Page 23 of Power Play

“I’m gonna make you mine, Lola Calway. And you’re gonna stay that way.”

A little while later, I spritz on a little extra cologne, walk out to my truck, and drive back in the direction of the Calway house.

Jeff Calway owns a contracting company based here in Crooked Creek—well, co-owns it now, with Tate—and it shows. The Calway residence wastheplace to be when we were kids. A big ol’ farmhouse with the works—a wraparound porch with a swing, huge windows, three-car garage, huge patio out back with a built-in pool, and a guest house. I spent many of my teen years here, and I revisit them often. Mrs. Calway—the first one—used to cook up all kinds of delicious stuff for us while we’d night swim, play dark tag, or sneak beers out by the fire pit. It crushed the whole family—and the rest of us “adopted” Calways—when she passed of breast cancer during our sophomore year.

But a few years later, when Jeff laid eyes on a woman named Lynn Dennings, everything changed. It was the summer before college when I first saw her. Lola “Lo” Dennings, the seven-year-old maniac of a daughter that Lynn brought with her. She was wild and funny and always covered in some sort of dirt. The whole Calway family, with the exception of Demi for a few years, had fawned over her, and it was easy to see why. Jeff officially adopted her when he and Lynn got married, and they changed her name to Calway. We went away to school, but we watched her grow from a little tornado to a little woman.

And then I saw too much.

I shake my head as I pull my truck into their long, winding driveway and park it next to the other cars.

I draw in a deep breath and fight off that pang of guilt that seems to follow me everywhere I go.

I walk up the porch steps, but before I can knock on the door, it opens.

I look down at a little girl with auburn hair and big brown eyes, just like her mom’s.

“I saw you at school today,” she says, staring up at me. I feel my muscles subconsciously unclenching as I look down at her. I smile and nod.

“Yes, you did,” I say.

“You pway hockey,” she says, “like Uncle Ty.”

“Yeah, but Uncle Ty iswaybetter than him,” I hear Tyson say as he pulls the door open wider, scooping her up from the ground. I laugh as he lets me in.

“Way better,” I agree. He slaps my back and closes the door.

The house smells the same. That same homey, cinnamony, Calway smell.

“H, this is Uncle Ty’s good friend Levi,” Tyson says, looking at the little girl perched on his arm. “Can you say hi?”

“Hi, Levi,” she says, and I melt.

“Hi, Harper,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“There he is!” I hear Jeff’s loud, boisterous voice carry from the back of the house as he walks through the foyer with his arms open. He looks so much the same—big and tall with thick arms, a thick neck, and a thick mustache to boot. He wraps me in a tight hug, and I’m almost surprised at how good it feels.

“Mr. C.!” I say as I squeeze him back. “It’s so good to see you!” He lets me go, and I hold up the bottle of Fireball I brought for him. He claps my back and laughs his hearty laugh.

“You’ll never let me live that night down, will you?” he laughs. I shake my head, remembering the night Tyson and I were home from school and challenged him to a drinking contest.

He did not win.

We did not win.

The Fireball won.

Just as he’s waving us through the house in the direction of the back door, I see her on the big staircase, like she’s making some sort of grand entrance. Except, she’s not. She’s just that breathtakingly gorgeous that it feels like she should be. She has this caramel-colored hair that hangs, straight as a board, to the middle of her back. She has big brown eyes that she seems to have passed on to Harper, and big, round lips. Until this afternoon, when I saw her again, she’d always been Little Lo, Tyson’s kid sister that we all looked after.

But today, something changed.

She’s a woman.

She’s grown.

She’s amom.

Our eyes lock as she makes her way down the stairs, and I realize that I’ve awkwardly stopped behind Tyson and Mr. C. to wait for her. When she gets to the bottom step, I can’t help but smile. She has on the same ratty jean shorts from earlier that hug her in all the right places—the same ones I basically ripped off her—and a burgundy tank top that makes her tan skin glow.

---