Chapter 4
Callie
The community center buzzed with laughter and the scent of cinnamon and pine, holiday warmth curling around me like an old blanket that didn’t quite fit the way it used to.
Twinkling lights hung from the rafters, casting a soft glow over tables dressed in red and green tablecloths.
Every surface was smothered in Christmas cheer—paper snowflakes taped to windows, garlands twisted along door frames, and a towering tree in the corner dripping in mismatched ornaments, many of them handmade by kids from the elementary school.
I sat near the back with my arms crossed tight, doing my best impression of invisible. The room overflowed with locals—sipping cider, chatting, their sweaters ranging from “festive” to “fire hazard.” Somewhere, someone’s reindeer antlers were blinking.
I kept my eyes forward, trying not to sigh too obviously as the clipboard-wielding woman up front cheerfully read out names from the volunteer roster.
“Carol Smith for cookie donations! Thank you, Carol!”
Applause rippled around me. I didn’t clap.
I’d already donated the shop as a toy drop-off point.
That was enough. More than enough. I didn’t need any more holiday spirit shoved onto my plate.
As much as I wanted to help, I wanted to make sure that the shop had its best chance of getting the attention it deserved.
She moved on—something about wrapping parties and ornament swaps—while the buzz in the room grew warmer, livelier. Everyone was glowing with good intentions and just the right amount of cinnamon. And yet, I couldn’t shake this twinge in my gut, like something was about to go wrong.
“Now,” the woman said, flipping to a new page, “our most important task of the season—our holiday charity circuit.”
Chairs squeaked as people shifted, some leaning in, others already pulling back.
“Unfortunately, our delivery van driver had to drop out due to an injury, so we’re in urgent need of volunteers to deliver food, gifts, and supplies to elderly residents and families in need.”
And there it was.
A silence crept in—polite, hesitant, the kind that made you stare at your drink or fake a sudden need to check your phone. I did both. The energy in the room dimmed, as if someone had pulled a string of lights and half the bulbs flickered out.
“Anyone?”
I could hear the smile straining in her voice.
I kept my head down. Maybe if I looked busy enough, distracted enough, I wouldn’t be volunteered. Or worse, feel guilty enough to raise my hand.
No one moved. Just the usual awkward shuffling and the communal prayer that someone else would do it.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
And waited.
Because there was no way I was getting roped into this.
Right?
I glanced around the room, nerves coiling tighter with each heartbeat.
Familiar faces dotted the folding chairs—Mrs. Henderson from down the street was fiddling with her red knit scarf like it had wronged her.
Greg, from the auto shop, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, eyebrows knit like he was solving a word problem instead of facing a room full of unmet needs.
Even Leo was here, posted near the front, his face unreadable—stone-still and way too calm, like he knew something no one else did.
No one moved. The silence grew heavier, thick with discomfort and holiday guilt.
I swallowed hard, heat prickling the back of my neck. It would be so easy to stay still. To say I’d already done enough. That the toy drive was contribution enough. That someone else—anyone else—could pick up the slack this year.
But that itch inside me wouldn’t stop. That tug—the one that always pulled me toward the things I wasn’t ready for but somehow had to do anyway—was louder than my excuses.
My hands clenched around the fabric of my coat. Maybe this was my chance to prove something. Not to anyone else—but to myself. That I still had it in me. That I could rebuild, reconnect, contribute… even if it scared the hell out of me.
Before I could let doubt slither in and wrap itself around my ankles, I took the deepest breath I could manage and stood.
The legs of my chair scraped back on the tile with a screech far louder than I meant. Heads turned. All at once, I was visible again.
God help me.
Before I could even form the words I’ll do it, a chair scraped behind me.
“I’ll take the route,” Cavil said, his voice steady and certain—like this was just another errand on a to-do list.
My head snapped toward him, heart stuttering. My stomach dropped so hard it felt like the floor had vanished beneath me.
No, no, no.
The meeting organizer lit up like a Christmas tree. “Perfect! And Callie can ride along—she already knows the stops!”
What?!
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I couldn’t even muster a half-hearted protest. People nodded and grinned, someone shouted, “Great pairing!” and the whole thing snowballed faster than I could stop it.
I looked at Cavil, but he didn’t look at me. He just kept facing forward, jaw set like this meant absolutely nothing to him.
I, on the other hand, was unraveling.
“Callie?” the organizer prompted, her voice sweet but expectant. “You’re good with that?”
I blinked. My gaze swept the room, full of hopeful, kindhearted faces. All of them waiting. I couldn’t exactly scream hell no in the middle of a community meeting. I couldn’t explain that riding around in a truck with Leo’s brother for days wasn’t just awkward—it was personal. Complicated. Loaded.
“Uh…” I stalled, voice faltering.
“You’ve got this!” someone called out cheerily. Another thumbs-up from across the room.
I could feel it—everyone rooting for this tidy little Christmas miracle.
“Yeah… sure,” I said, smiling the kind of smile you wore when your favorite mug broke and everyone told you it was fine because you had other ones.
