Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Callum
The kitchen smelled like garlic and herbs, evidence of the past hour I'd spent attempting to cook something that wasn't reheated leftovers or takeout.
Chicken with roasted vegetables. A salad.
Nothing complicated. I could manage basic cooking without burning the house down, even if most of my attention kept drifting to the clock.
Pudding sprawled by my feet, working over a rope toy with serious determination. He'd filled out these past few weeks, coat shinier, ribs no longer visible. Still gangly, but healthier.
I pulled open the oven door to check the chicken, and Pudding abandoned his toy, nose twitching as he stood.
“It's not for you.”
His ears perked, tail wagging hopefully.
“Seriously. This is for Rosie.” I shut the oven door. “You already ate.”
Pudding sat, looking offended. I grabbed a training treat from the jar on the counter and tossed it to him. He caught it mid-air before trotting back to his rope toy.
The transformation from the terrified puppy behind Frank's dumpster to this confident little dog still amazed me. Pudding had learned to sit, stay, even come when called—most of the time. His progress with people was slower but steady. He let Sharon pet him now without cowering.
Rosie would be thrilled to see how far he'd come.
It felt like forever since I'd seen her properly. We'd managed a wave when I'd driven past the farm yesterday, but between emergency calls and her market prep, we'd barely exchanged a few texts. Tonight would be different—a whole evening together, no interruptions.
I set the pan on the stovetop and checked my watch. Rosie would be here soon. The thought sent a familiar warmth through my chest, the same feeling I'd been getting every time I thought about her lately.
Which was constantly.
Pudding wandered over to his water bowl, lapping noisily. I wiped down the counter, straightened the already-straight dish towels, rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. Ridiculous. When had I become the kind of person who fussed over place settings?
Since Rosie, apparently.
A knock at the front door made Pudding's ears perk.
I opened the door and there she was—sandy brown hair escaping its ponytail, freckles scattered across sun-kissed cheeks, wearing that yellow sundress that made her eyes look more green than hazel.
Beautiful.
“Hey.” My voice came out rough.
“Hi.” She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late. Had to wrestle Snickers back into her pen.”
“No problem.” I stepped aside, letting her in. “Everything okay with the goats?”
“Fine. Just Snickers being Snickers.” Rosie's laugh sounded forced. Brittle around the edges.
Pudding approached slowly, ears forward but body low. He sniffed Rosie's outstretched hand before his tail started wagging, tentative at first, then with growing enthusiasm as he recognized her. Rosie dropped to her knees, letting him lean against her legs while she scratched behind his ears.
“Look at you, sweet boy,” she murmured, voice softening. “You're getting so big.”
Pudding pressed closer, soaking up the attention but still glancing at me as if checking that this was okay.
“I think he missed you.”
“Did you?” She looked at Pudding, voice playful, continuing to scratch behind his ears. “I missed you, too.”
Pudding's tail picked up speed, a tentative wag that grew bolder.
“Dinner smells incredible.” She stood, brushing dog hair from her dress. “I can't believe you cooked.”
“Don't sound so shocked.” I led her toward the kitchen. “I'm capable of basic survival skills.”
“Basic survival is opening a can of soup. This is...” She paused in the doorway, taking in the set table, the chicken resting on the stovetop. “Cal, this is really nice.”
“Thanks,” I gestured toward the bottle I'd opened earlier. “Wine?”
“Please.”
I poured two glasses, watching as she accepted hers and took a small sip.
“This is good.” She nodded toward the wine. “What is it?”
“Something Sharon recommended.” I lifted my own glass. “She said it pairs well with chicken.”
“Sharon gives wine advice now?”
“Apparently she has hidden talents.” I set my glass on the counter. “Come on, I'll show you her other secret talent.”
I led Rosie down the short hallway. Pudding darted ahead of us, launched himself onto the bed like he owned the place.
“Pudding, off.”
He ignored me completely, circling twice before collapsing on my pillow with a satisfied grunt.
Rosie burst out laughing—the first genuine sound she'd made since arriving. “Look at his face. He's so proud of himself.”
“He's not allowed on the bed.”
“Says who?” She sat on the edge of the mattress. “This is clearly his bed now.”
Pudding cracked one eye open, tail thumping against the quilt like he understood every word.
“You're encouraging him.”
“Maybe.” She reached over to scratch his ears. “But he's so relaxed.”
She had a point. The puppy's breathing had already deepened, eyelids drooping.
“Spoiled rotten is what he is.”
But I didn't make him move.
