the windows like a teenager waiting for a date who clearly had better plans. Every time a car slowed down outside, I’d do this half-turn, then curse myself for looking like a damn fool. Most of the vehicles turned out to be regulars, tourists heading toward the river, or just townies on their way to the post office.
Not her.
She was probably out scouting the bakery or turning her nose up at the coffee shop a few doors down, while talking about how quaint everything was.
I hated that word. Quaint.
I glared at the front door again, trying to force it to swing open, but it stayed stubbornly closed.
Drew glanced up from behind the bar, eyebrows raised. “You gonna burn a hole in that door, or just glower at it until it apologizes?”
I grunted and dropped onto a stool, elbows on the bar. “Don’t tempt me.”
The bar was mostly quiet now, with just a few regulars scattered at the booths, sipping their usuals and arguing about the hockey team. The jukebox was playing low, with some classic country, and the place smelled like fryer oil and whiskey, which was pretty much its default aroma.
The calm should’ve felt good. Instead, it was a pressure cooker.
I glanced at the clock again. 4:48 p.m.
She was late.
Or worse, she wasn’t coming.
And somehow, that pissed me off more.
“Maybe she’s got you scheduled for tomorrow,” Drew said, reading my mind the way only a brother could. “Or Monday. You know, business hours and all.”
“No, she said Friday.” I scowled. “The Ludlowes were clear. Friday .”
“You mean they said Friday.”
“Same difference.”
Drew shrugged and wiped down a section of the bar that didn’t need wiping. “Maybe she’s easing into it. Or maybe she’s just giving the building the ol’ once-over first. Doesn’t mean she’s avoiding you.”
“She’s avoiding me,” I muttered, because I felt it in my bones. No one skipped out on greeting the guy running the only bar in town unless they did it on purpose.
Just then, the side door swung open and Curtis, our cook, trudged in carrying a brown paper sack and smelling like the back kitchen of a diner, which, to be fair, was exactly where he’d been for the last six hours.
Curtis was in his fifties, built like a retired linebacker who’d traded weights for bacon grease and never looked back. He wore the same black apron daily, complete with a grease stain resembling Elvira if you squinted hard enough.
He took one look at me and chuckled. “Well, someone’s in a mood.”
I shot him a warning glare, which only made him grin wider.
“What’s the story, Drew?” Curtis asked as he set the bag on the counter. “Bossman growl at you too, or is he saving all that tension for me?”
Drew smirked. “He’s been pacing and staring out the window like a widowed sea captain.”
“Has he now?” Curtis raised an eyebrow at me. “Storm on the horizon, Cap’n?”
“Stuff it,” I muttered.
Curtis grabbed a soda from behind the counter like he owned the place. “So what’s the deal? Girl problems? Weather-related angst? Some animal dug up your hydrangeas again?”
Drew leaned one elbow on the bar and dropped his voice like we were at the start of a ghost story. “The new building owner was supposed to show up today.”
“Ooohh,” Curtis said, dragging the word out dramatically. “The big bad landlord lady.”
“She’s not bothering me.”
“Uh-huh.” Curtis popped the fry in his mouth and chewed slowly. “And yet… your eye’s been twitching since I got here.”
“It’s not twitching.”
“It’s absolutely twitching,” Drew said helpfully.
I exhaled through my nose and rubbed my temples. “I just don’t like being blindsided. If she wants to change the whole building, that's fine. But show up. Say something. Own it.”
Curtis gave a theatrical nod. “You wanted a fight, and she didn’t even bother showing up to throw the first punch. That’s gotta sting.”
“Exactly,” I grumbled.
“Or maybe,” Drew said, pouring himself a soda, “she’s not the villain in your head. Maybe she’s just someone in over her head and trying to figure it out without getting steamrolled by a very angry mountain man.”
I gave him a withering look.
He took a long sip of cola. “Just saying.”
Curtis chuckled. “So you gonna camp out by the front door all night? Or finally accept that she might show up when she’s good and ready?”
“I’m not camping out anywhere.”
“You are definitely camping out,” Curtis said. “I give it ten minutes before you pretend to wipe the windows again.”
I grunted. “She’ll show.”
“Hope so,” Curtis said, digging into the paper sack. “I made banana cream pie this morning. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get the last slice if the customers don’t all eat it.”
I raised a brow. “You made pie?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a man of many talents.”
“Sure. Pie and sarcasm.”
Curtis grinned. “The two essentials of survival.”
I shook my head and stood, needing to burn some of the energy buzzing under my skin. “If she doesn’t show by closing, I’m calling it.”
“Calling what?” Drew asked.
“Calling her a coward,” I said, moving toward the back. “And then maybe finding her address so I can show her what introductions look like.”
Curtis’s voice followed me through the swinging kitchen doors. “That’s the start of a charming meet-cute or a restraining order!”
