Page 24 of Inseverable (Carolina Beach)

I close the space between us, unable to stomach the sadness in his voice and place my hand carefully on his arm. “You must have meant a lot to him for him to leave you his home.”

He watches my hand as it slips from his arm. “I suppose,” he says, returning his attention to the house.

I’m not sure how many times the waves crash behind us, or how many gulls soar over our heads in their mad rush to fish. But it’s not until a dragonfly zips between us that Callahan once more speaks. “You seem worn. If you want, I can give you a ride back to your post.”

“You’re not going to ask me inside for breakfast?”

His head jerks back to face me. “What?”

I regard him with a pensive expression I have to work hard to muster. “It’s the Southern and hospitable thing to do,” I remind him. And if that’s not bad enough, I add, “After all, I did save your life.”

Again he simply stares, disbelief spreading along his manly features while that grin I can’t suppress around him warms my cheeks. I wait, taking in the way his expression alternates from “this girl is crazy” mode to “maybe she should have just let me die”.

He whirls away, storming toward the house. “Fine,” he says.

Chapter Eight

Trinity

Rather than skipping ahead and into his house, I follow behind him. It is his home and far be it for me to impose. Plus, it gives me a chance to ogle the muscles along his broad back and the way his bitable butt cheeks clench and unclench with each step. With all the strength and will I possess, I resist the urge to tackle him and have my way with him. I’m a Southern lady, after all, so I keep my dirty thoughts inside my head where they belong.

We step through the clear glass doors off the deck and into a large open family room painted light beige with a white trim. I pause to take everything in. The furniture is minimal, but comfortable and practical, giving the room a modern décor and an earthy feel, all while complimenting the original structure. Freshly sanded wide plank floorboards greet my feet as my stare travels to where a thick shaggy rug lies between a flat stone fireplace and comfy-looking brown couch. Despite the multiple tools lining the far wall, the dustpan filled with wood shavings in the corner, and all other evidence of his ongoing renovation projects, Callahan’s house is clean and homey.

“This is really nice,” I say. “You’ve done such a beautiful job bringing it back to life.”

“You’ve been in here before?” he asks.

“Just once with my momma. We stopped by with a few casserole dishes when we heard your uncle was sick, but only stayed long enough to bring the food in.” I smile softly. “He was sweet, but he didn’t seem up for company and we didn’t want to impose.”

I point ahead to the open kitchen. “I remember there was a wall there before, separating it from the family room. I like it better this way. There’s more light.”

“Yeah. Me, too,” he admits, growing quiet.

I’m not sure what Callahan’s thinking, all I know is that he seems so sad. Maybe he misses his uncle, or maybe it’s more than that. I scan the area, searching for something to draw his attention away from his thoughts and hopefully onto something better.

My eyes fall on a guitar perched on top of a brown and cream striped recliner. “You play?” I ask.

“I never had any formal training, and I don’t know how to read or write sheet music. “He steps toward it. “But I do know a few songs I learned by ear.”

“You learned by ear?” I ask.

His focus hones in on my face, but then he looks away. “That’s right.”

“Well then consider me impressed,” I say. I laugh, mostly to myself. “I can’t read or write music either, but my brother taught me a few songs I can play well enough.”

His brows knit together. “You play, too?”

“Just a couple of songs. Don’t ask me about chords or anything technical. I never committed to learning, so there’s a lot I don’t know.”

He nods like he understands, stepping around me and into the kitchen. He opens the door to a stainless steel refrigerator. With a smile that doesn’t quite want to leave me, I watch him fumble through the contents.

“You want some sweet tea?” he asks.

“Ah, sure. If it’s not too much trouble. I don’t want to be a bother.”

It’s my last comment that momentarily freezes him in place. I cover my mouth as I slip onto a bar stool at the raised granite counter, doing my best not to full-out laugh. In an effort to settle, I skim the ceiling. Wires hang through the holes drilled directly above me. “What’s going on up there?”

“Drop-down ceiling lights,” he answers. He walks around the counter and places a glass full of iced tea in front of me, taking a seat to my left. “But I can’t put them in until I’m done rewiring the house.

---