Chapter 7
Callie
We’ve been seeing each other almost every day for the past two weeks and I have no reason to get jealous.
I don't get jealous. That would require caring.
So, the tight feeling in my chest when the blonde at the bar touches Dean's arm is definitely just heartburn. Bad whiskey. Atmospheric pressure. Literally anything other than jealousy.
"You're glaring," Sophie observes, swirling her drink.
"I'm not glaring."
"If you glare any harder, you'll set her hair on fire."
The Rusty Spur on a Saturday night is exactly what you'd expect from Pine Valley's only bar—weathered wood walls covered in neon beer signs, pool tables in the back, a jukebox playing country songs nobody asked for.
The place smells like spilled beer and bad decisions, and it's packed with a mix of locals and soldiers from the base, everyone looking to blow off steam after a long week.
I was not expecting Dean Mercer to be here.
I was definitely not expecting the leggy blonde currently leaning into his space, laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his forearm like it belongs there.
"Heartburn," I mutter, taking a long sip of whiskey.
"Sure." Sophie doesn't bother hiding her amusement. "Heartburn that looks exactly like a woman watching another woman flirt with her man."
"He's not my man."
"You went on a date with him the other day."
"It wasn't a date. It was a professional dog-walking consultation."
"He fell into a lake trying to impress you."
"That was Ranger's fault."
"And you were supposed to meet him again today."
"For the dog."
Sophie stares at me. "Cal. Babe. Love of my life. You are so full of shit."
Behind the bar, Jenny ‘Jet’ Carver snorts. She's been pretending not to listen while she cleaning glasses, but her platinum pixie cut catches the light every time she glances our way, and the smirk on her face says she's heard every word.
"Another round?" she asks, already reaching for the whiskey.
"Please," I say.
"You here for the whiskey or the view?" Jet nods toward where Dean and Javi are holding court near the pool tables.
Sophie grins. "Both. Definitely both."
"Traitor," I tell her.
"Realist," she counters.
Jet pours our drinks with the efficiency of someone who's been doing this for years. She's got tattoos running up both arms—roses and thorns and what looks like song lyrics in cursive—and an expression that says she's seen everything and is surprised by nothing.
"For what it's worth," she says, sliding my glass across the bar, "he's been looking at you since you walked in."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb. Captain Handsome over there." She jerks her chin toward Dean. "Blondie's been throwing herself at him for twenty minutes, and he keeps glancing over here like you're the only person in the room."
I refuse to look. "I hadn't noticed."
"Uh-huh." Jet leans her elbows on the bar, fixing me with a stare that makes me understand why people spill their secrets to her. "Honey, I've been tending this bar for eight years. I've watched more soldiers fall in love than I can count. That man is gone for you."
"We barely know each other."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." She shrugs. "My dad proposed to my mom after three weeks. Forty years later, they still hold hands at the grocery store."
"That's... actually kind of sweet."
"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain." She moves off to serve another customer, but not before shooting me a knowing look that makes me want to crawl under the bar and hide.
Sophie leans closer. "She's right, you know. He hasn't stopped watching you."
"He's talking to someone else."
"He's being polite to someone else. There's a difference." She takes a sip of her drink. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing. I'm going to do nothing. Because there's nothing to do anything about."
"Callie."
"Sophie."
"You like him."
"I tolerate him."
"You let him sit in your office for two hours last week while you did paperwork."
"He refused to leave."
"You could have kicked him out. You didn't." Sophie sets down her glass with the air of someone about to deliver a verdict. "You like him. He likes you. The only person pretending otherwise is you."
The blonde laughs again, loud and bright, and puts her hand on Dean's chest this time. My chest goes tight. The whiskey suddenly tastes like battery acid.
Dean catches my eye across the room. His expression shifts—surprise, then warmth, then something that looks almost like relief. He says something to Javi, who follows his gaze and immediately starts grinning like the chaos agent he clearly is.
The blonde notices she's lost his attention. She glances over her shoulder, spots me, and her smile tightens just slightly.
"Oh boy," Sophie murmurs. "Here we go."
I should stay where I am. I should finish my drink, make small talk with Sophie, pretend I don't care that some random woman is touching a man I have no claim to.
