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  The woman’s warm, soft voice clashed with her loud outfit. “No, but thank you,” Jo replied. Too keyed up to sit, she moved about, taking in the reception area’s décor with growing confusion—and a tiny bit of fascination that she tried to deny. There were enough food magazines to stock the library of the best culinary arts program. And the items decorating each shelf and hanging on the walls were what? Early century baker?

  She smiled. So Callum still liked cooking, hey?

  “What on earth is this?” she muttered to herself, hefting a heavy black utensil and studying it. It looked almost like a shovel, but the metal blade was dull-lipped and perfectly flat, not good for scooping anything, plus it had three decorative cut outs, two hearts, and a diamond. Stuff would fall right through it.

  “It’s called a bannock spade, but didn’t you see the sign?”

  Jo jumped at Callum’s cold tone, and only then—of course, Murphy’s law—noticed the glaringly obvious ivory card requesting that people enjoy looking at, but refrain from touching, the collection of antiques.

  Jo carefully set the object of her faux pas down. “A bannock spade?”

  “Yes. Turn of the 19th century. Scottish. Used for flipping bannock, a kind of flat bread, much like a modern spatula.”

  “Weird.”

  “Not weird,” Callum said stiffly. “Collectible.”

  Jo raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t meant to sound like she was passing judgment. “Weird” was generally a compliment coming from her mouth; too bad he didn’t remember that.

  After an awkward moment, she complied with his wordless invitation and followed the sweep of his arm into his office. She perched on the edge of a chair and wondered why was he being so awful. You’d think, considering their past, he’d be remotely human. But then again, maybe he felt ashamed of how he’d led her on all those years ago. Or worse—her temperature rose—maybe he thought she remembered and held it against him.

  With that thought, an old joke Callum used to repeat constantly came back to her. She clenched her hands into fists. If I said I liked your body would you hold it against me? The answer, annoyingly, was yes on two counts. She had held it, her body, against him then—hyuk, hyuk, hyuk—and she did hold it, that fact, against him now. She had truly loved him. Deeply. Unabashedly. Whenever people spoke dismissively of teenage romance, calling it “puppy love,” she never agreed the relationships were such lighthearted things. It had torn her heart out for years that Callum hadn’t shared the depth of feelings she’d had for him. Might’ve even been why, after a string of flings, she ended up with Devin—an equally disastrous relationship, though for completely different reasons.

  Callum sat on the corner of his desk and looked down at her.

  Jo studied him a moment, then got up, crossed the room, stood close to him—and stayed standing. Let him try to use his stupid power moves, consciously or unconsciously, on someone else.

  He fidgeted uncomfortably, but didn’t move away. “Before Samantha gets here, tell me . . . is there any point to this mediation session?”

  Jo shrugged and hoped her smile was Mona Lisa-ish.

  Callum’s jaw clenched and his eyes darkened to the shade of a sunless sea—and Jo wanted to slap herself for noting his eyes at all, let alone thinking about them in such ridiculously drippy way.

  “Is there any chance you’ll listen to sense and come to a reasonable solution, Jo? Please? Sell the property, give your sister her fair share without tying up everybody’s time and resources by taking this to court?”

  “Pardon me?”

  Callum’s face flushed. “I know you heard me.”

  “Oh, I heard all right. I just thought maybe I misunderstood. It sounded like you were insulting me, insinuating that I don’t have sense if I don’t give into your bullying, and threatening me with huge costs of time and financial resources if I don’t capitulate to your very one-sided, incredibly self-centered ‘solution.’”

  The cliché “if looks could kill” ran through Jo’s mind and she shivered under Callum’s glare, but tried to maintain a stony expression.

  “I’m not a villain. I just want this taken care of quickly,” he said quietly.

  So he did remember leading her on and totally jilting her. He knew he was a villain—or why else would he say he wasn’t one? “Why the hurry? You get paid by the hour, right? And get a cut of the property’s value?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It’s exactly like that.”

  “Do you know how much money that decrepit sinkhole will cost you? Samantha’s filled me in on your plan and I have to tell you—it’s not much of one. Greenridge has been more bust than boom for years now. Almost the whole downtown core is empty and up for rent. Two of the big hotels have gone under. What makes you think you can get a bed-and-breakfast up and running and be cash positive, especially when you have no equity, no savings, and your only real service industry experience was an owner-operated restaurant that went belly up. You have no credit, no backers, and a bankruptcy in your recent past. You’re a piss poor risk.”

  Jo staggered like she’d been punched. She was stupid to be surprised, but she couldn’t help it. Samantha—that witch. She really hadn’t kept any secrets.

  Callum got to his feet so quickly that Jo had to leap sideways to avoid being bowled over. He put his hands out and caught her by both arms, surprisingly gently—steadying her, though she didn’t need it. She’d already regained her footing and her composure.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice entirely different than that of the arrogant naysayer he’d been just seconds earlier. He really was amazingly tall. And she was still taken by his great scent. What was it? Vanilla and butter? She wanted to nuzzle his neck and—

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry,” he repeated and strode to the other side of the room.

