Page 21 of Your Place or Mine

This town wasn’t the only one with roots worth protecting.

Mine were growing, too.

Right here. Right now.

Even if I had to plant them next to a grumpy, handsome man who thought I was here to sell the town’s soul to the highest bidder.

Fine.

Let him underestimate me.

He’d find out soon enough that quiet didn’t mean weak.

And kind didn’t mean soft.

Not where it counted.

Callum didn’t say anything. He just stared at me for a beat longer than necessary, then turned and stalked off through the swinging door leading to the bar's back.

He didn’t grab a bottle or mix my drink.

He just… left.

I blinked at the space where he’d been and glanced down at the lonely coaster still sitting in front of me. For someone who just told me I might want a drink, he sure had a dramatic way of following through.

Behind me, the low murmur of conversation continued as if nothing had happened. Someone dropped coins into the jukebox, and the twangy opening of a Johnny Cash song floated through the bar. Melanie was still back at our booth, tearing into her burger like it was her last meal, and occasionally glanced my way with the world’s most obviouswhat’s going on?

I offered her a small shrug that saidhell if I know.

What was he doing back there? Cooling off? Avoiding me? Reconsidering whether it was worth poisoning the new landlady in front of witnesses?

I leaned against the bar and waited, watching the door like it might answer for him.

Two minutes. That’s how long he was gone. Long enough for my irritation to spike into low-level anxiety. Just when I started to convince myself he’d gone out back to scream into the night or punch something wooden, the door swung open again.

And there he was.

Callum Benedict, stormy expression intact, walking with that confident, deliberate stride like the floor dared him to trip. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, and sawdust was on his forearm. He looked like he’d just wrestled a bear and then offered to bartend out of spite.

But what caught my eye was his right hand.

He was holding something behind his back.

I straightened, curious, but he didn’t look at me.

Not right away.

He went straight to the shelves, pulled down a gin bottle with practiced ease, then added tonic to a highball glass. He squeezed in a wedge of lime, stirred it once, then looked at the glass like it had personally wronged him.

He placed something carefully on top of the drink, and it took a second for my brain to register what I saw.

Two dandelions.

Their bright yellow petals looked completely out of place in this dim, dusty bar, like someone dropped sunshine into a drink.

He slid the glass toward me.

“There you go,” he said, not quite smiling. “Thought maybe it’d remind you of the city. Y’know, fancy drinks with garnish and all.”

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