Chapter Twenty-Three
Callum
I hadn’t even flipped the damn sign to OPEN yet when the front door creaked open like it owned the place.
It wasn’t unlocked, technically, but no one ever tested it this early. Most folks in Reckless River respected boundaries, especially before coffee. But not Lydia.
Of course not Lydia.
She stepped inside like she was storming a castle she already claimed as hers. Sunlight streamed in behind her, catching on the flyaway strands of her hair, and she paused just long enough to find me behind the bar.
“We’re not even open,” I said flatly.
“Door wasn’t locked.” Her tone was cheery. Dangerous. “That’s on you.”
She was wearing jeans that made my mouth dry and a loose gray tee knotted at her waist that I’m sure she didn’t realize was exposing just enough skin to ruin a man’s peace of mind. I didn’t move. Just wiped down the bar even though it was already clean.
“Most people knock.”
“Most people aren’t your landlord.”
There it was.
I lifted a brow. “You looking to renegotiate the rent at the crack of dawn?”
She strode right up to the bar and leaned on her elbows like she owned it. “I’m just here to give you a heads-up.”
“Oh?” I said, already bracing for it.
She gave me a slow, sugar-sweet smile that set every alarm bell in my head off.
“I’ve finalized my priority list for the building,” she said. “Starting next week, the team I hired will begin replacing the broken ceiling tiles in the coffee shop, patching the plaster upstairs, and installing dimmer switches in the hallway sconces so no one feels like they’re walking through a horror film set.”
I stared at her, jaw ticking. “Uh huh.”
“And—” she went on, holding up a finger, “—I’m coordinating with a painter to redo the laundromat layout to fit a couple more machines in. You know, the place that looks like it was used in a low-budget zombie movie?”
“Got character.”
“Got mildew,” she shot back. “And I’m not stopping there.”
Here we go.
“I’ll be replacing the rubber baseboards in the main hallway with stained wood trim. Freshening up the shared entryway with new lighting. Adding a plant or two…don’t roll your eyes…and I’m upgrading the fire extinguishers because the current ones are prehistoric.”
I crossed my arms. “That it?”
She grinned. “Oh, Callum, I haven’t even gotten to your domain yet.”
My pulse spiked. “You want to change the bar?”
“Well, not really,” she said breezily, like it was no big deal. “But I figured I’d make you squirm for a second.”
I scowled. “Cute.”
She leaned in, her face far too close for comfort. “I plan on power washing the alley wall—”
“That’s not part of the bar.”
“—installing new motion-sensor lights for safety.”
“Fine.”
“And maybe hanging some string lights along the garden fence. Something warm. Inviting.”
I opened my mouth to object, but she held up both hands.
“That’s it. I swear. That’s all I’m doing for now. I haven’t touched the Rusty Stag. Haven’t even looked at it with a paintbrush in hand. So you can keep your dartboard with the duct tape and your haunted jukebox.”
I blinked. “You’re leaving the bar alone?”
“For now.”
My back teeth ground together. I wanted to be relieved. I should’ve been relieved. But something about the way she was smiling at me, confident and teasing, like she knew exactly how much space she took up in my thoughts, set me off.
“So why are you in here throwing a damn press conference about hallway lighting?”
She tilted her head. “Because I figured if you heard it from someone else, you’d invent your own version in your head, and suddenly I’d be installing chrome and neon signs and replacing your whiskey with kombucha.”
I grunted. “You’d be surprised how many people want kombucha.”
“You’d be surprised how many people think it’s flavored piss.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
Almost.
But the way she looked at me, with fire and grit and that dangerous glint in her eye, knocked the breath out of my lungs.
She was driving me up the wall.
And I was pretty sure I’d never wanted someone more.
Her cheeks were flushed, her arms braced on the bar like she was ready for a fight, and her voice, steady and calm, was undercut with the kind of bite that got under a man’s skin and stayed there.
“You know,” I muttered, leaning forward just enough to meet her eye to eye, “for someone who’s trying to make peace, you’ve got a real knack for poking the bear.”
She smiled. “Only when the bear deserves it.”
“Be careful, sweetheart,” I said, voice low. “Poke hard enough and something’s gonna bite back.”
She didn’t back down. Didn’t blink. Just lifted her chin and smiled like she had me exactly where she wanted me.
“I’m counting on it.”
I felt that everywhere.
My jaw. My chest. Lower.
Jesus.
She was going to kill me.
Or ruin me.
Possibly both.
The silence stretched between us, thick with static. The kind that prickled across skin and made it impossible to think about anything else. I hated how easily she got under my skin. Hated that every time she walked into a room, I could smell her shampoo or see the way her collarbone peeked from her shirt and it did things to me.
I cleared my throat and stepped back. I needed air. Distance. A fire hose.
“Got anything else to announce before I open?” I asked, trying and failing to sound unaffected.
