by Claire Cain
“Just wrapped up a date,” I explained.
His eyes widened. “And looks like it was a smashing success.”
I grumbled and set the mug down.
“Second one lined up already?”
“No. Obviously.” I could’ve been teen me talking to a younger Warrick, a hormone-fueled bout of sullen brooding making me entirely incomprehensible to sweet, curious War.
He blew out a breath and settled into the seat, his huge frame dwarfing the chair. “It is pretty obvious.”
I glared at him, feeling a hen-pecking coming on.
“Earth to Wyatt. You like Calla.”
My heart kicked at her name. “She’s nice.”
He barked a laugh. “She’s a lot of things. Nice is one of them, but I definitely do not mean you like her as a friend.”
My thoughts were a tangle, so I didn’t say a word. I already knew this. I didn’t like Calla as a friend, despite all the internal warning signals blazing red, telling me to go back, to ignore the chemistry, to ignore how beautiful she was. And in the last week, I’d realized it was more than just her physical beauty, which made her actually dangerous to me.
Crossing his arms, he leveled me with a look. “When you two are in a room together, it’s like walking into a patch of fog, the tension’s so thick.”
I straightened at this. “It’s not that bad. We have chemistry, sure, but—”
“Seriously, dude. When I came in on Wednesday and you guys were eating oatmeal and talking quietly, I might as well have been walking in on someone’s afterglow. No lie. You were both huddled at the table, almost whispering to each other, and I was in the kitchen for a full three minutes before either one of you even realized I was in the room.”
Heat shot to my cheeks. I remembered it well, because I’d felt the heavy drag of the moment like someone’s fingers across my chest. Just the mention of that sent my pulse racing and slipped me right back into the kitchen back home, into the seat across from her.
She sat there at the table, the one I’d grown up building forts under and eating family dinners at, and she looked so appealing I could hardly swallow. It’d taken practice to eat in front of her the last few weeks. Not because I was dainty about eating in front of a beautiful woman, but because my eyes were the most ravenous thing about me when presented with her. And I had to be careful not to totally freak her out by staring.
I looked forward to this half hour of time with her each morning. Three days in, and I couldn’t wait to hear my alarm and get the day going. I hadn’t felt that eager in months. Since I’d stepped back from work, definitely, but longer than that. Way too long, and it was all her fault.
The day before, we’d talked about random stuff. Warrick had kicked off a conversation about what a neat freak I was, to which she’d looked mildly horrified. She’d then confessed to being a bit of a slob and made me promise not to go into the barn without fair warning.
And that tidbit about her messiness should’ve put me off because I genuinely hated clutter and disorder, but all I could think that minute was if you invite me, you’ll know I’m coming.
Each detail she dropped, any bit of her she shared, I memorized like I’d be grilled about it later. That this was at complete odds with my stated disinterest in her didn’t stop me from doing it.
And so, the beginning of our second week of mornings together, I pressed for a little more.
“So what’s your schedule like? You’re here for a few more weeks, and then what?” I asked, trying to sound casual and not as over-eager to hear about any small aspect of her life she’d share.
Regretfully, this made her frown.
“I’ve been considering extending my time here. I don’t know what’s next, but going back to LA and trying to pretend like that’s a life I want to return to makes me feel… bad.” She nudged a blueberry around the edge of her bowl.
“Do you have friends there?”
Her lips tilted into a small smile. “Jenna’s in and out depending on her schedule. She’s usually single and up for hanging out. Kristoffer, my assistant, is great, and I have other staff who are around a lot for different reasons. But for years, it’s mostly just been me.”
She said this with no hint of bitterness or self-pity in there. Just matter-of-fact, and that made it all the more heartbreaking. This woman was warm and sociable and generally lovely. She should be surrounded by people who care about her, not occasionally spending time with a busy friend.
But she’d lost her mother, and it sounded like that hadn’t been as much of a loss as I might’ve thought before our last conversation on the subject. And her boyfriend had been a fake one. How could she stand it?
Because ultimately, though I was alone up here a lot, I was never fully alone. Warrick popped in and out. Mom was minutes away and we saw each other at least once a week, and usually twice now that I’d scaled back. On top of that, I had friends in town.
Granted, I often thought about how lonely I felt. But that was linked to the desire for my own family—wife, kids, the whole deal. I couldn’t imagine not having any people.
“That sounds difficult.” Awful. But I couldn’t say that.
Her smile tightened at the corners. “That’s enough about me. What about you?”
I dipped my head, leaning in as if the question pulled me closer. “What about me?”
She swirled her spoon around, not quite meeting my gaze. “You’re a busy man—always out with people. What are you after with these women?”
Our eyes locked and warmth flooded my chest, then intensified into a bright burn. Warrick didn’t lie about the fog, either. I’d felt it, felt the tension wrap around us like humid heat.
I could try out a line. Something jaunty and casual and act like I’d be up for some fun with her. But I doubted she’d want that anyway, and I definitely didn’t. We were from different planets, had different lives, and my being anything but honest just didn’t work for me.