“Fantastic!” she chirped. “We’ll get everything organized in the next couple of days”
As the room hummed again with conversation and planning, I just sat there frozen, my coffee now cold in my hands. A minute ago, I was invisible. Safe. Watching everyone else step forward.
Now I was front and center. With him.
Cavil finally turned, giving me a brief look—not warm, not hostile, just… unreadable. A flicker of something passed between us before he turned back, and it twisted something sharp and unwelcome in my chest.
The meeting ended in a blur of good intentions and glittering plans.
Laughter echoed as people gathered their coats and cookies, already buzzing about the charity routes and Christmas concerts.
I slipped out the back door without a word, needing space before someone asked me to join another committee or sing carols for the local nursing home.
Snow had started falling—just a dusting, soft and slow—blurring the lines between buildings and lamplight.
I leaned against the cold railing outside; the metal biting through my sleeves, grounding me.
I breathed in deep. The air was sharp and clean, not like the noise and heat pressing in from the community center.
Cavil was already out there, like he’d been waiting, leaning against the brick wall with all the ease of someone who had zero idea the chaos he’d just dropped into my lap. His arms were crossed, his breath visible in the cold, and his expression—infuriatingly calm.
“What was that?” I snapped, storming toward him, my voice low but laced with heat. “You never volunteer. For anything.”
He didn’t flinch. Just raised one brow. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to be useful.”
My hands curled into fists inside my coat pockets. “Don’t do that,” I hissed. “Don’t pretend you’re swooping in to help when you just want to play the hero. I don’t need saving, Cavil.”
He pushed off the wall with a slow shrug. “Good. Then this’ll be easy.”
My jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Keep it professional. Routes, delivery windows. No reminiscing. No heart-to-hearts. No… you.”
His lips twitched. “Sounds like a dream.” There was the smirk—the one that made me want to throw a snowball directly at his face.
Before I could unleash the full force of my irritation, the door creaked open behind us.
Leo.
Of course.
He sauntered out like the star of his own Hallmark movie, hands jammed into his pockets, eyes already dancing with amusement. “Cavil,” he drawled, grinning. “Trying to get some extra time with Callie? That’s adorable.”
“Shut up,” Cavil replied, deadpan, not even turning to look at him.
Leo chuckled. “What’s the problem? I think it’s sweet. Our very own brooding war hero can’t resist playing white knight.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it gave me a headache. “I don’t need any of this,” I muttered, shooting daggers at both of them.
Cavil just looked at me, cool as ever. “No one said you did. You’re acting like this is some personal attack.”
“You’re acting like you know what’s best for me.”
“You’re twenty-five, not twelve,” he replied flatly. “But you’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler.”
I blinked, stunned for a second. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not a kid,” he continued, completely unfazed by my death glare. “So stop acting like helping you is an insult.”
I opened my mouth—ready to fire off something brutal and probably uncalled for—when Leo stepped forward, smirking like he lived for this chaos.
“Cavil thinks he knows everything,” he said with a lazy grin. “But I’ll tell you what I know—you two are a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Leo,” I warned.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. No commentary.” He turned back to me suddenly, all that teasing evaporating into something dangerously sincere. “But how about dinner?”
My brain short-circuited.
“I—” I started, only to have Cavil cut in sharply.
“We need to meet back at The Book Nook,” Cavil said, his voice sharp enough to slice through the tension that still buzzed in the air like static.
I blinked, startled not by the suggestion but by the way he said it—firm, direct, like he had every right to decide how this all played out.
Leo caught it too, I could tell. He arched a brow in Cavil’s direction, lips twitching in amusement like he’d just been handed front-row seats to a show he hadn’t bought tickets for.
My jaw tightened.
I didn’t like being told what to do—especially not by him.
Especially not after the way the ground had just been yanked out from under me.
I glanced between them, my two least favorite kinds of men at that exact moment: the ex who still thought he had a stake in me, and the brother who kept stepping into spaces he didn’t belong.
This wasn’t how any of it was supposed to go. I’d had a plan—simple, manageable, mine. Now I was half-paired with a man I hadn’t spoken to in years, who thought volunteering meant he could bulldoze his way through my boundaries without blinking.
“You can lead this little mission all you want,” I said, my voice a touch too calm to be natural. “But let’s not pretend we’re friends.”
He didn’t even flinch. “Who said anything about friendship?” he replied, his tone neutral but laced with something that made the back of my neck prickle.
That offhand dismissal—the cool detachment in it—shouldn’t have hit so hard. But it did. I’d wanted clean edges, neat roles, polite distance. Instead, I got Cavil with his unreadable eyes and steady presence, acting like none of this was personal.
“Well then,” I said tightly, shifting my weight on the icy sidewalk as if that could settle the unevenness inside me. “Let’s get this over with.”
Snowflakes floated down around us, gentle and beautiful in a way that made the bitterness between us feel even more stark by contrast. My breath fogged the air between us, thin and unsteady.
And somewhere, beneath the brittle edge of my bravado, I felt something shift—just slightly.
The kind of shift you try to ignore because acknowledging it would mean admitting you weren’t as unaffected as you claimed.
I turned away before either of them could see it, my boots crunching against the frostbitten pavement, the weight of their silence trailing me like a second shadow.