  Jo was flummoxed by his abrupt change—and by the heat that coursed through her at his touch. What was wrong with her? All evidence suggested he’d only matured into an even bigger asshole than he’d been when he first ripped her heart out, yet here she was . . . what? Still finding him attractive? Good grief.

  You’re happily single, she reminded herself. Happily single. Happily. Single.

  The surprising glow of happy hormones faded as quickly they’d sparked, and nerves cramped her stomach. Come to think of it, maybe that’s all her unsettling response to him was: nervousness she was mistaking for something else.

  A popping sound pulled her out of her self-analysis.

  Callum had paused mid-stride and cracked his knuckles loudly. “I’m sorry,” he said yet again. “So sorry.”

  Jo’s cheeks flamed. It would look terrible if anyone interrupted them—both the color of beets, both in the middle of breakdowns.

  She looked at the expensive grandfather clock standing sentry by a huge fern. Was this another one of Samantha’s games? Was her tardiness some calculated scheme, or just her usual disregard for other peoples’ time?

  The other night Samantha had pretended to not know—or not to remember—that Jo and Callum had known each other, had dated, but she sure as hell knew Jo had been hurt over “some juvenile romance” (as Samantha had called it) that had run deep and held hard. And she knew Jo’s weaknesses all too well. Her stupid sentimentality. If Samantha had remembered Callum’s name when she came across it and chose him intentionally, knowing it would unhinge Jo—it was a low thing to do, but damn if it wasn’t smart, too.

  Still . . . Samantha had seemed genuinely surprised, even irritated, when Jo and Callum recognized each other.

  Well, of course she did. Wouldn’t be much of a strategy if she admitted knowing you knew each other right off, would it?

  Meanwhile, Callum paced on, practically hyperventilating.

  Do not give in, Jo lectured herself. Do not cave. Do not!

  “Um . . . is there something wrong?” she finally asked, even as she kicked herself for being a sucker.<
br />
  She got no reply. Callum just continued his frantic march.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “And it won’t work.”

  Still no response, and she noted with alarm that beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and his hair was damp and curling with perspiration. Was he a drug addict or something now? No, she was pretty sure he wasn’t. It was weird, but she thought she knew exactly what was going on with him—but then again, what were the chances they’d both end up in the same stupid boat? No, it wasn’t possible. . . .

  But what if it was? She looked at Callum again, then sighed. Whatever. It was either a ploy or it wasn’t, but she couldn’t just let him come completely undone in front of her.

  She stopped Callum about three feet from his big oak desk by placing a hand on his shoulder. “Can you sit?” she asked. “Just try—and take a deep breath?”

  He shook his head wordlessly.

  “It’s okay if you can’t—but just try. I’ll sit, too.”

  She closed her eyes, envisioned her creek, and imagined its surrounding trees and grassy bank. Willed him to feel the calm she felt when she fished—like everyone and everything was okay, or would be.

  A chair creaked. She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t even open them when she heard Callum take a deep, gasping-for-oxygen breath—or, moments later, when he let out a long shuddery exhale. She didn’t know how long they sat there, but she could almost feel sun on her face, smell the slightly fishy river mud, hear the Steller’s jays chatter. . . .

  “Thank you,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “I . . . I’ve been having some anxiety issues lately.”

  “You should take up fishing,” she said, eyes still closed.

  “Ah, that explains—” but whatever Callum was going to say was interrupted by a buzz that made Jo jump. Callum answered the phone and became exasperated again, almost at once. “Well, come as quickly as you can. . . . What? No. . . . Fine.”

  Jo opened her eyes when he hung up—to find him staring at her.

  She shrugged a little. “So something’s come up and Sam can’t make it?”

  “How did you know that?”

  She just shook her head. “And to answer your question in a belated way, with slightly more details than you asked for . . . I think we will end up in court. I don’t want my uncle’s home sold. I want to honor his wishes, which were abundantly clear, if not perfectly organized detail-wise—”

  Callum snorted. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  Jo’s eyes narrowed. “And yes, I think it’s a financially viable idea, even with a ‘piss poor risk’ like me attached to it.”

  “I—I shouldn’t have said that—but do you understand how much money the legal mess will eat up?”

  “So why don’t you talk Samantha into being a human and dropping it?”

  “She just wants what your uncle intended her to have.”

  “Our uncle wanted her to have about twenty-five thousand dollars, what he figured a quarter of the property was worth. He should’ve had it assessed, yes, and had an updated will that reflected the current value, yes—but he didn’t.”

  “Right, he didn’t and his wording, ‘or about a quarter of the property’s worth’ is exactly your sister’s point.”

  “And I’ll go with her interpretation. I’ll pay her. I’m just asking for time.”

  “You don’t have time. I’m sorry. Either we come to an agreement here, or—”

  “Will you at least hear me out? Samantha just sees a cash grab, and she’s being stupid. She’s paying you. She’s the one running through money—and for what? For a quarter of a price she doesn’t even know we’ll get. You said it yourself. Real estate’s in the toilet here, but there’s still money to be made, and more importantly a life to be made here, a home, a—” Jo broke off abruptly. What was she doing? Why was she spilling her personal dreams and hopes here? Next thing she knew she’d be confessing her desire for love, true love—bah, she was an idiot!

