Page 19 of Your Place or Mine

“I’m going to fix this before your new boyfriend declares war on me.”

“He’s notmyboyfriend,” she said, dabbing ketchup off her chin. “He’s just emotionally unavailable and built like a lumberjack. Totally different.”

I rolled my eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

Callum was behind the bar again, wiping down a spot that was already spotless. He didn’t look up as I approached. He kept wiping over and over, as if he was scrubbing me off his bar top.

“Hey,” I said softly when I was within speaking distance.

He paused, then looked up, finally meeting my gaze.

And yep.

There it was. That face.

Up close and under the warm amber light of the bar, it was unfair how handsome he was. Not polished or pristine. He looked like he belonged here…like whiskey, pine, and hard-earned scruff. Strong jaw, stormy green eyes, the faintest crease in his brow that said he didn’t have time for nonsense.

Or people like me, apparently.

I forgot my words for half a second.

His expression didn’t change.

Not even a flicker of curiosity or amusement.

Just cool, hard, unreadable.

I straightened my spine and wrapped my fingers around the edge of the bar.

“I wanted to clear the air,” I began. “I didn’t mean to ambush you with the whole owner revelation. It wasn’t intentional.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You mean you didn’t think it was important to mention when we first met?”

“Honestly, I didn’t expect to be dragged to a booth and flirted into oblivion by your very charming bartender.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.

I took that as a small win.

“I just want to say,” I continued, “I’m not here to destroy your bar. Or this town. I bought the building because I saw potential…not something to tear down, but something to build up. Carefully. Respectfully.”

He leaned forward, both palms flat on the bar, and gave me a look like he could see straight through me.

“That so?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You mean you’re not here to turn this place into some modern gastropub with Edison bulbs, five-dollar pickles, and drinks that come with edible flowers?”

I blinked. “Okay… that’s oddly specific.”

“I’ve seen it happen,” he said. “Seattle types come in, talk about ‘potential,’ and before you know it, they’ve steamrolled everything that made the place special in the first place. They want to make it marketable. Aesthetic. Glossy. It happened the town over.”

“I’m not here to make Reckless River glossy.”

“Then whatareyou here to do, Lydia?”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it was firm.

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