Page 45 of Keeping You
“Then I think I’m saying yes.”
I kiss her again, taking my time because this, right here, isn’t about pretending anymore. It’s real. And it’s everything I didn’t know I needed.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads, chests, and thighs pressed together like neither of us is ready to let go.
“You know the whole town is going to be talking about us,” I say with a huff of laughter.
“Let them talk.” Her voice is steady, sure. “I’m done worrying about what other people think.”
Her stomach picks that moment to let us know she’s hungry, so we move back to my desk, settling into chairs like normal people who haven’t just been devouring each other against the wall. The sandwiches taste like the best damn thing I’ve ever eaten, not because of what they are, but because she brought them, because she’s here.
We talk about the weekend, about Harper, about everything and nothing. And for the first time in a long time, it feels easy. It feels right.
It feels like I’m finally home for good.
“By the way,” I say, reaching across the desk to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth, “Mom’s been asking me about bringing you over for dinner.”
Callie freezes mid-chew, then swallows hard, coughing like I just dropped a bomb. “Your mom wants me to come for dinner?”
“It’s not like you haven’t eaten at our house before.”
“When I was a kid,” she points out, still wide-eyed.
“She’s thrilled about us, Callie. She’s always liked you.”
Her brows lift. “You told her?”
“She guessed.”
“Oh.” She shifts in her chair, biting her lip. “I guess that means we actually have to leave my place once in a while?”
I chuckle, sitting back in my chair. “That’s the idea.” Truth is, the thought of giving up an entire evening of being tangled up in her sheets makes me hesitate. But I can’t deny how good it feels knowing how easily Callie fits into my life, even the parts I didn’t think I wanted to share with anyone.
“Okay,” she says finally, sharing a hint of a smile that makes my stomach flip.
“Perfect. I’ll tell her Sunday works. That way,” I let my grin spread slow and wicked, “we have all of Saturday, Saturday night, and Sunday morning to ourselves.”
Her cheeks flush, and she swats at me. “You’re terrible.”
“Honest.”
Lunch ends too soon, and when she stands, I rise with her, not ready to let go, disappointed I didn’t get to follow through on my promise. At least for now. “I’ll see you after work. I’ll bring dessert.” I lean in close, my lips grazing her ear. “And I’m not talking about pie.”
She sucks in a breath, her whole face turning crimson as she smacks my arm playfully. “Behave, Sheriff. We’re in public.”
“Later, then,” I murmur, dropping a quick kiss to the tip of her nose before forcing myself to let her go.
I watch her walk out, the door swinging shut behind her, and it’s like the puzzle pieces I’ve been trying to force fit, finally fall into place. I wasn’t sure coming back to Cupid’s Creek and stepping into Dad’s boots was the right move. But every day, I’m more settled. More certain.
When I think back to that night under the stars, I sometimes wonder how different things would’ve been if I hadn’t left. But maybe this was the only way it could happen. Perhaps we needed the time to grow up, to screw up, to figure out who we were, before finding our way back. Sometimes the longest road leads you to exactly where you’re meant to be.
“Sheriff?” One of my deputies is standing in the doorway of my office, holding a file. “Got that report you asked for.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it. “Appreciate it.”
The rest of the day is a blur of paperwork, routine calls, and the usual small-town chaos: a noise complaint behind the high school. Miss June’s damn cat is in a tree again. Nothing like Chicago, and I realize today, I’m grateful for that.
By the time I finish and lock up for the day, anxious to get over to Callie’s, the sun’s sliding low across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The quiet hum of the town settling in for the evening does nothing to calm the restless energy buzzing under my skin.
