Page 7 of Your Place or Mine

Only half.

Because something about this place, the whole street, the quiet charm, the mountain air, it all felt like possibility.

“Welcome to Reckless River,” I whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like I was coming home.

Chapter Three

Callum

By the time the sun dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the sidewalk out front, I was good and thoroughly pissed.

The new building owner was supposed to show up today.

“Friday,” the Ludlowes had said. “She wants to meet the tenants and get a feel for the town,” they’d told me, like it was all casual and polite. Like she wasn’t about to walk in here and gut the Rusty Stag like a trout.

But so far? Nothing.

Not a text, call, or chirpy city voice asking if I had a moment to chat. Hell, even a condescending flyer shoved under the door would’ve been something.

Instead, there was silence.

And it was driving me insane.

I’d spent the better part of the afternoon pacing, checking the windows like a teenager waiting for a date who clearly had better plans. Every time a car slowed down outside, I’d do this half-turn, then curse myself for looking like a damn fool. Most of the vehicles turned out to be regulars, tourists heading toward the river, or just townies on their way to the post office.

Not her.

She was probably out scouting the bakery or turning her nose up at the coffee shop a few doors down, while talking about howquainteverything was.

I hated that word.Quaint.

I glared at the front door again, trying to force it to swing open, but it stayed stubbornly closed.

Drew glanced up from behind the bar, eyebrows raised. “You gonna burn a hole in that door, or just glower at it until it apologizes?”

I grunted and dropped onto a stool, elbows on the bar. “Don’t tempt me.”

The bar was mostly quiet now, with just a few regulars scattered at the booths, sipping their usuals and arguing about the hockey team. The jukebox was playing low, with some classic country, and the place smelled like fryer oil and whiskey, which was pretty much its default aroma.

The calm should’ve felt good. Instead, it was a pressure cooker.

I glanced at the clock again. 4:48 p.m.

She was late.

Or worse, she wasn’t coming.

And somehow,thatpissed me off more.

“Maybe she’s got you scheduled for tomorrow,” Drew said, reading my mind the way only a brother could. “Or Monday. You know, business hours and all.”

“No, she said Friday.” I scowled. “The Ludlowes were clear.Friday.”

“You meantheysaid Friday.”

“Same difference.”

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