Chapter Nineteen
Callum
I wiped down the kitchen counter at home even though it didn’t need it.
Again.
Third time in fifteen minutes. I’d merely poured myself a cup of coffee, and boom, I was on it like it was my bar. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Lydia.
Why the hell did I say that to her?
Why did I always do this?
Push. Pull. Bite. Burn. Regret.
I kissed her like I’d die if I didn’t and then shoved her out with the kind of words that had no business coming out of my mouth.
"I don’t know how to want you without resenting you for it."
Jesus.
That wasn’t just a foot-in-mouth situation. That was full-on jackhammer-to-the-heart. And the worst part? It was only half true. I didn’t resent her . I resented the circumstances. I should have had the first dibs on buying the place.
But worse, I resented how much I wanted her. How much I liked having her here. How she’d wormed her way into my head without permission and started turning the place upside down.
I wasn’t ready for someone like Lydia.
She was bold and bright and full of this impossible mix of fire and hope, and every time she looked at me, it felt like she saw more than what I let the rest of the world see.
And I hated it.
Because I didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. With someone who looked at me like I was worth knowing.
I never had.
When my dad got sick, I didn’t talk about it. I just worked harder, closed ranks, learned to pour a perfect drink, and said we were fine when we weren’t. After he passed, I kept the bar running because it was the only thing that made sense. When my wife got sick, I clammed up even more and focused on the only thing I knew how to take care of.
People were messy, and emotions were messier. But if you put enough elbow grease into a business, it will give back. There were rules, routines, and inventory.
But Lydia?
Lydia was the opposite of routine.
She came in with big ideas and stubborn eyes and that damn smile that showed up just when I’d convinced myself she was nothing but trouble.
She got under my skin.
Fast.
And the thing is, she hadn’t even really done anything. Not really. She wanted to fix the wiring. Paint a hallway. Replace a fridge that sounded like it had been possessed by ghosts from the '70s.
She wasn’t asking to raze the place and build a city-slicker juice bar.
Lydia just wanted to help.
But the moment I felt that pull toward her—that magnetic, impossible thing—I panicked.
And I did what I always do.
Lashed out. Shoved away.
Because it’s easier to push people back than admit you’re scared they might stay .
Or worse… that they might leave.
I rubbed the back of my neck and let out a groan.
“I’m such an ass,” I muttered.
Drew, if he were here, would’ve said, “Finally. A breakthrough.”
He wasn’t wrong last time, either. I’d been acting like she was a threat instead of what she actually was—a woman trying to build something just like I had when I took over the Stag.
Lydia had that same look in her eye when she talked about restoring the building.
Like it meant something.
Like it mattered.
I saw the same look in my wife’s eyes, which scared me.
And I couldn’t tell if I was drawn to that because I understood it… or because I was jealous of the fire Lydia still had in her.
I slumped onto the couch by my fireplace, elbows on my knees, and stared at the family room. Just like the bar, it hadn’t changed much over the years. The leather couch and two accent chairs had been picked, used, and never moved. That kind of summed up my life. It never moved.
The thing I kept coming back to wasn’t the kiss. Though, yeah—God, that kiss was carved into my bloodstream now.
It was what came after.
The look in her eyes when I said those words. Not anger. Not even shock.
Just… hurt.
Like I’d confirmed the worst suspicion she had about me.
That I wasn’t someone who knew how to make room for her.
And maybe I didn’t.
But damn it, I wanted to.
That was the part that scared me the most.
Wanting her. Really wanting her. Not just in that basic, primal way—which, trust me, was fully operational—but in the kind of way I like who I am when you’re around .
And that?
That wasn’t something I’d felt in a long, long time.
I rubbed a hand over my face and exhaled hard.
I needed to apologize.
Hell, I wanted to apologize.
But the thought of knocking on her door and seeing her face, bracing, unreadable, maybe cold, made something tight in my chest clamp down even harder.
I’d already broken something between us.
Was it better to leave it? Let her move on and write me off as the angry bar owner with too much baggage and no social graces?
Or was I willing to fight for the one person in this town who made me forget my past long enough to imagine something different?
I stood up slowly and took a deep breath as I looked at the dying fire in the hearth.
I didn’t have an answer yet.
But I knew this. I couldn’t pretend she didn’t matter.
Not when she was the only thing I’d thought about all night.
