Chapter Twenty-One
Callum
Lydia had dirt on her cheek and a chunk of moss sticking out of her hair like she’d just crawled out of a woodland diorama.
And I still wanted to kiss her more than I wanted air.
She didn’t seem to notice either thing, too focused on dragging a cracked flower pot across the patio with the same determination she applied to everything, as if fixing this little patch of Reckless River would somehow fix everything else, too.
And maybe it would.
We’d been out here for hours. Moving benches. Sweeping leaves. Untangling old twinkle lights and unspoken tension.
It should’ve been awkward.
But it wasn’t.
It was… easy.
Natural in a way that caught me off guard.
Every now and then, our hands would graze. Our shoulders would bump. And each time, that buzz under my skin kicked back to life, stronger than it had any right to be.
The weird part?
She didn’t try to fill the silence.
She let me work beside her without demanding a conversation or a confession, and I appreciated that a lot.
Still, I couldn’t stop glancing at her.
Couldn’t stop noticing the way the sun caught the gold strands in her dark hair, or how she bit her bottom lip when she concentrated, or how her hands moved, steady and sure, when she was in her element.
I didn’t know when I started to feel like I wanted her here. Not just on this project, not just temporarily.
Just… here.
Beside me.
Around me.
Part of the life I’d worked so hard to keep simple.
Which is exactly why I was about to do something that made absolutely zero sense.
I cleared my throat as she stood, wiping her palms on her thighs.
“You hungry?”
She blinked at me. “Now?”
I nodded toward the sun, which was starting to dip just low enough that the garden was falling into that golden-hour kind of glow.
“It’s almost dinner time. I was gonna grab something. Figured I could, uh, buy you a plate of food. Since you haven’t stopped moving since dawn.”
She tilted her head. “Is that your version of asking me to dinner?”
“It’s food,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “No speeches. No pressure.”
Her lips quirked, amused. “You’re aware there’s moss in my hair, and it looks like I lost a fight with a compost bin, right?”
I shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
“You’ve kissed worse?”
That stopped me short. Heat crawled up my neck. “Didn’t say that.”
She laughed, brushing her hair behind her ears, missing the moss, and tucked her hands in her hoodie pocket. “I should probably shower.”
“You can. Or not.”
She raised a brow. “Wow. Irresistible pitch.”
I ran a hand down my face. “You want the truth?”
She waited.
I sighed. “You’ve got dirt on your cheek, moss in your hair, and you’re wearing that sweatshirt two sizes too big. And I still think you’re the most distracting thing I’ve seen in my life. So yeah. I’m asking you to dinner. Or at least to eat food with me and pretend like I didn’t screw things up completely a few days ago.”
Something flickered across her face, something soft.
For a second, I thought she was going to say no.
And I wouldn’t have blamed her.
But then she nodded once. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll go to dinner with you.”
The relief that washed through me was instant and stupidly strong.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to hide the dumb smile tugging at my mouth. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoed, then smirked. “But I’m showering first. I draw the line at dinner with mulch in my bra.”
I nearly choked. “Noted.”
She walked past me, brushing dirt off her jeans as she went, and just before she reached the stairs, she paused and looked over her shoulder.
“There’s hope for you yet, Callum Benedict.”
I didn’t say anything.
Mostly because I was too busy watching her walk away.
And trying not to wonder what the hell I’d do if I let myself fall into her orbit.
Because the truth was I already had.
I was already regretting the clean shirt.
When I went home and changed and returned to town, I couldn’t wait to see her again.
Not because it was uncomfortable. It was soft, decent enough to pass for something intentional. But because sitting here at the café, waiting for Lydia, made me feel exposed. Like I’d dressed up for her .
Which I had.
I drummed my fingers against the edge of the table, watching the condensation on my glass slide down, ignoring the flutter of nerves that had no business being in my chest.
I’d kissed her.
Then I’d wounded her.
And now here I was, trying to fix something with dinner and a shirt that didn’t smell like sawdust and wood smoke.
The door creaked open behind me.
And I knew.
I didn’t even have to turn.
Something in the air shifted—charged, tight, electric—and I nearly forgot how to function when I looked up.
