14. Cala
It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a small victory after the mess of months I’ve been through.
“Just a bad streak,” my grandma would’ve called it.
The guest bedroom—one of the many I could’ve picked in this mansion—is something else.
It still has that luxury ranch feel, but with a touch of sweetness.
The bed is covered by a soft tulle canopy, the kind that makes you feel like you’re sleeping inside a fairytale.
The wallpaper behind me is dark green with soft pink flowers scattered all over it, feminine and proper.
It feels like this room was made for someone specific, not just a random guest passing through.
The mattress is ridiculously comfortable.
I have four pillows all to myself, and a big window that opens up to Oliver’s endless land.
From here, I can see the entire field—though none of my animal friends are out there, for one simple reason: I’m the one supposed to take them out, and I’m still in bed.
When I finally make it down to the kitchen, Eliza’s already cooking breakfast. My mom’s helping her, and my dad’s at the table.
“Morning,” I say, glancing around at the new morning routine.
You can feel it’s early—too early. The air’s still heavy, quiet, like everyone’s running on half a tank.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Sit down, breakfast’s ready.”
I look at Dad. His eyes are distant again, and it worries me that his mind’s slipping a little more every day.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, taking the seat next to him. “How’s the new bed?”
“Fine,” he mutters, clipped and cold.
Great.
Then Oliver walks in. Straight-backed, calm, controlled—like he’s got a meeting with God himself.
He stops short when he sees us all sitting there. Probably forgot we were still staying in his house.
Dad’s the first to move.
“Well, we’ll leave you to your breakfast, Oliver,” he says, rolling his chair back.
But Oliver plants his boot behind the wheel and raises a brow.
“Where do you think you’re going, old timer?”
Dad sighs. “Don’t wanna be in the way, son.”
“You’re not. Nobody is.” His voice softens, and then his eyes land on me. “And I need Miss Saint-Clair to eat a proper breakfast. She’s got a long day ahead of her.”
Dad gives him a long, suspicious look.
I grab a piece of toast and shove it in my mouth before the grin gives me away.
Looks like Oliver’s skipping the office today. He’s traded his usual suit for ripped jeans and a worn button-up.
When he sits beside me, his leg brushes mine, and heat shoots through me like lightning.
That same warmth from the night in the hay.
Peaceful. Disarming.
I’ve slept next to men before—I’m twenty-eight, not a nun—but none of them ever made me feel that.
And definitely not Roger.
“Cala,” Eliza calls from the stove. “Is Roger coming over tonight? I need to plan dinner.”
Instantly, Oliver moves his leg away and pretends to be very interested in whatever’s on his tablet.
Roger.
Yeah, he’s a problem.
Still in town, still calling, and I’m still dodging him. I told him we’d meet tonight, but honestly, that was more wishful thinking than promise.
My mom probably mentioned something to Eliza.
“Oh, no,” I answer. “We’re going out. There’s this Argentine restaurant in Bishop Arts everyone’s obsessed with—I wanna try it.”
“Bishop Arts?” Oliver scoffs without looking up. “At night? Good luck finding parking.”
His eyes never leave the screen, and I swear he hasn’t scrolled a single line of that article.
That tone.
I know that tone.
“Well, Oliver—”
“Mr. Walker,” my dad cuts in, eyes narrowing, voice like a warning shot.
I grin, wide and unbothered, while Oliver’s mouth twitches into half a smile.
“Mr. Walker,” I repeat sweetly, “for your information, Roger’s hotel is just a few blocks away. No need to worry about parking.”
“And how exactly do you plan on getting back here tonight?” His voice sharpens, eyes locked on me now—less a question, more a challenge.
Why does he assume I’m coming back tonight?
I’d tell him that, if my parents weren’t both watching this exchange like a tennis match.
“I’ll take an Uber,” I say simply.
“Uber doesn’t come all the way out here.”
Ugh.
“Well,” I say, grabbing a piece of toast in one hand and another between my teeth, “I’ll figure something out.” And with that, I head for the stables before he can get another word in.
“Cala!”
I hear his furious voice before I see him.
I swallow the last bite of toast like a penguin choking on a fish and reach for the other slice, trying to look busy.
But when he reaches me, I can feel his energy—heavy, restless, magnetic.
“What?”
He stands there, jaw tight, words stuck somewhere in his throat. I can see them fighting to come out.
“Take my truck.”
“Not a chance, boss.”
“Then I’ll come pick you up.”
“Even worse,” I snap, walking away before he can throw another order my way.
His next words come from behind me, distant but cutting. “Then don’t go.”
I stop.
