Chapter Thirty-Four
Lydia
The first thing I became aware of was the weight of his arm draped heavy and warm across my bare hips.
The second was the faint scent of cedar, soap, and something woodsy and masculine that was uniquely his . It clung to the flannel pillowcase beneath my cheek, to the curve of his neck I’d buried myself in sometime during the night.
And the third, vibrating on the nightstand like a persistent mosquito, was my phone.
I groaned, eyes still closed, and reached blindly with one hand, knocking over a water bottle and what felt like a book before finally grabbing it.
I squinted at the screen.
Melanie (5 missed calls).
Another buzz lit it up.
Are you alive?? Do you still live here?? Also, I kind of need my car.
Callum shifted behind me, a low rumble of a noise escaping his throat as he pulled me tighter against his chest, like even in sleep, he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth before I could stop it.
When I turned slightly to glance over my shoulder, his arm was warm, his skin rough with just a hint of stubble brush.
His face, relaxed and soft in the morning light, was so at odds with the stormy, guarded man he usually presented to the world that it stopped me for a second. Just long enough to memorize it. His dark lashes against sun-kissed cheeks, a faint crease between his brows even in rest, and that ridiculously kissable mouth now parted slightly with slow, even breaths.
This was Callum Benedict, unarmored.
And I was still in his bed.
Wrapped in his flannel duvet that smelled like the woods and comfort, like bonfires and something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Safe.
I eased my phone into my hand and replied to Melanie with one hand while keeping the rest of me still, not ready to disturb the moment.
Alive. The car is safe. I’ll explain later.
Another buzz came instantly.
Are you NAKED ALIVE or just “fell asleep on the couch and forgot to text me” alive?
I stifled a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. I wasn’t about to risk waking the man currently holding me hostage in the best possible way.
I tucked the phone under the pillow and let my eyes drift slowly around the room.
It was, unsurprisingly, all his. Masculine, warm, minimal. The walls were pine-paneled and stained a rich walnut, bathed now in pale golden light that streamed through the slats of the wooden blinds. A few old photos sat tucked in mismatched frames on a dresser—faded shots of a younger Callum and a man I assumed was his dad. There was a vintage fly-fishing poster on the wall. A leather armchair in the corner with a folded wool blanket over the back. Boots lined up neatly by the door. Everything had a place, but nothing felt cold or staged.
Then there was the bed.
The duvet was plaid, of course it was. Deep green and navy with a burgundy thread made the whole thing feel even cozier. The sheets beneath were worn cotton, soft and inviting, and smelled like they’d been hung to dry in the sun. Not some floral detergent or artificial scent, but real air and a life lived slowly.
My legs tangled beneath the covers with his. One of his thighs was pressed to mine, solid and warm, and I could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest against my back.
My cheeks heated with the memory of last night.
The way he’d looked at me as he reached for my hand.
The way his voice had dropped when he told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me.
The way he’d said—
I love you.
Three words I hadn’t expected.
Three words that hit like lightning and melted me down to my marrow.
And then, he’d touched me like I was something he was scared to break and starved to have at the same time. Gentle and wild, reverent and demanding. We hadn’t just had sex—we’d collided . Every grief, every ache, every wall we’d built had crumbled somewhere between the kisses and the heat and those three words whispered into the hollow of my throat.
And now here I was. In his bed. In the aftermath.
And the only thing I could feel was a calm kind of certainty curling in my belly.
His breath shifted again, and I felt him stir. A slight squeeze of his arm around my waist. The scrape of morning stubble against my neck.
“Hmm.” His voice was sleep-rough and low enough to make goosebumps ripple down my spine. “You still here?”
I smiled. “Unless I’m hallucinating your mattress and flannel.”
He chuckled, voice still thick with sleep. “I thought maybe you’d vanish on me.”
I turned in his arms so I could see his face. He blinked, eyes clearer now, green and vibrant and so much softer than I remembered them being the first time we met.
“Why would I do that?”
He shrugged, one shoulder rising beneath the sheet. “Because I always figured I wasn’t the kind of guy a woman sticks around for.”
I reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead. “That might’ve been true once. But you keep surprising me.”
A beat passed. His eyes searched mine.
“And last night…?” he asked quietly.
I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Last night changed things. For me, at least.”
His hand found mine beneath the covers. He didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t need to.
It was in the way he kissed my forehead. The way he pulled me closer, like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
My phone buzzed again, vibrating against the headboard.
Callum groaned. “Let me guess…Melanie?”
I laughed. “She wants her car.”
He buried his face in my shoulder and muttered, “She’s got the worst timing in the history of timing.”
I held him tighter. “She’s just… her.”
He kissed my shoulder. “Yeah, well. She better be ready to share you.”
I tilted my head to look at him, heart full.
“You planning to keep me?”