“Ultimately? A life. A family.”
She blinked, like she hadn’t expected the answer. But she knew it—I’d said essentially the same thing at least once before. But in the quiet of the breakfast table, spoons clinking gently against bowls, it might’ve emerged as a challenge.
It might’ve felt like a call.
And in the silence that followed, that string in me that’d hoped our differences might not matter had pulled tight and snapped. Because as clear as day, she didn’t want all that.
And bless him, Warrick had piped up then, alerting us to his presence and bringing a breezy, light gust of fresh air and conversation with him.
And speaking of, I returned to the moment in front of me. My brother sat, a knowing, smug little smile on his lips as he watched what had to have been a fairly long pause to reminisce over the time with Calla.
“It wasn’t tense like that. We were… I guess we were realizing how little we have in common in terms of what we want.” My ability to fool myself into thinking we could work in some way had lost its legs.
“You have very little in common, true.”
Warrick’s statement burst my internal musings.
“Thanks.” I gave him a crusty look that conveyed how little I appreciated him reinforcing that ugly truth.
He smirked. “But here’s the thing. You don’t have to have a ton in common with someone to want them. Or to be with them.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s wrong.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you’re dumb. Anyway. The point is, you and Calla—”
“Shhh!”
He got those big Warrick baby eyes, utterly filled with delight. My shushing him like a teen afraid his crush would overhear might’ve been a bit dramatic. I couldn’t explain the impulse, but having him say her name, giving me advice about her… it made my feelings a little harder to deny.
“Okay, alright, I see how we’re doing here.” His obnoxious smile didn’t falter as he continued. “My point is, you do need shared interests and stu
ff, sure. But when you’ve just barely met someone, you won’t always have a lot that’s the same. Part of that sameness is a reason why I think you haven’t clicked with someone yet. You end up dating sweet local girls with the same perspective on life you have because they grew up here too. And they’re great for someone, but it’s okay if they’re not great for you. Cal—uh, I mean, this other person might be right because she’s missing all that.”
Could he be right?
I couldn’t deny the facts that quickly slotted into place as he spoke. First, I hadn’t truly clicked with anyone since I’d dated Leo, and we’d discovered that clicking was in a friendly way. Second, since then, I hadn’t felt that gut-level attraction to anyone until Calla. And third, I’d never felt so… compelled by someone. I’d never wanted someone like this, ever.
Maybe our differences were what drew me to her. Or maybe I was just an idiot asking for hurt from a woman who had no interest in giving anything to a guy she kind of lived next to for a few more weeks before she returned to her glamorous, high-speed life.
But could I really ignore that before she showed up, I felt like a dead man walking? My body, my mind, even my subconscious, had been plodding through the days, finding flickers of light in cooking and my bear of a brother. But mostly? Numb. Cold. Alone with the mire of thoughts reminding me I was living another day my father hadn’t and I should be grateful, even if I didn’t feel it.
Could I ignore that she’d already changed me?
SEVENTEEN
Calla
Friday afternoon just shy of four p.m., a happy chime rang out when I pushed open the front door of the small music shop aptly named Pluck. A woman with silver-blond hair pulled into a wild bun on her head stood on a step stool, arms extended above her, hammering a nail into the wall. All around her, bright pictures of instruments plastered every inch of the back wall of the shop, which was no more than twenty decent paces away from where I stood just inside the front door.
Glass cases formed an L on the far side of the room and seemed to hold everything from castanets to mallets for different percussion instruments and much more. There were racks of maracas and tambourines, and another wall displayed hundreds of slips of sheet music and song books.
Against the wall of many pictures sat several guitars, basses, violins, and snare drums. In the corner opposite the display case sat a well-loved drum kit. Clearly, people got to try out their instruments, or maybe even just play for fun.
What should’ve been chaotic and stifling in its crowdedness took hold of me by the neck and embraced me. The warmth, the welcome of this place, was unmissable.
“Hey, welcome in. What can I do for you?” The woman finished her hammering, paced down the steps of her stool, and got a look at me. “Oh, hey.”
I hadn’t attempted to disguise myself, and she knew me immediately. She also didn’t seem particularly flustered by it, at least so far. “I’m looking for a guitar. Acoustic.”
She tipped her head to the right, casual as anything, and walked toward the back. I followed a few steps behind, my heart pounding. This alert shopkeeper had nothing to do with it—it was the store. It was buying a guitar I had plans for.
It was Mayhem’s world bursting into Calla’s. And they might crash and burn when they collided. What would happen when I sat down as Calla to do something only Miss Mayhem had ever done? This was why I’d shied away from coming in before now. It might’ve sounded stupid, but I had never felt so naked.
“I’ve got these two in stock, but I can order almost anything and have it in about two days.” She picked up a blond acoustic and handed it over.
Our gazes locked when I took it, and her blank face shifted. “She’s a model and a few kids use it for lessons. It has held up well. It can handle being railed on.”
I swallowed hard. “Sounds good.”
