It's Not You, It's Her, page 10
She sighed and called softly to Muffin, not wanting to wake the neighbors. The dog obeyed and once they were both back inside in the warmth, she locked the door behind them.
It was long past midnight, but Chelsea felt wide-awake. Wide-awake but also deflated after what was undoubtedly the best night of her life. She shook her head, wondering if Bailey had been speaking about the same man when she’d said their sex life wasn’t the best. Not that she wanted to think about Bailey, because doing so reminded Chelsea that what she’d just done was not only unprofessional but that to Callum she was likely nothing more than rebound sex.
She sighed. But it hadn’t only been the sex—although that was off the Richter scale, toe-curlingly amazing—it was everything about Callum, from the way he smiled when he looked at her to the passion in his voice when he spoke about the distillery. In spite of her own feelings toward alcohol, she could have listened to him talk all night. If the insides of her thighs weren’t a little raw from being up close and personal with his beard, she would think the last few hours had been a dream. The kind of dream where you woke up and then wanted to fall immediately back asleep. Of course, you never could, and even if you did manage to, the dream had always been lost.
She headed back into her bedroom and picked up their empty mugs, deciding it would be a good idea to erase all evidence that Callum had ever been here. She would pretend it was a dream after all. In the kitchen, she dumped the mugs in the sink, turned on the tap to rinse them and then, out of the corner of her eye, noticed the voice-mail light flashing on her home phone. Without thought, she stretched over to press Play and then frowned at the strange noise that drifted out into her otherwise silent house. She stilled, the little hairs on her arms lifting as she listened.
Is that heavy breathing?
Before she could be certain, the message ended, but another followed almost immediately. “I’m watching you. Don’t think you can get away with what you’ve done.”
Chelsea gasped at the sinister tone and then instinctively glanced around the kitchen, checking that she was alone, aside from Muffin who’d put himself to bed in her room. She shivered, now thankful that Callum had insisted on getting all her locks changed. What would be even better was if he’d stayed the night, if he were still here to protect her against bogeymen or crazed stalkers or whoever had left those messages. She immediately retracted this thought—disgusted with the neediness in it. She didn’t need a man to keep her safe—she’d looked after herself practically since she could walk—but perhaps she should mention these calls to the police. What if they were related to the burglary?
At this thought, her whole body trembled, and once again she racked her brain for anyone who might want to harm her. Coming up blank, she took a deep breath. Perhaps the two things were unrelated? But that didn’t necessarily make her feel any better.
It was late now but she’d called the number Sergeant Moore had given her and left a message. Then, unsettled by the thought of someone wanting to harm her, she doubled-checked that every door and window was securely locked—thanks, Callum—before retreating to her bedroom with Muffin to attempt slumber. She doubted she’d get much sleep with the fear rippling through her, but when she climbed into bed, thoughts of a possible psycho battled with the scent of Callum on her pillow and the raunchy acts of the evening on replay inside her head. Chelsea’s body ached in places she’d forgotten existed and she couldn’t decide what was worse—fear of a stranger or the fear she might never feel as alive as Callum made her feel tonight ever again.
* * *
Callum rubbed a hand over his beard and stared at his computer screen. It was taking him much longer than it should to get through his morning emails and what did it matter anyway? Most of the country took the Friday following Thanksgiving off as an extra holiday and so he doubted anyone would read his replies until Monday morning, but he figured trying to work might keep his mind off Chelsea.
Realizing he’d read the same line of the same email ten times and still had no idea what it said, he pushed back his seat and wandered out onto the tasting floor. Perhaps a walk in the garden would clear his head. He’d had a late night and, despite not drinking since lunchtime, he’d woken with a hangover from hell. He left the office and walked through the tasting room, which was open with a skeleton staff due to the long weekend.
“You look like you haven’t slept for a month,” Sophie said cheerily as she polished the American oak bar where potential customers could taste their wares.
“Just a night,” he replied, heading for the door.
“Can’t you keep up with your new woman?” Sophie teased. “Must be getting old, big brother. I’ve heard there’s something you can take for that.”
He glared at her, channeling a little of Mac’s perpetual grumpiness. “Not a conversation I’m having with my little sister. Call me if we get an influx here and I’ll come help you with tastings.”
“Okeydoke.” She gave him an irritating little finger wave and he went out through the side door in the direction of the actual distillery. He didn’t think Quinn would be working in the warehouse today, so he was surprised to see the door open. Deciding that maybe he could try to win Quinn over to his ideas one-on-one rather than waiting until the family meeting, Callum was almost at the door, when Bailey came out, her eyes red as if she’d been crying.
“You okay?” he asked, instinctively reaching out to touch her arm. They’d been officially together five years and friends long before that; it was hard to break the habit of looking out for her. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She blinked. “I was just...” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. How are you? Do you think we could talk? I feel like I could have handled our breakup a lot better.”
By handling it yourself? He swallowed this response and nodded.
“Sure.” He wanted to talk to her about Chelsea anyway. “Want to come into my office or would you prefer to head over to the house and have a coffee?”