  She struggled to get back to business, forcing herself to meet Callum’s gaze, despite how flustered she suddenly was. “This is a gorgeous area, with fishing, hiking, and skiing that’s second to none—all a well kept secret. With a little promotion, people will visit and bring their families. They’ll come back year after year.”

  Callum’s chin lifted and one of his eyebrows rose. Encouraged, Jo rushed on. “Maybe if someone who’s not so emotionally entangled in the place hears the business plan and explains it to Sam, she’ll see that I’m not just dreaming. Come back to the house. Let me show you around—when I’m expecting you.”

  “Fine.”

  “Really? You mean it?” Jo jumped up, and only just managed to keep herself from grabbing his hand. Callum was very hard to read—cold and professional one minute, a bigger wreck than she was the next, and then mere seconds later, a totally human guy—even warm seeming.

  “How about tomorrow afternoon, say three thirty? I’ll walk you around the place while it’s still light, then feed you dinner?” She practically tripped over her words, needing them out and for him to have agreed before he changed his mind.

  Callum nodded slowly, but his brow furrowed. “You do know I’m not a banker, right? It’s not like I can give you any financial aid. You’re not pitching to me.”

  Jo laughed—and hoped it wasn’t a bitter sound. “If you were a banker, I wouldn’t waste your time. As you so accurately pointed out, I won’t qualify for any loans. What you are is my last chance—person to person. If Samantha would just give me two or three years, I know I could . . .” Jo’s voice trailed off at the expression that took over Callum’s face. What on earth had she said that made him so sad?

  “Anyway,” she finally continued. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Is there anything you don’t eat?”

  “Not a thing,” he said.

  She was halfway out the door when she swore he said something else.

  “Pardon?” she asked, turning back.

  He looked up from the laptop he’d bent over the moment she’d finished talking. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

  He had though. Jo was certain. And it had sounded all too much like, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Well, it was too late. She did have her hopes up. She couldn’t help it.

  *

  A trio of fat books lay open on his desk, surrounded by a mess of papers, and both his laptop and his desktop were in use. If anyone happened by, Callum would look industrious: a carefully constructed ruse. All he could think about—all he could see—was Jo’s face when he’d laid her secrets bare. And he’d also observed the moment she passed silent judgment on him and wrote him off as a jerk—how her hurt eyes hardened and her soft lips disappeared into a tight line.

  So she hated him. Not that he could blame her.

  In their far past, he’d been too weak to express how he felt about her in the face of his father’s disdain and his mother’s worry. He’d taken the coward’s way out and written that stupid letter declaring his love, but postponing their plan to run off and get married and start their life together. No wonder she hadn’t bothered to respond. For years he hadn’t understood her failure to acknowledge the letter, but now he thought he did.

  And here, in their present, he’d invaded her space and shown up at her house unannounced. He was pressuring her into selling her inheritance, a family home that meant more to her than a quick buck. And he’d just finished acting like a complete psycho, ranting about the room, muttering. . . . Yet, she’d been kind to him. Kind.

  He considered how he would’ve acted if someone he’d set up a meeting with completely lost it. And he thought of how Samantha acted with far less provocation and was only further humiliated. He’d never fallen into one of his “episodes,” as he chose to refer to them, in front of anyone before except Nina—and since he figured she was partly responsible for them, she didn’t count.

  Jo calmed him down—something she’d always been
good at, he recalled. It was almost like she recognized what was happening to him, but then didn’t coddle him. As soon as he was fine again, she resumed arguing with him. Didn’t change the purpose of their meeting or suddenly forsake the points she wanted to make, using some lame excuse about needing to be somewhere else or something. And then, just like she still actually valued his opinion and thought he might have weight with Samantha, she’d invited him to visit.

  Callum straightened in his seat, then stretched, twisting side to side. He was lying to himself if he tried to pretend any of that was why he kept dwelling on their meeting.

  It had been beyond bizarre when he’d touched her. It was like he received an electric jolt, his physical reaction every bit as powerful and uncontrollable as when they were seventeen-year-olds. But that wasn’t the shocker—the shocker was that he’d felt anything all. He hadn’t been powerfully attracted to anyone since Nina.

  He was “off women,” as his brother Brian always (oh-so-helpfully) told people. A truth always met with a variety of unwelcome comments.

  “Well, keep him away from me then,” their friend Dave said whenever the topic came up, then laughed uproariously.

  At first Brian joked back, “Well, you are pretty hot.” As the months turned into a year, turned into three years, the humor failed.

  One night there’d been a beer-soaked “heart-to-heart.” Callum still cringed when he thought of it.

  “You know if you really are gay, I’m all right with it,” Brian had said through the noisy din of the pub.

  “Me too, buddy.”

  “What?” Callum looked back and forth between his best friend and his brother, and realized they weren’t kidding.

  “If our jokes made you insecure, we’re dicks and we’re sorry.”

  “Good to know, thanks . . . but I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. And if I was, I’d be fine with it but thanks for your permission.”

  “Dad thinks you are.”

  “What?”