Rosie ran her hand over the patchwork quilt. “This is gorgeous. Wait, is this Sharon's other secret talent?”
“It is. She showed up with it the day I moved in.” I settled beside Rosie, close enough that our knees almost touched. “Said the place needed ‘something colorful.’”
“She was right. It's perfect.”
Pudding immediately crawled over, wedging himself between us like a furry chaperone. Rosie scratched under his chin, and he melted into a puddle of contentment.
“Can't believe how much he's grown.”
“Right? He used to be skin and bones.” I studied Rosie's profile, the way she kept her attention focused on Pudding instead of me. “You sure you're okay?”
Her hand stilled on the puppy's fur. “Why do you keep asking that?”
“Because it feels like you're avoiding me.”
That earned me a small laugh, but it sounded hollow. “I'm not avoiding you.”
“But something happened.”
She sighed, finally looking at me. “Can we talk about it after dinner? I promise I will. I just...” She gestured vaguely. “I want to enjoy this first. You cooked for me. That's not something I want to rush through.”
The careful way she chose her words made my chest tight. Whatever this was, it wasn't small.
“Bad news?”
“I don't know yet.” She threaded her fingers through mine. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Everything in me wanted to push. Find out what was making her look at me like she was memorizing my face. But I'd spent years being pushed myself—parents demanding answers, explanations, justifications for every decision that didn't meet their standards.
“Okay.” I squeezed her hand. “After dinner.”
Relief flickered across her features. She leaned over and kissed me, soft and lingering, like she was trying to say something she couldn't put into words yet.
“Come on.” I stood, offering her my hand. “Let's eat before it gets cold.”
She let me pull her up, her grip lingered longer than necessary.
In the kitchen, I plated the chicken and vegetables while Rosie refilled our wine glasses. We settled at the small table, Pudding sprawled beneath it, occasionally nudging our legs with his nose.
Rosie cut into her chicken, took a bite, and her eyebrows shot up. “Okay, this is really good.”
“You say that like you expected it to be terrible.”
“No, but—” She gestured with her fork. “Last time you mentioned cooking, it was microwaving leftover pizza for breakfast.”
I speared a piece of roasted carrot. “I can follow a recipe when I put effort into it.”
“When you put effort into it?”
“Last week I tried to make pizza from scratch. Burned it so badly the smoke alarm went off for ten minutes straight. Pudding disappeared under the bed and wouldn't come out until I opened a bag of treats.”
She burst out laughing. “Poor baby. First abandonment trauma, now cooking trauma.”
“He's resilient.”
“Clearly.” She took another bite. “This is seriously good though. I'm impressed.”
Pudding whined under the table. A second later, Rosie casually moved her hand toward her lap.
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“You just gave him chicken.”
She tried to look innocent. “He gave me puppy eyes.”
“He always gives you puppy eyes.”
“Because he loves me.” She scratched his head under the table.
“Can't blame him.”
Her gaze snapped to mine, cheeks flushing pink. I smiled at her, warmth spreading through my chest at the sight of that blush. But then she looked away, focusing intently on cutting another piece of chicken, avoiding my eyes completely.
We ate in silence punctuated by careful small talk.
Rosie asked about my week—I mentioned Tuesday's emergency surgery, a golden retriever with bloat that nearly didn't make it.
She told me about the chickens getting into the garden and the mess they'd made.
Safe topics. Easy conversation that danced around whatever was weighing on her mind.
I watched her push vegetables around her plate, the way her smile never quite settled. She complimented the seasoning twice, asked about Sharon's quilting hobby, mentioned the weather forecast. All perfectly normal dinner conversation, except for the deliberate way she chose each topic.
When she finished, only half her chicken was gone and most of the vegetables remained untouched.
“Not hungry?”
“It's delicious, really. I'm just...” She set down her fork. “My stomach's been weird today.”
I nodded, not believing her for a second. But I didn't push.
We cleared the table together, plates and silverware making quiet sounds as we worked. Rosie grabbed the wine glasses while I carried our plates to the sink.
“Just leave them,” she said as I turned on the water. “We can deal with it later.”
“Takes two minutes.”
“Cal.” She touched my arm. “Please. Come sit with me.”
Something in her voice, urgent, almost desperate, made me shut off the faucet. I dried my hands, followed her to the living room.
Pudding bounded onto the couch between us, tail wagging.
“Down, honey.” Rosie gently nudged him to the floor. “Not right now.”
He huffed, circled twice, then collapsed with theatrical disappointment.