“Restraining order,” my brother piped up, and I chuckled.
I couldn’t help the grin tugging at the edge of my mouth.
Just barely.
Still, beneath the sarcasm and the pie and the teasing… I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming.
And when she did finally walk through that door, she’d better be ready. Because I sure as hell would be.
I returned to the storage room and picked up the cardboard boxes nearly dissolving in my hands—beer-soaked, grease-stained, and one weirdly sticky for reasons I didn’t care to investigate.
I grumbled and shouldered the back door open, letting it bang shut behind me as I crossed the gravel lot toward the trash and recycling bins.
The sky had started its slow shift into that dusky golden color, and the scent of pine mixed with fryer oil clung to the air like it belonged there. Probably because it did. Or because it had all rubbed off on my flannel from these boxes.
I chucked the cardboard into the bin with a satisfying crash and wiped my hands on my jeans. Maybe the day wasn’t a total wash. The new building owner hadn’t shown—no call, no email, not even a passive-aggressive note taped to the door. She was probably holed up in some fancy rental across town, sipping matcha and planning where to hang her overpriced artwork.
Just as I turned to head back inside, a burst of laughter stopped me cold.
I glanced over at the metal staircase leading to the upstairs apartment unit, the one above the bakery. Two women were struggling up the stairs with suitcases that looked like they’d been packed by someone fleeing a country, not moving into a cozy little mountain town.
One suitcase was floral, the other leopard print. Both were way too big, and one was already listing to the side like it had a busted wheel. One of the women, barefoot, pink sunglasses pushed up in her blonde hair, laughing like she’d just told the best joke in the world, looked about one second from losing her grip.
I narrowed my eyes. That unit was one of the furnished ones. Short-term lease. Probably someone is moving in with a friend to save money. The town was full of ‘em lately—transplants looking for a break from city prices.
A tired old Corolla was parked haphazardly in the lot, one bumper hanging on by faith alone, and a sticker on the back that read I Brake for Snacks . I chuckled under my breath. The new building owner was going to love that eyesore on her lot.
As if on cue, the leopard-print suitcase gave up entirely and tumbled down the stairs in dramatic slow motion, flopping to a stop near my boots.
I sighed and walked over just as the barefoot woman clattered down after it, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
“Oh my God , it’s like it’s possessed,” she wheezed, grabbing at the railing. “I swear this thing is out to kill me.”
I nudged the suitcase upright with my boot. “You pack a bowling alley in here?”
“Just shoes. And regrets.” She looked up at me with a dazzling, slightly sheepish grin. “And maybe a coffee maker.”
“Sounds like a lot of weight for a weekend getaway.”
She squinted at me. “You always this helpful with strangers?”
“You always this chatty with locals you nearly crush with a leopard-print missile?”
That made her laugh again. “Fair. I’m Melanie.”
I gave her a nod but didn’t offer my name. No point, especially since I didn’t want word getting back to whoever lived up there that the bar guy was helping with luggage like some overgrown bellhop. Still, the way she was grinning at me made it hard to stay grumpy.
I grabbed the handle and started hauling the suitcase up the stairs.
“Oh, you don’t have to…wait, seriously?” she said, trotting up after me. “Look at you. Grumpy and useful.”
“You say that like it’s rare.”
“Depends on the town,” she said, breathing halfway up. “Okay, I thought I was ready for a small-town getaway, but these stairs are giving me doubts.”
“Most people bring less luggage if they’re just here to ‘find themselves over a Saturday and Sunday.’”
“Trust me, I’m not the one doing the soul-searching.” She waved me toward the door. “I’m just helping a friend move in. Temporary adventure. You know how it goes.”
So not the new landlord, I noted. Just someone passing through, crashing with a friend.
I set the suitcase outside the apartment and stepped back.
“She in there?” I asked, nodding toward the kitchen.
“Yep. Unpacking and pretending she doesn’t have control issues. I told her to chill, but she gets a little Type-A when bubble wrap is involved.”
I smirked. “Sounds like a party.”
“It will be. After I find the wine opener and the box with the glasses,”
She held the door open, watching me with that amused smile again. “Thanks for helping. I’d offer you a drink, but we haven’t unpacked the booze yet.”
“I’ve got access to better stock downstairs.”
“Ooh, mysterious and employed.”
“Mostly the first one.”
She laughed. “Well, thanks again, Mr. Mysterious. You saved me from being crushed by my suitcase. That’s a story I never want told at my funeral.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Seriously,” she said, tilting her head. “You don’t look like someone who often does this kind of thing. But you did.”
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, backing down the stairs, “sometimes I surprise even myself.”
Her voice followed me as I descended, light and teasing. “Hope to bump into you again.”
I didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to.
Because she wasn’t my type.