24. Cala
My father’s rehabilitation center is breathtaking—grand, luxurious, and so immaculate it almost steals my breath.
The entrance is impressive: a paved road lined with trees so tall their branches meet above us, forming a natural archway.
The grass on both sides glows a fierce, vibrant green, giving the whole place a kind of fairytale calm.
At the end of the road stands a glass building that gleams under the afternoon sun.
Then again, once I remembered Oliver Walker was footing the bill, it made perfect sense. Of course it would be the best of the best.
The van stops at the front, and a ramp unfolds so my father can roll down in his chair.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” a cheerful woman calls out as she approaches. Her straight blond hair hangs stiffly against her shoulders, and her smile looks like it’s been rehearsed in the mirror. “Lucien! It’s so wonderful to see you here with your family.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Gloria,” my father replies politely. “This is my wife, Lis, and our daughter, Cala.”
She shakes our hands firmly, still smiling like she’s had too much coffee.
This morning, we slipped out of the ranch while Oliver was busy with his nephews.
Even though he’d made it clear that he wanted my father at the Walkers’ Thanksgiving table, my dad insisted we had no place there.
He told us—behind Oliver’s back, of course—that the center’s van would pick us up in thirty minutes.
So here we are.
I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to Oliver or wish him a happy Thanksgiving, and the guilt is eating me alive.
Things between us have been fragile since the fight.
The moment I threw him out of my bathroom, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.
But by then, it was too late. I can’t get the look on his face out of my head—the disappointment, the hurt.
And honestly, I’m disappointed in myself too, for not being brave enough to just tell him how I feel.
“Thank you for having us,” my mother says, smiling graciously. I copy her expression, the one she taught me to wear when the inside of me doesn’t match the outside.
All I can think about is how furious Oliver’s going to be when he realizes we’re not sitting at his table tonight.
“Come in, come in! We’re just about to start, there are at least forty steaming turkeys waiting to be shared among all the families!”
We walk into a large hall. The back wall is completely made of glass, so it feels like the sky and the green lawn outside have spilled into the room. Tables fill the space, each one shared by two families arranging their plates and drinks, laughing and chatting before the meal begins.
My mother looks genuinely excited, and so does my father.
They were never the social type—never had friends over, never hosted dinners.
On weekends, when my dad came home, he’d just rest or spend quiet time with us.
So, seeing him now—smiling, greeting people, fist-bumping other men—it does something to me.
It makes me happy. For the first time, he looks content.
“Over here!” calls the woman from earlier, waving us toward a table. There’s already a family waiting there. They smile warmly and welcome us right away.
My parents start chatting with them; in this family, it’s the wife who’s in a wheelchair. She’s young—much younger than my father—and beautiful, with this radiant, effortless glow about her. Her husband looks just as kind, holding a little girl with golden curls who can’t be older than two.
My parents melt instantly. They start making faces and playing peekaboo to make the baby laugh, and for a moment I wonder if they ever thought about being grandparents.
It’s something we never talked about. I’ve never really pictured myself as a mother, but watching them now—so soft, so alive around this child—it makes me question things.
I’ve always been focused on studying, working, building a future. But now… with how different everything feels, how much time I spend surrounded by animals and open fields instead of people, I’m not sure a family of my own would even fit into that picture anymore.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, firm and grounding—and my whole body stiffens.
When I turn around, the warmth drains from my face.
“Oliver.”
He’s standing there, tall and composed, but his jaw is tight, his eyes storm-dark.
“Why are you here?” His voice is low, controlled, the kind that carries power even when it barely rises. “We’ve been waiting for you…”
“I thought Cala told you we were coming here,” my father says flatly, forcing a polite, rigid smile.
“She did.” Oliver’s tone cuts through the air like a blade. “And I told her I wanted you all at my table. You’re family, Lucien.”
The word family hangs between them, heavy and complicated.
My father doesn’t respond. He just looks at Oliver’s hand still hovering near my shoulder, and something territorial flashes in his eyes.
“Oliver,” I murmur, trying to defuse the moment, but the air feels charged, too thick to breathe. His eyes snap to mine, and the rest of the room disappears. “You’re not going to change his mind. Go enjoy the day with your family.”
His lips twitch—not into a smile, but into something darker, restrained. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking softly against my skin, “not if you’re not there.”
The words hit me right in the chest.
Because I feel it too.
That strange, aching wrongness of being apart. Of pretending that what’s happening between us isn’t real.
I glance at my parents. Sensing the uncomfortable atmosphere, the other family at our table turns their attention elsewhere and quietly murmurs to their child, acting as though nothing is happening.
My father’s warning is clear in the slow shake of his head.
My mother, as always, stays silent, her eyes pleading for me to let it go.
But I can’t.
I push my chair back and stand. The sound echoes through the hall like a confession.
“Cala,” my father warns, voice low but sharp. “Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not,” I say, my throat tight but steady. “It’s where he wants me to be. And it’s where I want to be.”
I walk to Oliver. The air seems to bend between us.
When I stop beside him, the tips of our fingers brush—barely a whisper of contact—but the jolt it sends through me is enough to set my heart racing.
He doesn’t move his hand.
“Lucien.” Oliver’s voice drops, quiet but dangerous. “Last chance. You coming?”
My father’s eyes harden. “No, Oliver. Thank you. We’ll stay here.”
A muscle in Oliver’s jaw ticks. He gives a single nod, the kind that could mean control or surrender, I can’t tell which.
Then, still looking at my father, he says, “Perfect.”
He turns toward the door. “Let’s go, Cala.”
When we reach the truck, Oliver slams his door shut and exhales all the air he’d been holding in. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“He’s such a stubborn man…” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “Did I just ruin my relationship with Lucien?”
