Chapter Fourteen
Lydia
I walked out of The Rusty Stag with my heart pounding like I’d just finished an argument and a marathon simultaneously. The bell above the door gave a cheerful little jingle like it hadn’t just witnessed a full-blown territorial standoff between me and the grumpiest man in town.
The worst part?
I hadn’t even won.
Not really.
Sure, I’d gotten the last word. But he’d smirked.
Smirked , like he knew something I didn’t…like he was already under my skin and liked the view.
I reached the sidewalk and paused for a breath. Just one. A long, calming inhale to remind myself that I wasn’t here to spar with a man who wore flannel like it was armor and looked like he’d stepped out of a lumberjack magazine.
I was here to run a building. Build a life. Not get caught in whatever slow-burn soap opera Callum Benedict had going on behind that scowl and those ridiculous eyes.
I swore I could still feel the heat of his stare on my back. It had practically branded me when I’d said, “When I do touch something, it’ll be worth it.”
I hadn’t even meant for it to sound suggestive. At least… not entirely.
“Get it together, Lydia,” I muttered, clutching my notebook like it might tether me to reality.
I walked back toward the coffee shop, heart still racing.
And I knew, without a doubt, that I was in trouble.
Because every time I heard that low, growly voice, I felt something zip through me like electricity. Not the polite kind, either. The kind that left you scorched and wondering why on earth you wanted to go back for more.
I stepped into Bean There, Done That and found Riley wiping down the counter, her head bobbing to a jazzy cover of a pop song playing over the speakers.
She glanced up and grinned. “How’d it go?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You sent me into the lion’s den on purpose.”
The contractor walked over, and I handed him the correct key.
“I might’ve ,” she said, totally unrepentant. “But tell me it wasn’t entertaining.”
“It was infuriating.”
“Same thing.”
I dropped onto the stool by the window and sighed. “He’s so—”
“Tall?” she offered, pouring me a cup of coffee.
“—insufferable.”
“Mm. And broad-shouldered?”
“Obstinate.”
“With those big, rough hands?”
I glared at her.
She just handed me the mug, laughing. “I’m just saying. He’s cranky, sure. But also not the worst view on Main Street.”
“You people are unwell .”
“I call it optimistic.” She smiled happily. “I like to look at the bright side of things.”
I took a long sip of coffee and stared out the window, watching the wind push through the hanging flower baskets. “He’s impossible. Whenever I talk to him, it’s like stumbling through barbed wire.”
Riley leaned on the counter, chin in her hand. “And yet, you keep going back.”
“I have to . He’s my tenant.”
“Mmhmm.”
“It’s not personal.”
“Mmhmm.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Stop humming at me like that.”
“You like him.”
“I want to throttle him.”
She shrugged. “That’s usually the first stage.”
I huffed and turned back to the window, watching a dog drag its owner across the street like it had important squirrel business to attend to. Anything to look at that wasn’t Callum Benedict’s maddeningly handsome face living rent-free in my mind.
“I’ve got the estimate for you. Probably about two hours of work.” The contractor held a sheet of paper for me to review. I scanned it quickly and nodded.
“Let’s do it.”
Riley’s gaze landed on mine as the contractor went out to his van. “Thank you for doing this.”
“It’s my pleasure. It needs to be done.” I slid off the stool, thinking I needed a little rest in my studio. “I often wonder what my mom would say,” I said, surprised I felt comfortable enough to bring her up.
Riley blinked. “About Callum?”
“About… all of this. Moving to a small town. Buying a building. Falling into this weird tension tornado with a bar owner who seems determined to glare me into an early grave.”
Riley softened immediately. “She’d say you’re brave. And also, probably, ‘Ooooh, the bar owner?’ with a knowing smile.”
I smiled despite myself.
“And she’d definitely see right through Callum’s crap.”
I laughed and sipped my coffee, picturing it. My mom walking into The Rusty Stag, reading Callum in ten seconds flat, and smiling at me later with that twinkle in her eye that always meant you’re not fooling me, sweetheart.
Maybe that’s why I was drawn to him, despite all logic and reason. Because under all that bark and brooding and maddening control, there was something… raw. Something that felt familiar in a way I didn’t want to think too hard about.
He didn’t let people in easily.
Neither did I.
I was still trying to find my footing in this town. Still waking up every morning trying to convince myself that this had been the right move. That the leap I’d taken wasn’t leading to a faceplant.
But Callum?
He was rooted.
Anchored.
Loyal, even if it came with grumbling and growling and eye-rolls so intense they might qualify as a medical condition.
And somewhere in all of that?