“Your office will be fine.”
He nodded and escorted her back to the main building. It wasn’t that late, but she’d been in the McKinnel world for decades, so he offered her a bourbon and she accepted, downing the entire contents of the glass in a few seconds. They both opened their mouths to speak at the same time:
“I want you to know I never wanted to hurt you,” Bailey said.
“I wanted to talk to you about Chelsea,” Callum said.
Then they frowned in unison.
“You’re not serious about her, are you?” Bailey asked.
He shook his head, because that should be the truth, even if he felt his conscience calling him a damn liar. “No, of course not.”
Last night with Chelsea had been better than anything he’d experienced in as long as he could remember, but could he trust those feelings right now? He’d been one half of a whole for a long time and he came from a big family—he was used to having people around him. Maybe he’d reached out to Chelsea, simply because he couldn’t bear another night of going home alone.
Bailey raised a clearly skeptical eyebrow as if she could see right through him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I never would have invited Chelsea if I’d have known Mom had invited you. You know what she’s like. When she heard we broke up, she was devastated, and to get her off my back, I asked Chelsea if she’d be my date for Thanksgiving.”
“You two must have had quite the chat when she...you know, ended things for me.”
Bailey sounded accusatory and he was about to say that he’d never have even met Chelsea if she’d done her own dirty work, but she spoke again before he could. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I should have talked to you myself, but I thought if I did, I might chicken out?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a wonderful friend, Callum, and I don’t want to lose that. Our families go way back. I enjoy your company and I love you but I’m not in love with you.”
He nodded, understanding because, now she said it, he realized that was exactly how he felt about her, as well.
“For a long while,” she continued, “I’ve been trying to convince myself that all that was enough. I wasn’t sure I could actually go through with ending things, even though I thought it was the right thing to do, so that’s why I hired Chelsea. To make sure I did it. Mom thought I was insane breaking up with you and maybe I am but...”
“No.” He shook his head. “You were right to do what you did. I think we both know that. You deserve a lot more than I can give you and getting married to keep our moms happy...”
“I know.” She half smiled. “Not the right reason at all.” She sighed. “Why does love have to be so damn complicated?”
There was something in the way she spoke about love that made him think she wasn’t talking about him and something in her eyes made him ask a question he’d never considered before. “Was there another reason you broke up with me?” he asked, finding the idea didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would; he was simply curious. “Another man perhaps?”
The way she glanced down at the ground told him all he needed to know.
“Who is he?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel the same about me anyway.” Then her face crumpled and a sob escaped her mouth. “I’m sorry, Callum, I never meant to hurt you.”
“It’s okay.” And he found he meant it. Not that he liked the idea of being cheated on, but he knew that no one strayed if they were already where they were meant to be. “And, Bails, if this guy doesn’t realize how lucky he is to have your love, then he’s as big an idiot as me and he doesn’t deserve you either.”
She half sobbed, half laughed.
“You deserve a good man,” he continued, “I’m sure you’ll find the lucky Mr. Right very soon. Just be patient.”
She sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and nodded. “Thanks for the drink, Callum. I guess I’ll see you round.”
“About Chelsea,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t crack on her name.
“Yes? What about her?”
“You won’t tell anyone about her coming over for Thanksgiving, will you? She really was just doing me a favor, and I wouldn’t want to hurt her professional reputation.”
Bailey stared at him a few long moments, her gaze penetrating. Then, finally, she nodded. “I won’t say a word. You have my promise on that.”
“Thank you. I’m glad we had this conversation.” He didn’t want things to be awkward with them going forward. “Our families will always be friends and I hope we will too. We were good as friends.”
She smiled, then came around his desk, leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “We are good as friends.”
As she turned to leave, he remembered one more thing. “Can I come around tonight to collect the last of my things?” He’d grabbed some of his stuff from her apartment the day after the breakup but there were still some books, CDs, that kind of thing. They’d never officially moved in together, but had rather lived a little at her apartment and a little at his cottage.
“Sure. I’m going round to Mom and Dad’s for dinner, but you can let yourself in. Do you think you can bring over anything of mine left at your place?”
He nodded.
“Cool. And then leave your key on the kitchen table.” She’d brightened considerably since he’d run into her outside, and he was glad they’d had this conversation.
“I will. Goodbye, Bailey.”
“Goodbye, Callum.”
His listened as her high heels click-clacked down the corridor and then, determined to focus on the business and forget about women, he turned back to his computer and threw himself into work.
For the next few days, he barely left his office and every time his mind drifted to Chelsea—as it was irritatingly prone to do—he added another task to his to-do list, reminding himself where his priorities lay. If he were to bring McKinnel’s back from the brink, he needed to focus and resist the ridiculous urge to pick up his phone and call Chelsea. An urge almost as strong as the one to take breath.
With Sophie’s collaboration, he drafted a five-year plan for the distillery with areas left where Mom, Blair, Quinn and the others could add their ideas at the meeting. He felt ready to wow the unbelievers in his family and take McKinnel’s Distillery into the twenty-first century.