Instead, I'm sliding off my barstool.
"Callie," Sophie calls after me. "What are you—"
I'm already walking.
The crowd parts for me—or maybe I'm just moving with enough determination that people get out of my way. Dean's watching me approach, and the blonde is watching too, her expression shifting from confused to annoyed.
"Bingo." I stop in front of them, smile bright and completely fake. "We still on for tomorrow?"
We are absolutely not on for anything tomorrow.
Dean doesn't miss a beat. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Great." I turn to the blonde, extending my hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Callie."
"Brittany." Her handshake is limp and brief. "Are you two...?"
"Old friends," Dean says smoothly. "Callie's the vet who takes care of Ranger."
"Among other things," I add, and watch Brittany's eyes narrow.
"I should get back to my friends." She gives Dean one last lingering look. "Find me later if you want to finish our conversation."
She disappears into the crowd, and Dean turns to me with an expression caught somewhere between amused and bewildered.
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"You just stared down a woman you've never met and chased her off with pure territorial energy."
"I did not."
"Doc." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You absolutely did."
"She was touching you."
"People touch me all the time."
"Not like that."
His eyes search my face. "Does that bother you?"
Yes. "No."
"You're lying. Your eye is twitching." He steps closer. "You're jealous."
"I don't get jealous."
"Could've fooled me."
We're standing too close. Close enough I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm—and see the way his pulse jumps in his throat. The bar noise fades to white noise around us.
"We should talk," he says. "Outside."
"Fine."
The cold air hits my face and I can finally breathe again. The parking lot is half-empty, lit by a single streetlight and the neon glow from the bar's windows. Music thumps through the walls, muffled now.
"What the hell was that?" Dean asks as soon as the door swings shut.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I was being polite to someone."
"You were letting her climb you like a tree."
"I was not—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "Okay. Maybe she was being forward. But I didn't invite it."
"You didn't stop it either."
"I was about to. And then you came over and marked your territory like—"
"I did not mark my territory."
"You told her we had plans tomorrow."
"We do have plans tomorrow."
"No, we don't."
"We do now. I’m calling in my rain check because of my emergency visit today."
He stares at me. I stare back. We're standing close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
"What is this?" He scrubs a hand through his hair. "What the hell are we doing, Callie?"
I don't have an answer. Don't know if I want one.
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" His voice drops. "Because I will. Right now. Just say the word."
"Is that what you want?"
"That's the opposite of what I want."
He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. "I want to know why you marched across a crowded bar to interrupt a conversation you pretended not to care about."
"I told you. We had plans."
"We didn't have plans."
"Maybe I wanted plans."
Something shifts in his expression. The teasing falls away, replaced by something raw and honest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses me.
Or maybe I kiss him. It's hard to tell who moves first—one second we're arguing, the next his mouth is on mine and my hands are fisted in his shirt and nothing else matters.
He kisses like he does everything else—confident, thorough, with an edge of humor that makes me want to laugh and melt at the same time. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and I go willingly.
"My place," I manage against his lips. "Now."
"Bossy."
"Problem?"
"No ma'am."
The drive to my house takes twelve minutes. It feels like twelve hours. Dean follows in his truck, and I spend the entire time gripping my steering wheel and wondering what the hell I'm doing.
I know what I'm doing. I'm choosing this. Choosing him.
It's terrifying.
He's barely through my front door before I'm pulling him toward the bedroom. Biscuit raises his head from his dog bed, takes one look at us, and goes back to sleep. Smart dog.
His hands are on my shoulders, stopping me mid-hallway. "Are you sure?"
"I interrupted your conversation with a beautiful woman, invented fake plans, and had you follow me to my house." I grab his collar. "I'm sure."
"Just checking."
"Check faster."
He laughs—that surprised, genuine sound—and then we're kissing again, stumbling through my bedroom door.
He fumbles with my buttons and laughs at himself. "These are unnecessarily complicated."
I didn't expect fumbling. Didn't expect the self-deprecating laugh or the way he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something to conquer.
"They're regular buttons."
"They're tiny. Who designed these?"
"Someone who didn't anticipate impatient pilots."