Chapter 8
eight
brEE
Ican’t explain how I went from “hey, thanks for the motorcycle ride” to texting Callan every day. It started innocently enough—a simple check-in from him the day after I landed to make sure I got home okay.
Then, somehow, it turned into good morning texts. Photos of his day. Late-night calls that stretched until one of us fell asleep with the phone still pressed to our ear.
It’s been three months, and now I’m sitting cross-legged on my new couch in my condo.
I’m renting in Lexington close to work, and I’ve toured a few houses.
I found one place with original hardwood and a clawfoot tub that practically seduced me on sight.
I almost signed right there on the spot for the bath situation alone, but…
it didn’t feel right. Nothing’s whispered home to me yet.
I’m staring at my phone. The screen lights up with his name, and my heart does that stupid flutter thing again.
Callan:
Morning, Sunshine. How’s the new place treating you?
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face as I type back.
Me:
Still living in Box City. Thinking of declaring myself mayor.
The response is immediate.
Callan:
Send me a picture. I need to make sure you haven’t buried yourself alive in cardboard.
I laugh and snap a quick selfie, surrounded by the chaos of my half unpacked living room, wild hair piled on top of my head with an exhausted look on my face. I hit send before I can overthink it.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Callan:
Christ, woman. You’re a disaster. A cute one, though.
The compliment makes my cheeks flush, and I’m glad he can’t see me. This has been happening more and more lately—these comments that toe the line between friendly teasing and something else entirely.
My phone buzzes again.
Callan:
You know what you need?
Me:
Please don’t say more boxes.
Callan:
A distraction. Video call?
I glance down at my ratty T-shirt and gym shorts, then at the mess surrounding me. What the hell. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me looking worse.
“There she is,” he says when his face appears on my screen, all tousled hair and a lazy smile. He’s sitting in what looks like his office at the distillery. “How’s my favorite American this morning?”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop grinning. “Exhausted. Still surrounded by boxes, in case you forgot.”
Callan leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. He’s in a black T-shirt, forearms on full display like he doesn’t even know they’re a weapon. His smile curls slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“It suits you.”
I groan. “You’re relentless.”
“Only with you,” he says, so casually I almost miss the implication.
Then he winks, and the tension breaks just enough to let me breathe again. Sort of.
I shift on the couch, tucking one leg underneath me. “What are you even doing at work this late?”
“Had some paperwork. Figured I’d get ahead of it.” He shrugs, eyeing the screen. “You look good, Bree.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. “You need your eyes checked.”
He doesn’t take the bait. Just tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he likes taking his time with. “My eyes are just fine, lass.”
“Callan…” I start, not even sure what I’m going to say.
“I miss you,” he cuts in, his voice dropping lower.
My heart stutters. We’ve been dancing around this for weeks, maybe months. Every late-night call, every text that lingers just a little too long on “goodnight,” every time I find myself smiling at my phone like an idiot.
I miss him, too. And not in the “we’re just friends” kind of way.
His eyes hold mine through the screen, and I wish more than anything he was here. That I could reach out and touch him, figure out if what I’m feeling is real.
“I miss you, too,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can overthink them. “More than I probably should.”
His expression softens, and he leans closer to the camera. “There’s no ‘should’ about it, Sunshine. It is what it is.”
I bite my lip and glance down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “And what exactly is it, Callan?”
When I glance back up, he’s running a hand through his hair, hesitation in his eyes. “It’s me, sitting in this office at midnight, calling you instead of going home because hearing your voice has become the best part of my day.”
My breath catches. “Callan—”
“I know the timing is shit,” he continues. “I know you’re still sorting things out.”
The walls I’ve built around my heart since Dillon tremble. “We live on different continents.”
“I’m aware,” he says with a soft huff of a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His thumb brushes along the edge of the screen, like he wishes he could reach through it. “And I’m not trying to make anything harder for you, Bree. I’m not asking you for anything. Truly.”
I blink, heart thudding. “Then why tell me?”
His gaze holds mine. “Because I’m not a fan of bullshit,” he says with a sudden grin, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Speaking of which, are those Power Rangers on your shirt?”
I glance down at my ratty sleep shirt, mortified to realize he’s right. It’s my ancient, faded Power Rangers tee from college that I only wear when no one’s around to judge me.
“Hey! Don’t change the subject,” I protest, but I’m already laughing, grateful for the shift in energy. “And yes, they are. Pink Ranger was a feminist icon, thank you very much.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, nodding with mock seriousness. “Though I was always partial to the Green Ranger myself. Bad boy with a heart of gold and all that.”
“Of course you were.” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess, you had the action figure?”
“Had? I still have it somewhere,” he admits, not even slightly embarrassed. “Might be worth something someday.”
I’m still laughing, but my heart hasn’t quite caught up. That moment before the Power Rangers talk, before the teasing, was real. Too real.
And then, just like that, he gave me an out. Let me breathe.
I hug a throw pillow against my chest and watch him talk about his ancient Green Ranger action figure like it’s some kind of sacred relic. He’s animated, the magnitude of the earlier moment tucked behind his smile.