Lydia walked in like the air belonged to her.
Hair loose. Dress hugging her just enough to wreck a man’s composure. Her lips were soft with something faintly glossy, and there was the slightest flush on her cheeks like she’d stood in front of a mirror and wondered if this was a mistake.
It wasn’t.
It was the best damn idea I’d ever had.
She spotted me. Gave me a small, wary smile that hit me dead in the chest.
And then she walked over.
I stood, knocking my knee on the table because my body had decided to short-circuit.
“You okay?” she asked, already amused.
“Yeah. Yep. Just… good. You look—”
Careful. Don’t make it weird.
“Great,” I said.
She raised a brow. “You sure?”
“Not even a little.”
Her laugh broke through the wall in my chest like sunshine through fog.
God, I’d missed that sound.
She slid into the chair across from me, folding one leg over the other. The hem of her dress shifted just enough to show smooth skin I had no business looking at.
Focus.
We ordered her wine, my coffee, and the special, and for a while, we just talked.
Not small talk. Real talk.
She asked me what it was like growing up here, and I told her about getting detention for climbing the old water tower with Drew one summer, about sneaking into the bakery after hours when Mrs. Granger forgot to lock the back door, back before June owned it. She listened, really listened, and when she laughed, it wasn’t polite. It was unfiltered and bright and hers .
And I found myself talking more than I usually did. Letting her in. Letting her see me.
Which was dangerous.
Because she saw too much already.
She always had.
I told myself not to lean in too far. Not to reach for her hand. But I couldn’t stop watching how her mouth curled at the edges when she smiled or paused before answering anything too personal, deciding whether or not to trust me.
She was holding back.
I felt it.
And for once, I didn’t blame her.
Still, I wanted more.
So I asked, “Why Reckless River?”
She stilled for a second.
She held her wine glass halfway to her lips. Her lashes lowered.
And just like that, the air shifted again.
Her voice, when she spoke, was softer. Measured.
“My mom used to talk about towns like this,” she said. “The kind with porches, local diners, and people who nod at you when you pass them on the sidewalk.”
She took a sip. Swallowed. “When she died, everything about the city started to feel too loud. Too fast. Like I couldn’t think without the noise pressing in.”
She looked up at me then, and something cracked in her eyes. Just a little.
Her mom…
“My agent heard whispers about the building being available. Sent me some photos. I don’t know. It felt like a place where I could breathe again. Where maybe I could start over.”
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t soften the words with a smile.
She just let them hang there, open and honest and aching.
And I didn’t say anything for a second.
Because anything I said felt too small for the weight of what she’d just given me.
She wasn’t some city slicker coming to Reckless River to destroy its charm. She was begging it to give her refuge.
And I was such an ass.
But I knew better than to stay silent too long.
“I’m sorry you lost her,” I said quietly.
She nodded, and for a second, I thought she might say something else—something about grief or regret or what it felt like to start over when your whole world had already ended once.
But she didn’t.
She lifted her chin, the fire flaring beneath the surface.
“But that doesn’t mean I owe this town anything. Or anyone. And I won’t sit here and pretend I need permission to belong.”
I leaned in, elbows on the table, matching her tone. “I don’t think you need permission.”
“You acted like I did.”
Fair.
She wasn’t wrong.
“I was wrong,” I said, my voice low. “You don’t need anyone’s approval. Least of all mine.”
She studied me.
Not the way most people did. Not with suspicion or even curiosity.
She studied me like she was trying to figure out what I’d do next and whether she could stand it.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said. “Between us.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted.
“But it’s messy.”
“I’m not afraid of messy.”
That was the first time I saw her guard twitch.
Not fall. Just… twitch.
And that? That was enough to make my pulse spike.
“Lydia,” I said, quieter now. “I meant what I said back at the garden. I’m trying. I can’t fix what I said to you before, but I can show you that I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
She didn’t respond right away.
But she didn’t pull away, either.
She reached for her glass again, fingers brushing the base, and when her eyes met mine again, the heat there nearly knocked me sideways.
“I guess we’ll see,” she murmured.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a man waiting to lose something.
I felt like a man who might just be getting a second chance.