She straightened and pushed away from the bar, that cocky glint still dancing in her eyes. “Nope. Just thought I’d check in. You know… like a responsible landlord.”
“You mean a nosy one.”
She laughed. “Tomato, tomahto.”
I rubbed a hand over my face and muttered to the empty bar, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
And somehow, I didn’t mind the idea half as much as I should’ve.
She didn’t move.
Not toward the door.
Not away from me.
Lydia just stood there, still on her side of the bar, eyes fixed on mine like she’d just dared me to flinch first.
And I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
The heat between us was molten.
No more glancing blows. No more brushes of fingertips or thinly veiled threats dressed up as banter.
Just her.
And me.
And something crackling so loud between us I was amazed the neon beer sign hadn’t short-circuited.
“You done?” I asked, my voice a little too hoarse.
She arched one of those maddening eyebrows. “That depends.”
“On what?”
She stepped closer.
Not much. Just a couple of inches.
But it felt like crossing a war zone.
“On whether you’re still trying to play it cool,” she murmured.
“I’m not playing anything,” I said, low and rough. “You walked in here throwing fire. Don’t act surprised that I’m burning.”
That got her.
Her breath caught. Subtle, but I saw it.
Then she tipped her chin, closing the last of the distance between us.
There was maybe a foot between our bodies now. If that.
I could smell her. Something warm and clean, with a hint of citrus and lavender, lingered in the air. Her skin was flushed from marching across town, from all that spitfire energy she always brought like a stormfront.
And her mouth.
Don’t look at it, Benedict.
Too late.
It was pink and soft and parted just enough to drive a man insane.
“You think you’ve got me figured out,” she said quietly.
“No,” I said, matching her tone. “I think I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Her eyes glittered. “You think I’m dangerous?”
“I think,” I said, leaning in so close my lips nearly brushed her ear, “you’re worse than dangerous.”
She stilled, but she didn’t back away.
“What’s worse than dangerous?” she asked, voice tight.
“Tempting.”
That did it.
Her hand caught the front of my shirt like it was second nature. Like we’d been doing this for years.
And then she kissed me.
Or maybe I kissed her.
Didn’t matter. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.
It was wildfire.
Teeth. Tongues. Heat.
My back hit the bar and I dragged her against me, her hands fisting in the fabric at my chest, her body flush against mine like it belonged there.
And god help me, maybe it did.
She tasted like challenge and defiance and something sweeter underneath…something she wasn’t showing anyone else. And I was hungry for it. Starving, actually.
I slid my hands to her hips, then up her back, memorizing every inch like I’d been waiting for this exact moment since the second she stepped into my town and turned it upside down.
She pulled back first, just enough to breathe, eyes wild and wide and locked on mine.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered.
“Maybe.”
Her lips brushed mine again. “You still gonna stop me?”
“Nope.”
I kissed her again, deeper this time, slower, like I wanted to wreck her in a way she’d feel for days because I did. Because this wasn’t just heat anymore—this was need, raw and rooted and impossible to shake.
Her fingers skimmed the side of my neck, and I nearly groaned.
I’d had kisses before. Plenty.
But none of them felt like this.
Like I’d been walking around bone-deep numb, and she was the spark.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because Lydia wasn’t temporary.
Even if I wanted her to be.
Even if she said she was just here to fix up a building and start over.
Because now I’d kissed her like she was mine.
And some part of me—some ancient, stubborn, primal part—was already plotting what it would take to make that true.
She pulled back again, with a shaky breath that hitched when my thumb brushed her jaw.
“We can’t do this,” she said, even as her hands stayed right where they were, clutching my shirt, as if she let go, she’d fall.
“Tell me to stop,” I said.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
And that was it.
I kissed her again, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other anchoring at her waist. Her body molded to mine like it had been waiting to. Like every argument, glare, and stubborn, smart-mouthed back-and-forth had led us here.
To the bar.
The heat.
The inevitability of this .
But just as quickly, she pulled away.
“Callum,” she said, breathing hard, “we need to stop.”
“Okay,” I said, not even trying to sound convincing. “But just know, I’m not sorry.”
She blinked.
I shrugged, chest rising and falling with the effort of not pulling her back into me.
“I’m not sorry I kissed you,” I said. “I’m not sorry you came storming in here. And I’m not sorry you drive me up a damn wall.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out.
“I don’t know what this is,” I added, softer now. “But you can’t walk in here throwing sparks and expect me not to catch fire.”
She stared at me for a long moment.
And then she stepped back.
Not far. Just enough to breathe again.
“Fine,” she said, voice shaking slightly. “But if we’re going to burn the place down, we do it my way.”
I smirked, even though every part of me wanted her back in my arms. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
I didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
She turned to go then, this time for real. Her shoulders straight, chin high, lips still swollen from our kiss.
And I stood there like a man undone.
If I’d thought she was trouble before, I hadn’t known the half of it.
Because now I’d had a taste.
And no matter how much fire she brought with her, I was already stepping closer to the flame.