She nodded to two chairs. I took a seat and strummed a G cord. Good sound. Clear, and enough to send my pulse racing in my neck. I hadn’t appreciated how much I’d missed playing until this moment.
“Go for it. Let me know if you need anything.”
She returned to the counter, her back to me to give me as much space as she could. But she might as well have been outside or down the block, because I started playing and rolled through three songs before I came to and found her leaning against the glass display, arms crossed, smiling at me.
“You’re much better than I ever thought you were.”
I laughed. “Thanks.”
She pushed off the case, her eyes zeroing on my hands. “Seriously. Why don’t you play more? You barely strum at awards shows. No idea what your concerts are like, but I could swear I’ve only seen you hold a guitar like it was an accessory and play basic progressions.”
Normally, I might’ve winced or shied away from this conversation, but she wasn’t being mean. She was simply stating fact, and she was right.
“I didn’t play when I started. Then, the choreography was the bigger thing anyway. But I’ve learned and pushed myself. I haven’t played in months, though, so that felt good.”
She nodded like she knew exactly what I meant. Like she’d been there. “You here for long?”
I slid my fingers up the frets and back down. My callouses needed work. “Originally, the plan was a month, but I’m extending another few weeks.”
She flashed a smile. “Nice. Well, let’s get you set up.”
And she did. The whole time, we talked—me and Quinn Darling. We chatted about music and what she loved to play. She had an insanely dry wit, and I liked her immediately.
I left on a high I hadn’t experienced since the last great performance I had, before drugs had worked their way into Candy’s life, before… so much. I felt alive and full of hope, this guitar in my hand and more stitches weaving through the torn-up parts of me.
I couldn’t leave here yet, not when I’d just found a way ahead.
Though I probably should’ve waited until Monday, I messaged my landlord asking if we could set up a meeting tomorrow.
One minute later, Warrick’s rich voice came over the phone with a truly unexpected question. “Any interest in Olympic lifting?”
“Uh. No?”
He laughed like my response genuinely delighted him. “Okay. Well, what did you want to talk to me about?”
“I’m wondering if you are open to extending my stay.”
He hummed. “We don’t have any other occupants booked yet, so you’re good. Do you know how much longer?”
“Another two weeks?” Another month? A year?
Not that I could actually live up here that long without regular transportation, but the morning breakfasts had helped the feeling of isolation and the need for sustenance. I’d gotten rides into town twice from Warrick and once from my old pal Jake. And mostly, I didn’t want to go back to reality. I’d been here for just shy of a month and hated the thought that the end was encroaching.
I felt the beginnings of something, and I needed time to figure that out.
Real life was there waiting, but it would be there. I’d shed the habit of being late, but maybe for the return to reality, I’d make an exception and waltz back in a metaphorical twenty minutes behind schedule. Not until after I finished my time here.
So far, all my commitments and obligations had been effectively reassured that things were fine thanks to Kristoffer’s excellent handling of everything in my life other than my physical person. Rad Bickman was furious with me—for questioning him, for refusing to speak to him about my decisions, and likely for generally existing without being controlled by him.
This time of year was awards season, and I hadn’t been nominated for anything, nor had I been asked to present thanks to the headlines. All of that meant it was the perfect time for my little disappearing act, and even if it’d make my manager’s head explode, I wanted more time here.
In fact, maybe the “Rad’s head exploding” bit was like… two percent of the motivation. Not much, but it sweetened the dea
l.
“Done. And don’t be shy if your dates change again. It’s yours as long as you want it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. My only request is you consider coming to a lunch with me.”
Oh no. Like a—
“Not like a date. Just to get another body there. It’s a… project I’m working on. And I know a few of the other people who’ll be there. You’ll like them, and you could use some local friends besides me, my dear mother, and that grumpy old man you live next door to.”
I chuckled. I wouldn’t call Wyatt grumpy or old, but he could be very serious. And if that was what old looked like… sign me up.
A knock sounded on my door, and I jogged to open it, swinging it wide. “Speaking of, the man himself just knocked. Text me the details on that lunch. If you’ll give me a ride, I’m there.”
Wyatt’s eyes were a bright, piercing blue against his brown coat and the slowly lightening sky, and his gaze speared into mine. My stomach flipped.
Warrick answered me. “Done and done. Have a good one, and I’ll text you the details. You two kids be good now.”
My cheeks heated at the insinuation, and I clicked off the call and smiled at Wyatt. “Hi.”
“Hi there.”
“That was your brother. He’s a lot.”
He nodded. “I’m just checking on you. Wanted to see if you have any interest in waffles. War said he won’t make it up, and I made too much batter.”
He shifted foot to foot, a move I recognized as a restless one.
People often acted nervous around me. This was nothing new. And yet, Wyatt’s body language was maybe anxious? And it had nothing to do with Miss Mayhem or wanting an autograph or being starstruck. It had to do with… me.
“Sure. Come on in while I grab my coat.” I opened the door and jogged inside, only to realize what I’d done.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding.”
I whipped around with narrowed eyes. “I had no warning.”