In addition to introducing merchandise—stuff like glassware, tea towels, hats and T-shirts, which he’d delegated to Sophie to organize—his number one priority was a start on expanding the restaurant and for that he needed to get Lachlan on board. He could hire any old chef but Callum believed having a McKinnel in charge of the restaurant would enhance their family-run image. People liked that stuff, especially journalists, whose attention he was hoping to attract with the new ventures. They could do with all the good publicity they could get. He also hoped to lure Mac into helping with the expansion of their current café space. In addition to being a superstar with a soccer ball, Mac had a talent for building things and Lord knew he needed something to focus on now that he’d quit playing professionally.
On Wednesday, almost a week from the day he’d left Chelsea in the early hours of the morning, it was with all this forefront in his mind, that Callum drove into Bend to meet Lachlan for a late lunch. They’d arranged to meet at a café in the Old Mill District, rather than the fancy restaurant Lachlan currently worked at so the owner wouldn’t hear them plotting. As he climbed out of his SUV, he looked over and did a double take at the sight of Muffin sitting outside the front of the café, his leash looped around a fire hydrant. At least he thought it was Muffin, but maybe he was hallucinating. He’d certainly been imagining Chelsea all over the place. Twice in the last few days he’d gone out to the tasting floor and mistaken a customer for her.
Trying not to think about her was almost as bad as thinking about her.
He strode toward the dog, half hoping he’d see Chelsea inside the café, half hoping he wouldn’t.
“Hey, buddy.” He stooped to ruffle the fur on Muffin’s head and the dog leaped about like a total lovable lunatic. No doubt about it, there was no welcome so wonderful as that of a dog; maybe he should detour via that shelter on his way home and adopt one. Something big like a German shepherd that would require a ton of exercise—running with it could help burn off the pent-up tension that had set up residence inside him these last few days. A dog would also keep him company on lonely nights and likely be less stress than a woman. This thought led him into the café, but the moment he spotted Chelsea it evaporated. His heart caught in his throat and muscles all over his body locked up at the sight of her sitting at a table with another man.
A bell above the door sounded, announcing his arrival and Chelsea looked up. Her mouth opened and color rushed to her cheeks; she held his gaze that fraction too long before blinking and then turning back to her date. That thought sent his blood racing, but then he realized that she could simply be in the middle of one of her professional breakups. Even still, Callum couldn’t help the rush of jealousy that hit him like an actual physical blow.
He stood in the doorway like a total idiot, glancing around for his brother, wishing they’d chosen someplace else to meet. They lived in the same damn house for goodness’ sake, but Lachlan had a strict rule about not taking his work home. All his free time he spent with Hamish.
Speak of the devil. A hand landed on his back and shoved him forward right into the café. Lachlan spoke far too loudly. “Hey, bro, isn’t that your new girlfriend over there? Who’s the dude?”
Callum met his brother’s gaze, glowered and then hissed, “She’s not my girlfriend. Just a...friend.” He almost choked on the last word, like it were a fur ball in his throat.
“Sorry. My mistake.” Lachlan didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “You guys seemed pretty tight at Thanksgiving. Do you want to go talk someplace else?”
While that might be a sensible move, Callum couldn’t bring himself to leave. He hadn’t expected to see Chelsea today, and now that she was only a few feet away, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. “No, this is fine. Shall we sit?”
Lachlan nodded and the two of them crossed over to a table in the corner. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—his brother sat first, taking the seat with a direct view of Chelsea. Ignoring the disappointment in his gut, he sat down and pulled out his iPad, ready to hit Lachlan with some of his ideas about the restaurant.
Lachlan glanced down at the menu. “Are you hungry? I think I might just grab a coffee.”
“Coffee will be fine,” Callum replied; he didn’t have the mental coordination to eat and talk to Lachlan with Chelsea a few yards away, whose presence was a major distraction.
A waitress arrived and Lachlan ordered for them both. Then he looked directly at Callum. “Before you start, I just want you to know I love the idea of opening a proper restaurant at the distillery and I’m 99 percent on board.”
“What’s the 1 percent that’s holding you back?” Callum asked.
“I want full control.”
Callum raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?” He chuckled, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
“I mean it,” Lachlan said. “I know you’re struggling, trying to get everyone behind some of your ideas, but I have complete faith that you can turn the distillery around. I don’t want McKinnels to die a slow death. I believe a restaurant will help immensely, but not if everyone feels they have to put their mark on it. We all need to stick to what we do best.”
Callum nodded. “I completely agree. Just one thing—I don’t know how we’ll convince him, but I’d like to try to get Mac involved in building the extension. I’m worried about him. It’s not good to sit around all day doing nothing. The guy needs purpose in his life.”
“You’re just scared he’ll drink all the profits if he doesn’t snap out of his funk.”
“Damn straight I am,” Callum said, resisting the urge to twist his head to see if Chelsea was still with that guy.