Maybe he was just scared to lose what he’d built.
I got that.
Didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to push back.
Let him think I was just some city girl with a paintbrush and a Pinterest board.
Let him glower.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
And eventually, he’d realize that.
If he didn’t implode first.
By the time I made it to my apartment, it felt way too quiet.
Not just quiet in the way a place does when it’s late and the town has settled into sleep, but that bone-deep stillness after the laughter fades and the last suitcase is zipped shut.
And now I was, barefoot in my little studio, the rust-colored loveseat sagging under my weight as I sat curled into one corner, a mug of tea growing lukewarm in my hands. Outside the window, the streetlights cast long shadows over Main Street, and the quiet pressed in like a heavy blanket I wasn’t sure I wanted.
I’d gotten used to Melanie’s voice, laughter, and commentary on every weird creak of the building. But more than that, I’d gotten used to how she filled a space. The way she didn’t let silence linger long enough for thoughts to get too loud.
Now those thoughts had all the room in the world.
And they were all circling one man like a pack of gossiping pigeons.
Callum Benedict.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the cushion with a soft thump.
He was under my skin. No other way to put it.
Every interaction we’d had so far was barbed, backlit by mutual stubbornness and sparks I wasn’t even sure he noticed.
Or maybe he did. Maybe that was why he was always so gruff. Maybe that’s why his scowls had started to feel like a challenge I couldn’t stop rising to.
But I wasn’t supposed to like that.
I wasn’t supposed to get a little thrill every time I caught that flicker in his eyes…the one that said he was trying not to look at me. The one that said maybe he was just as conflicted as I was.
Ugh.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
I’d come to Reckless River to start fresh. To build something steady and beautiful and mine. To honor what Mom wanted for me—freedom, joy, a life with meaning. A life I could shape with my own two hands.
Not… whatever this was. This slow-simmering, maddening, frustrating awareness of a man who seemed to resent me and want to pull me closer all at the same time.
It wasn’t exactly attraction. Though, let’s be honest, it wasn’t not attraction.
The man had arms that made lifting kegs look like a casual hobby and a voice that could probably stop a fight with a single “hey.” His jawline looked carved out of stone, and that scar on his eyebrow? Completely unnecessary. It was like the universe said, You know what this brooding man needs? More mystery .
But it wasn’t just that.
It was the way he looked at his bar. Like it was sacred. Like it had history and memory and maybe even ghosts he wasn’t ready to let go of.
It was the way he talked about change as something to brace against, not embrace.
It was the way he made me feel every time we were in the same room like I was being watched, challenged, and maybe even… seen.
And that was what really got to me.
Because I wasn’t used to that.
Back in the city, most people saw what I let them see—the version of myself I curated—the nice, polished, design-educated woman who knew how to read a trend report and forecast wallpaper palettes like stock prices.
But Callum?
He looked at me like he saw right through it.
Like he saw the woman underneath. Like he saw the version who doubted herself more than she admitted, who was still grieving, still fumbling through this new version of her life with hope in one hand and fear in the other.
He saw too much.
And I didn’t know how to be comfortable with that.
I got up and wandered to the window, pressing my forehead lightly to the cool glass. The street below was still. The sign at the Rusty Stag glowed faintly down the block, warm and golden.
Was he still there?
Probably. From what Riley had said, he practically lived in that place. Which made sense. He’d poured himself into it. Made it more than just a bar. It was a piece of him.
No wonder he didn’t want anyone coming in with ideas or suggestions or, God forbid, paint.
And maybe I could’ve handled that better.
Maybe I didn’t need to come in so strong. Maybe if I’d tried a softer approach—sat down with him, asked him about the bar’s history instead of marching in like I had all the answers…
But then again, would it have made a difference?
Callum didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who changed his mind easily.
Still. There was something there. Something electric and dangerous and far too tempting.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
Melanie had teased me about catching feelings, but this wasn’t that. Not yet.
It was something else. A pull. A slow burn. A curiosity I couldn’t quite extinguish.
But curiosity could get you into trouble.
And I’d had enough trouble to last me a lifetime.
I pulled away from the window and blew out a breath.
“Okay,” I said quietly to the room. “Time to reset.”
I’d give myself the day to stew in it. To feel everything conflicted and confused and a little too aware of a man who probably hadn’t given me a second thought since I walked out of his bar.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I’d get back to work. I’d call the next contractor on the list. I’d meet with Riley again or June. I’d knock out more of the hallway painting. I’d keep showing up and doing the damn thing.
And Callum?
Well, he could either get used to me or keep growling from the sidelines.
Either way, I wasn’t going anywhere.