The One Who Never Left: Colter (Callahan Legacy #2)

Chapter 1

As far as Sutton Rose was concerned, babies came from love or bad math.

Or at least there was sex involved. Yet there she was, after a five-year sex deprivation, juggling a four-year-old, a diaper bag the size of Mary Poppins' purse, and clutching a legal document that screamed, You're an adult now, Sutton, congrats!

Sutton planted one sneaker on the lowest shelf, rose to her tiptoes, and stretched like her spine might snap in half. Whoever designed grocery shelving clearly hated short women, feminine hygiene, and joy in general.

The box she wanted—Ultra-Plus, fortress-grade—sat tauntingly on the top shelf, two inches out of reach.

"Afternoon." The male voice at her back made her freeze mid-stretch.

She didn't answer. Maybe he'd just go away. The last thing she needed was a man wandering into her life, distracting her with empty promises and bad timing.

"Ma'am?" he tried again.

"Ma'am?"

Translation: tired, possibly married, definitely off the market.

Sutton scoffed. He had to be shitting her. She wasn't even twenty-four. Way too young to be ma'amed. "Are you trying to start a fight in the tampon aisle?"

He chuckled. "Tell me your name and I'll call you that."

"Nice try."

"Need help?" he asked.

"Nope." She popped that P in a this-conversation-has-expired kind of way.

"Good Lord, you are the most suspicious person I've ever met."

"Says the guy lurking in the feminine-hygiene aisle," she said, her eyes locked on the boxes and boxes of tampons, hoping he'd get the message.

He did not.

"It's not lurking. It's called being a gentleman.

And while I'd never pressure a lady, I'd feel mighty guilty if anything happened to you while you're balanced on the very edge of a store fixture.

So I'll just stand here beside you, arms at the ready, watching you attempt the impossible until you admit you need help. Sound fair?"

Rule number one of grocery shopping with a stranger's eyes on you: do not acknowledge the forearms. Sutton acknowledged the forearms.

"Top-shelf conspiracy against short people is real," she informed him.

"Good thing I'm tall and heroic."

She ignored the bait and stretched another inch, fingers grazing cardboard.

"You can stretch all you want," he said, amusement curling into warmth. "But the only thing you're accomplishing is showing me more of the teal lace you've got on."

Her breath stuttered. She slapped her hand over her butt and whipped around—far too fast—and her balance went out from under her. The shelf edge disappeared from beneath her feet and she pitched forward.

Strong hands wrapped her waist before she could face-plant. Her palms hit his chest, discovering solid muscle beneath a green, well-worn Henley. Her nose nearly brushed his. Their uneven breath mingled. His arms locked around her like holding her upright was instinct, not choice.

Every nerve ending she owned lit up and instant electricity shot through her veins—making her want to do something reckless, if she were being honest.

"If you wanted attention, you could've just asked," he murmured, voice low enough to skim her skin.

"Thanks," she mumbled. "I guess I did need—"

Sutton looked up into the most mesmerizing set of hunter-green, flirt-tainted eyes she’d ever seen and the words died on her lips, then dropped straight to the pit of her stomach where they expanded and churned until she swore her organs were trying to crawl up her throat.

Oh God. She couldn't breathe. It wasn't just any man.

Her accidental hero was the man she'd been hunting for—but absolutely was not ready to meet—and definitely not while holding a box of tampons.

Because there, dressed in that fitted shirt that was rolled at the sleeves—showing strong forearms—and dark jeans that hugged just enough to hint at the power underneath, was Dr. Colter Callahan of 23179 Callahan Ranch Drive, Bridlewood, Montana—the new owner of the Full Barn Animal Clinic and the man Sutton had spent the last three years searching the country for.

Her pulse ricocheted through her veins. Every muscle locked.

A hot flush crawled up her neck and her scalp tingled with shock.

He was real and he was in front of her. No longer the grainy photo her private investigator had given her or a social media thumbnail.

He was a six-foot-something wall of good-looks and absolute charm.

Did she mention trouble? Because, yeah, he was that too.

Even in casual clothes, he looked like he could handle a ranch, a clinic, or a herd of horses, all while smashing Ladies Night at the local bar. Up close, his height and build made him feel almost larger than life, the kind of man who could fill any space he stepped into.

Her lungs forgot their function. Her brain scattered. And her stupid heart pumped like it recognized him before her logic could intervene.