He met my gaze. “I’m planning to try. ”
And just like that, the morning stretched long and soft around us. A new beginning wrapped in flannel and the scent of pine, with a man I never saw coming and maybe couldn’t live without.
Not anymore.
Callum had fallen back asleep. His arm was slung across my stomach again, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck. His stubble tickled my skin, and I didn’t even care.
I smiled into the pillow.
Who was I?
A few months ago, I was crying from my mom’s passing in my tiny room in Seattle while being hit with a breakup and a job that made me feel like a cog in someone else’s machine. Now I was in a mountain town, lying in the bed of the most broody, stubborn, maddeningly sexy man I’d ever met, trying to remember a time when I didn’t want him to hold me this close.
And the wildest part?
I didn’t want to run.
Not even a little.
That realization bloomed in my chest so suddenly, I actually had to close my eyes and steady my breath. Because I’d known infatuation. I’d known comfort. I’d known the kind of relationships that were convenient or distracting or rooted in obligation.
But this?
This was something entirely different.
Callum was rough around the edges, yes.
Emotionally constipated, a thousand percent.
And yeah….I meant constipated.
But when he let me in, even in tiny pieces, it felt like watching the sun rise after a month of rain.
And it wasn’t just the sex last night, though God help me, that had been... phenomenal. It was the way he looked at me afterward, like he couldn’t believe I was real. It was the way he pulled me close and whispered I love you into my hair like it had been fighting to get out of him for weeks.
I believed him.
And I wanted this. All of it.
His scars, his temper, his damn bar.
Oh, the bar.
I smiled wickedly into the pillow.
If I was really going to be in this—if this was forever, or even had the potential to be forever—I had to know just how deep his crusty old roots went. How much of his bark was just noise?
And what better way to test that... than with a little fun?
I carefully peeled myself away from his warmth and padded to the kitchen, stealing one of his oversized plaid shirts from the hook by the door. It hit me mid-thigh and smelled like pine and bourbon and a thousand late nights.
I put on a pot of coffee, tiptoed through his ridiculously tidy living room, and found a pencil and notepad on the edge of the counter. I perched at the table and started doodling.
Five minutes later, Callum wandered in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, shirtless, hair sticking up in every direction.
I was momentarily distracted by the sheer number of muscles this man had apparently been hiding under flannel, but I recovered quickly.
“Mornin’,” he grunted, crossing to the coffeepot.
“Sleep okay?” I asked innocently, tapping the pencil against my chin.
He poured a cup and shot me a wary look. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing.” I smiled sweetly. “Just thinking about The Rusty Stag. ”
His eyes narrowed. “Thinking... how?”
I turned the notebook so he could see my sketch. “Just brainstorming some minor changes. You know, now that I’ve fully settled into Reckless River and all.”
He squinted. “That says ‘potential bar rebrand: The Antler & Ivy.’ ”
“Right.” I beamed. “Chic, don’t you think? We keep the rustic charm but add a little modern elegance. A nod to nature and a bit of whimsy. You know, I love glitter.”
He stared at me like I’d just suggested we put a trampoline on the roof. “Whimsy?”
I nodded solemnly. “Also, what do you think about replacing the dartboard with a selfie wall? Maybe hang a neon sign— ‘Sip happens’ or ‘Pour decisions.’ Very Instagrammable.”
He choked on his coffee.
I tapped the page again. “Oh, and don’t worry. We won’t get rid of the taxidermy fish. We’ll just bedazzle it.”
Callum lowered the mug and fixed me with a look that could peel paint off a wall. “You’re not serious.”
I tilted my head. “Aren’t I?”
He leaned one hand on the table and locked eyes with me. “You so much as touch that jukebox, and I will chain myself to it.”
I laughed, unable to hold it in any longer.
His jaw tightened. “You’re messing with me.”
“I might be.” I shrugged, pretending to consider it. “But then again, who can say? I am a woman of big ideas.”
He circled the table and dropped into the chair across from me, arms folded. “You’re dangerous.”
“You like it.”
His mouth twitched. “Maybe I do.”
We stared at each other, a long, heated second stretching between us. And suddenly it wasn’t so funny anymore. My heart was pounding again—but not from teasing.
From the way he was looking at me.
From the way his walls weren’t just cracking. They were crumbling.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You really see a future here, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“With me?” he asked, voice low.
I swallowed. “Yeah. I do.”
He was quiet for a moment, then reached out and ran his thumb along the back of my hand. “You scare the hell out of me.”
“Good,” I whispered, closing the distance.
“Why good?”
“Because that’s what it feels like when something matters.”
His hand slipped behind my neck, pulling me closer.
And just before his lips brushed mine, he murmured, “Don’t bedazzle the fish.”
I laughed against his mouth. “No promises.”