And not when I could still feel the ghost of her lips on mine like a promise I hadn’t earned.
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d tried. God knows I tried.
I’d lain in bed with one arm flung across my eyes, sheets tangled around my legs, thinking if I could just shut it all out long enough, the guilt and the restlessness would pass.
But it didn’t.
The thing about screwing up with someone like Lydia was that it didn’t fade. It festered.
She wasn’t like the other people I’d pushed away over the years—old girlfriends, flaky friends, even well-meaning customers who asked one too many questions about my family. She wasn’t someone you could snap at and expect to bounce right back with a smirk and a roll of her eyes.
Lydia felt things. Deeply.
And I’d hurt her.
Worse, I’d seen it happen in real time.
I rubbed my hands over my face.
There had to be something I could do.
Not just say— do.
Words were cheap. Hell, I’d practically weaponized mine. And sorry? It didn’t hold much weight when the damage was already done.
She needed proof.
Proof that I respected her.
That I didn’t just see her as a threat to my world.
That I saw her as someone in it.
I stood, pulled on a hoodie, and started pacing as the old hardwood creaked under my feet like it knew I was about to do something wildly uncomfortable and out of character.
What did I have to offer a woman like Lydia?
She had vision, drive, a spine of steel, and a heart big enough to carry grief and hope simultaneously.
And me?
I had a bar, a bad temper, and a track record of locking people out the second things got too close.
But I also had hands that could fix things. A brain wired for details. A stubborn streak wide enough to rival hers. I wasn’t poetic, and I wasn’t charming, but I could show up .
And maybe… that was a start.
I walked into my garage and stared at the shelves.
The shelves I’d been ignoring for a year were still stacked with tools. Paintbrushes. Sandpaper. A level. An old work light. Stuff I hadn’t used since patched up the bar's back hallway. I had some extra outlets and wiring supplies.
I grabbed the light and a toolbox before I could overthink it.
If she wanted to restore the building? If she wanted to fix things and make them shine again?
Then maybe I could help her do that.
With her.
Not against her.
Not out of guilt.
But because it mattered to her, and that made it matter to me.
And if she slammed the door in my face?
Well, I deserve it.
But I wouldn’t let this whole thing unravel without at least trying.
Because the truth was… I didn’t want to return to how things were before Lydia came to Reckless River.
Back when the bar was my whole world.
Back when silence didn’t feel like punishment.
Back when I didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted by a woman who saw right through my rough edges and reached for me anyway.
I wasn’t ready to let her go.
And if I had to prove myself one light fixture, one hallway, one small act of effort at a time, so be it.
I loaded the gear into the truck, the cold night air biting against my skin, and pointed myself toward town and Lydia’s building. The drive was quick, and the streets were quiet as I parked near the tenant lot, where a few tired porch lights flickered and the stairs creaked under my boots. I didn’t go to her apartment. Not yet. That wasn’t what this was.
Not about words.
About doing.
I made my way down to the lower hall where I knew the back utility closet sat and used another set of spare keys I had that I stubbornly refused to hand over. She’d mentioned this issue in passing when talking to Riley. There was something about the water heater being older than us and the light fixture buzzing like it might catch fire one day. She needed a new switch.
I unlocked the old door with the key the Ludlowes had never changed out and stepped into the cold, stale dark.
One bulb flickered overhead, casting more shadow than light.
Perfect.
I set up the work light, clicked it on, and rolled my sleeves.
It wasn’t romantic.
It wasn’t flowers or some big grand gesture.
It involved rewiring an outlet, replacing the fixture, and tightening the bolts on the hinges so the door wouldn’t drag anymore.
I worked in silence, the steady rhythm of effort grounding me. It felt good, somehow, to do something for her without expectation. Without an agenda.
Just to show her I could.
Just to prove to myself I hadn’t completely turned into the man I never wanted to become—closed off, angry, afraid of his own damn heart.
The hallway glowed warm and steady when I stepped back and flicked the new light switch.
No hum.
No buzz.
Just clean, solid light.
I stared at it briefly, heart thudding harder than it should’ve.
And then I turned and headed back up the stairs, tools in hand, chest tight but lighter than before.
I didn’t know if she’d notice.
Didn’t know if she’d care.
But I’d keep showing up.
Because for once in my life… I didn’t want to keep pushing someone away just because they saw more in me than I did.