Great. Fantastic. She was ovulating for a man she was legally, morally, and emotionally obligated to hate. God help her, he was even better-looking than the stake-out photos. Bigger than the pictures she'd found while stalking him online. Broader. Taller. More everything.

His mouth curved slowly with a hint of wicked to finish it off.

"Careful," he said, stretching out the words like they weren't in a rush and elongating that A like a true Midwesterner. "If you stare any harder, you're gonna set me on fire."

Heat shot up her neck and she scrambled for composure. "I wasn't—"

"Speechless," he said, handing her the tampon box like he was gifting her the moon. His fingers brushed hers—totally and completely on purpose. Asshole. "Happens a lot when women meet me for the first time. It's a whole epidemic."

Her jaw snapped shut, hard enough to sting. She'd heard the rumors about him being a playboy, but she hadn't been prepared to have that charm aimed squarely at her. Somehow it pissed her off—and disappointed her in a way she hated acknowledging.

"You think highly of yourself," she said.

"Only because you're looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to remember how breathing works."

She snatched the box from his hand and stepped back before she melted right there on aisle twelve.

"You were reaching over me," she explained. "It startled me. That's all."

He leaned one hand against the cart, relaxed confidence rolling off him in waves, eyes glinting with amused disbelief. "And here I was hoping it was my rugged charm."

"It was not."

"What's wrong with my charm?"

"Your charm is fine," she said, with the enthusiasm of a woman rating a root canal.

"Fine?" His brow shot up, wounded theatrically. His voice dipped into mock offense. "That might be the harshest thing anyone's ever said to me."

She fought the smile tugging at her mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "I'm sure you'll survive."

"Oh, I will." His gaze flicked to her lips, which began to tingle in a way they had any right to be. That look felt like a fingertip trailing down her sternum. "Anything else I can help you with? Wine? Chocolate? My number?"

Her stomach dropped and adrenaline surged—stupid adrenaline. This could not be happening.

"Thanks for the help, but that's a hard pass."

"On the wine or my number?"

"Both. I don't drink. It causes me to make stupid decisions—like fall for a playboy's charm."

"Now you're falling for me?"

Her mouth moved before her brain caught up. "Your charm."

"So you admit I'm charming?"

"Not the first line that comes to mind."

He leaned a fraction closer, voice dropping to a low gravel that stroked over her skin. The oxygen between then evaporated and her lungs caught. "I have this talent for leaving a lasting impression."

"I'm sure you do," she said, masking her quickened heartbeat with a laugh. She forced her shoulders loose, pretending her pulse was not sprinting toward her throat.

"Do you doubt me?" he teased. "I promise, I'm very persuasive when I want to be."

Her stomach tightened. Persuasive was exactly what had terrified her in theory, and even more in person. She stepped back, an instinctive half-retreat that gave her lungs space.

"I've met persuasive men before," she said, keeping her tone light. "Most don't last long."

He smirked, letting the air hum between them.

"Challenge accepted," he said. The confident tone was that of a man who could dominate even in silence—and it crawled right under her skin like warm static.

Her mouth went dry. She crossed her arms because she needed a barrier, however flimsy. "I don't play games."

"Oh, I wouldn't call this a game," he said, eyes darkening with mischief. His gaze was so direct it felt like a hand at her waist. "I'd call it strategic charm."

"Strategic, huh? That sounds exhausting."

"Not for me. But maybe for you. If you're not careful, you might find it irresistible." He glanced into her cart and his expression twisted into wicked appreciation. "Nice melons."

Her brain stalled before jerking to a halt. "Pardon?"

He nodded at the cantaloupes like he was offering medical documentation. "Just appreciating your cantaloupe."

She tossed the tampons into her cart. "You're unbelievable."

"Am I? Or just honest?"

She fought the visceral punch of embarrassment and refused to flinch. "Or you’re just an asshole."

"That's a bad word," a little girl said, then stuck out her hand with righteous confidence.

Lynlee Rose was four and barely reached Sutton's hip, but carried herself like a tiny judge, jury, and enforcement squad.

Sunlit strawberry-blonde curls caught the light and were pulled into two pigtails that bounced around her heart-shaped face.

Her eyes were wide, sea-glass, and unblinking, they also held this solemn authority of someone who took rules personally.

In addition, she had the same stubborn chin Sutton saw every time she looked in the mirror.

Dressed in her favorite outfit—a glitter-slicked tutu, a purple T-shirt with a cartoon horse doing jazz hands, and plastic heels that clicked like power shoes with every step—Sutton's daughter was her whole world. And more.