Turn on my heel.
Face him head-on.
“Why not?”
For a second, I feel the power shift.
His eyes dart away, his arms fold across his chest. He’s on the defensive, and he knows it.
“Because… because it’ll get late, and you won’t have a damn clue how to get back, and—”
“I told you not to worry,” I cut in, voice sharp. “If I can’t make it back, I’ll just stay with Roger.”
There. I said it.
He plants his hands on his hips, eyes locking on mine—furious, burning, full of something that feels a whole lot like a promise.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m in trouble.
He is going to say something, but then, a white van turns into the long driveway. We both see it coming and fall silent, watching as it stops in front of the house.
A short man steps out, thick Texas drawl and all. He starts talking to Oliver, introducing himself as part of the crew that’ll be clearing the debris.
Oliver asks a few questions—none of which I care to hear, because right now, I’m too damn mad at him.
So, I start stepping back.
Quietly.
Putting distance between me and the problem that almost exploded a minute ago.
“Cala,” he calls “I’m not done with you.”
What does that even mean?
“Well, I’m done,” I shoot back, turning my back on him.
I’m not getting dragged into another one of his storms.
I’ve got animals to feed, plants to tend to—and a heart that needs guarding.
Bishop Arts is everything people say it is—artsy, bohemian, and flat-out beautiful.
Bars have live jazz spilling into the street, art galleries stay open past midnight, and the whole neighborhood glows under strings of colored lights.
It’s cozy, vibrant.
Makes me feel like I’m back in college again, soaking up every drop of culture I can find.
The restaurant we picked is called Chimichurri. The place is wild. Walls plastered with Argentine icons and pink neon signs flashing things like Don’t cry for me, Argentina. It’s packed, and everyone seems to be having the time of their lives.
Roger really tried tonight.
He’s dressed in his best, even wearing that cologne I used to love—only now it doesn’t hit the same. It’s not like Oliver’s scent, that mix of cedar and smoke that still lingers somewhere in my head.
Roger’s talking a mile a minute about campus gossip, new assignments, professors, the whole academic circus. I couldn’t care less. Honestly, I’m bored out of my mind.
Every now and then, I try to steer the talk toward something that actually excites me—plants, the new trick Joan pulled at the ranch—but he just looks at me with that pitying smile, like I’ve fallen off the map.
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand gently.
“You must really miss the academic life. I’m sorry, Cala, I keep rambling about it.”
My brows knit together, confusion mixing with a spark of irritation.
“I like my work,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to.
“It’s rewarding—more than getting a pat on the back from some pompous academic who teaches because they can’t make it in the real world.
Out there, everything depends on you. You see it in the first sprouts, in how the land gives back what you put into it.
Food that actually sustains us. Honestly, I don’t miss my old life.
If anything, I feel sorry for people who’ll never know that kind of fulfillment. ”
Roger swallows hard, caught off guard.
“I’m sorry, Cala. I didn’t realize you felt that way. I’m… I’m really happy for you.”
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, but it only grates on my nerves. I want to pull away, to run.
Because the truth is, I know this can’t go anywhere—and yet, here I am, sitting in it, just to avoid hurting someone.
I really need to learn how to say no.
“I think I’m gonna head out, Roger. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.” I start gathering my things.
“Wait! Don’t you wanna try dessert? They say the dulce de leche empanada’s amazing.”
“No, sorry. You know what they say—time’s money.”
When we step outside, Roger’s smile looks tight, muscles working too hard to hold it together.
“Wanna come back to my hotel?”
“Roger…” I sigh.
“I know, I know,” he says, already defeated. “Had to try. I meant it when I said I missed you—but I can tell you’ve moved on.”
“Not just that. We live four hours apart. You know this wouldn’t work.”
What I don’t say is I don’t even want it to.
“I get it.” He hesitates. “Can I… kiss you one last time?”
It sounds more like a wish than a question. And thanks to the guilt complex my mom kindly installed in my brain, I nod.
He steps closer, a half-smile tugging at his lips and just when he’s inches away from kissing me, a horn blares so loud it makes him jump out of his skin.
We both stare at the SUV parked across the street; its headlights are flashing like a goddamn disco.
“Is this a joke?” I mutter.
The tinted window rolls down and Oliver Walker blooms into view, that crooked, almost wicked smile on his perfectly symmetrical face.
“Need a ride?” he calls out, voice all smug.
I want to kill him.
“Isn’t that your boss?” Roger asks, just as stunned as I am.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “I have to go, Roger.” I give him a quick, tight hug and a half smile. “Thanks for dinner. It was great. Bye.”