We’ve crossed an invisible line neither of us drew on purpose. We didn’t plan this. But here we are, and the truth is… I didn’t feel lonely tonight. Not once.
It’s been a few more months. Somehow.
Callan and I still talk every day—little check ins, voice notes, the occasional call when time zones align and one of us can’t sleep. But after that night—the I miss you night—things eased back into something lighter. No more confessions. No more lines toeing dangerously close to the edge.
Just him, being…Callan. Reliable. Funny. A little too charming for his own good.
And me, pretending the ache I feel when we hang up isn’t anything worth naming.
Callan’s the one who finally convinced me to tell Juliette everything, though.
It took weeks. I kept telling myself there was no need. That what happened with Dillon was behind me and I could move on without cracking open the whole messy truth.
Except one night, after too many quiet moments and one too-sweet message from Callan that made my throat go tight, I broke. I needed my best friend.
I can still picture Juliette on our weekly video call. She tilted her head and gave me that look of concern that cut right through me.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
I tried to play it off. Laughed too loud. Shrugged too hard. But the words came anyway. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I told her everything. The hiding. The fear. The way I’d learned to pretend like I was fine until I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
And the look on her face… It wasn’t anger. It was heartbreak.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Brianna?” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “All these years. I’m so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known something was wrong.”
That’s when I knew I’d really messed up. She only ever called me Brianna when she was mad…or devastated.
I shook my head. “I didn’t let you see it. I didn’t let anyone see it.”
“Still. I’m your best friend. I should have pushed harder, asked more questions. I thought something was off for a while but…” She held my gaze through the screen, her expression softening into one of pure understanding. “I wish I could have been there for you. But I’m here now, okay?”
We cried. We sat in silence. We laughed a little, too, because she snuck in a dumb joke about how she was going to key his truck if she ever saw him in public, as if that would be possible. I loved her for that.
Beyond that, I don’t bring Dillon up much. The only connection I still have to that part of my life is Dillon’s mom. Every now and then, I’ll shoot her a quick text to check in and see how he’s doing. She tells me he’s doing okay, that he’s working on himself. I hope that’s true.
Meanwhile, I’m still learning how to sit with silence without assuming it’s the calm before the storm, but I’m doing okay, I think.
I haven’t been back to Scotland since Juliette’s engagement, and now it’s finally time for the wedding. I’m so excited, I could squeal. Stepping off the plane, I take a deep breath, inhaling air that feels lighter and fresher, like the earth itself is waking up from a long winter.
Juliette’s already waiting for me at the curb, practically leaping out of the car and running toward me before I’ve even stepped out of the airport.
“You’re here!” Before I can react, she launches herself at me in a bear hug, squeezing the life out of me.
I laugh, my arms wrapping around her instinctively, letting her do her thing. “Please. Like I would ever miss this,” I say, grinning as the electric excitement radiates off her.
She pulls back just enough, still gripping my arms, her hazel eyes shining with a mix of nerves and pure joy. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening. It feels so unreal.”
“It’s happening, and I’m so happy for you. It’s going to be amazing.”
There’s a rush of happiness being back here with Jules, surrounded by the chaos of her new family. It’s a little overwhelming, but in the best way. And as much as I’m thrilled to have her as my escort today, there’s still a tiny part of me that wished it had been Callan.
I’ve been on a few dates over the past few months, all wildly unsuccessful.
Take Drew, for example, who couldn’t stop complimenting me, but not in the way you’d hope.
It was more like, “You have the most unique nose, but not in a bad way,” and “Your eyebrows are amazing,” followed by the gem, “Your face is really aesthetically pleasing.” What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Then there was Tony, who decided to take me to the most expensive restaurant in town, setting the bar way too high from the get-go.
After the bill came, he casually admitted he didn’t have the money to pay for it.
And, because it couldn’t get much worse, he had the audacity to ask if I could give him money for a ride home.
I mean, really? I don’t think I’ve ever fled a date so fast in my life.
That was the last straw. There was no way anyone could hold a candle to the blue-eyed Scotsman who’d been taking up residence in my dreams. Damn Callan and his infuriating charm. His handsome face. His rock-solid body. His sexy motorcycle. Just…damn.
Callan MacKenzie snuck into my heart. I’ve tried to deny it, but once I saw him that way, I couldn’t unsee it.
As we drive from the airport, I can’t stop my mind from drifting to him.
The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
The rich timbre of his laugh. The surprisingly gentle way he teases me, always knowing how far to push before pulling back.
My stomach flutters with nervous anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.
I’m not even sure what’s going to happen when I do see him. I only know I want to.
Juliette’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my house?”
I laugh. “No thank you, ma’am. You and your soon-to-be husband need all the privacy you can get. I hear you like to keep a certain someone up all night.”
The instant blush creeping up her face makes me laugh even harder. “Jules, come on. It’s me. If I had a man like that, I’d be running him ragged every night and still be ready for round two…or five or six by breakfast.”
She looks mortified, and I can’t help but grin, thoroughly enjoying myself. Mission accomplished. And honestly, I wasn’t lying.
“I take it back,” she says. “I’m not sure I’m glad you’re here.”
“Admit it,” I say, “you’d be lost without me.”
“You’re right,” she agrees. “I would be.”