I place my hand on his arm. “No. He was actually having a good time there.”
“But I practically kidnapped his daughter…”
“You did no such thing. He’ll get over it, Oliver. Don’t let it eat at you.”
He nods, still tense, but finally looks at me. I give him a soft smile, the kind meant to steady a storm.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi, Oli.”
He leans forward and kisses me, his hand cupping the back of my neck, his lips pressing against mine with urgency and restraint all at once.
“I’m tired of fighting this, Cala,” he breathes against my mouth.
I nod, my heart pounding.
“I just want today to be peaceful,” he murmurs. “But tomorrow… tomorrow we talk.”
When we get back to the ranch, the adult Walkers are in the kitchen, and the little ones are in the living room watching Frozen on the giant TV—Astro sitting at their feet, watching the screen like he actually understands it.
Eliza is laughing so hard she’s crying while wrestling with Killian, trying to stop him from stealing her cranberry sauce.
She looks tiny next to the Walkers, but happy—and that alone makes me smile.
Silas and Lauren are peeling potatoes side by side, Luca’s kneading bread, and his wife keeps scolding him for doing it wrong.
Oliver’s face softens completely. He smiles—really smiles—and, without even looking at me, he reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine and holding tight. No one notices we’ve come in, so he lets his walls down just long enough to breathe.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
I squeeze his hand back, smiling up at him.
“Oh! Cala! They found you!” Killian shouts from behind the island. “We were worried! No one wants to live under the same roof as Grumpy Oliver.”
“I wasn’t grumpy,” Oliver protests, tugging me into the heart of the chaos. “I was… concerned.”
Silas and Luca both look up from their tasks and raise an eyebrow in perfect sync—identical, unimpressed expressions that say yeah, right.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, glancing around.
“Can you keep Killian busy?” Eliza pleads. “I’ll never finish checking the turkey if I have to babysit him.”
“Hey!” Killian protests, feigning offense. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do,” she says, exasperated, “but I’d also like to eat before midnight.”
Killian finally throws his hands up in mock surrender and strolls toward me. He bumps into Oliver on purpose, breaking our handhold, and casually drapes an arm around my shoulders.
‘How about you give me a tour of the ranch?’ he says, grinning like a troublemaker.
Oliver’s expression darkens immediately. “Killian…”
“You can come too, if you want,” Killian says, turning to him with faux innocence. “But fair warning—I plan on asking her about my Instagram. It’s not every day I get to talk to a fan. I could use some feedback.”
Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing like a man who’s been through this a thousand times.
“Fine. But don’t do anything inappropriate.”
Killian grins wider, pure mischief lighting up his face. “Inappropriate is my middle name, brother.”
Killian climbs into the golf cart, and even so, the whole thing dips like we just loaded a longhorn cow onto it.
Same thing that happens every time Oliver gets in—and from what I’ve seen, all the Walker brothers are built like human tractors anyway.
He drapes one arm along the backrest and inhales deeply.
“You don’t get this quality of oxygen in San Francisco,” he remarks as I turn the key in the ignition and guide us out into the wide, open field.
The engine hums beneath us, and I can’t help but notice the way his eyes scan the horizon, as if he’s breathing in more than just air—taking in the freedom of so much space.
“It’s different out here,” he adds quietly, almost as if he’s surprised by the realization himself.
“I know. I used to live in Waco and even there the air wasn’t like this.”
My hands grip the wheel a little tighter, tension knotting my knuckles.
There’s a nervous flutter in my chest, and I can’t quite pin down why.
It’s not because he’s some celebrity, and it’s not the whole “Adonis of San Francisco” thing the internet loves to call him, either.
No, the unease comes from something else entirely—he saw us holding hands.
Now, with Killian’s scrutinizing presence in the car, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to be peppered with questions, Walker-style, and I’m not ready for the interrogation that’s sure to follow.
“Do you miss the city?” he asks.
I can feel his eyes on me, even behind the round Ray-Bans he’s just slipped on.
“No. Honestly, I thought I’d hate it here, but the ranch grew on me. I don’t think I could go back to city life now—not after this.”
“Interesting…” he hums, and my stomach twists.
I can feel a drop of sweat slide down my spine. And it’s fall.
“So,” I blurt, desperate to change the subject, “what kind of questions did you have about your Instagram?”
He laughs, the sound easy and reckless. “Oh, none. I just said that to scare Oliver off. He hates my Instagram.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, staring straight ahead. “Where do you want to go, then?”
“Nowhere in particular. Just drive.”
Another drop of sweat slides lower. Yep. Definitely not the weather.
I drive past the stables, the barn, and the tractor shed, following the familiar route that loops around the pond.
The scenery slips by, a patchwork of fields and outbuildings, but Killian Walker remains silent beside me.
He doesn’t utter a single word as I head back toward the house, the quiet between us stretching out, filled only by the hum of the engine and the soft crunch of gravel beneath the tires.
When I park in front of the house, we glance at each other, and he breaks into a wide grin.
“Did I pass the test?” I whisper, because Oliver is standing on the porch, arms crossed, watching us like a hawk.
“Oh, the test wasn’t for you,” Killian says, pointing at his brother. “It was for him. Look at him—standing there like a possessive guard dog. You don’t scare anyone, bro!” he shouts the last part, laughing.
I can’t help it—I laugh too, all the tension finally leaving my body.
As Killian climbs out of the cart, his huge frame blocking the afternoon light, he glances back over his shoulder.
“If you break his heart,” he says with mock seriousness, “I’m blocking you on Instagram.”
That does it, I burst out laughing.
“Deal.”