Page 23 of Bad For Me (Rock Canyon, Idaho 5)

“PTSD is often triggered by something out of the veteran’s control. We do educate family members about the signs that may mean their loved ones are struggling, but our main focus is to make the individual feel like he or she has somewhere to call and ask for help from people who know what the vet has been through.”

Everett noticed the way Callie was squeezing the mic, like she was struggling internally, and he wanted to ask what ghosts haunted her. All his attempts to be funny and even his mild irritation with her coldness melted in the face of her obvious pain. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to comfort her and tell her he would keep her safe.

As if sensing his mistress’s agitation, Ratchet climbed out from under the table and nudged Callie.

Callie shook her head and stroked the dog’s head, as if she was coming out of a dream.

Back in peppy DJ mode, Callie concluded the interview. “Well, thank you so much for coming in and talking to us today, Everett.”

“No problem, Callie, anytime,” he said, holding her gaze.

She looked away and listed Stateside’s number and website. Through it all, Everett could tell her hands were shaking and that she was distraught. Something had definitely happened to her. His thoughts kept straying to her concern for the military personnel’s families. She’d seemed so worried that they weren’t protected or informed enough. Was she worried about him and his own PTSD? His antagonizing her probably hadn’t helped. He’d definitely fucked up.

And he realized that as attracted as he was to her, he first needed to gain her trust, to be her friend, if he ever wanted anything more with her. Which meant some serious groveling was in store.

Callie stood up with her headset still on. “And for all the men and women who protect our great nation, here’s a little Craig Morgan.”

Everett stood up too, removing his headset, but before he could say anything, Callie had hers off and was heading for the door, her dog close behind.

Maybe groveling was an understatement.

CALLIE STORMED OUT of the studio and caught the surprised looks on Dalton’s, Dave’s, and Henry’s faces.

“What? I need some air.”

Heading for the back door with Ratchet close on her heels, she pushed the door open and sucked in the cold air. Inside her head, a battle raged.

What is it about him that rubs you wrong?

After she’d impulsively kissed his cheek on Tuesday, she’d wanted to choke herself. For someone who swore she wanted nothing to do with him, she sure was wishy-washy about where she stood, and Callie hated herself for it. When he’d walked through the door today, she’d been so thrown that she’d lashed out and been a bitch. She’d had every intention of apologizing after the interview; then he’d dropped that Rhett bomb, and she’d nearly hurled.

How had she not recognized his voice? Not known who he was? All her fears that he was following her, that their bumping into each other had been more than a coincidence had been spot on. She suddenly wished that she’d taught Ratchet how to “sick balls.”

Are you really freaking out about that, or is it because when he called you beautiful, you wanted to melt?

God, she was a glutton for punishment. When he’d been kneeling by her side, staring up at her with those concerned eyes, she’d stopped breathing, and her heart had crashed into her breast bone. Then he’d gone and stroked her hand with the pad of his thumb, and a jolt of red-hot awareness had shot all the way to her stomach as she imagined those big hands stroking everywhere.

She could forgive herself that momentary weakness, but the way he’d talked about his organization with so much passion had only stirred the pot, so to speak.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she wanted a man. Wanted him bad, in the worst way possible.

And he was the wrong man. If there was ever a man who was totally, crazily wrong for her, it was Everett Silverton.

Ratchet woofed softly and turned. Callie swung around to find Everett standing behind her, his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, willing him to stay where he was and not come any closer.

“You just rushed out of there and I—”

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“You mean, why didn’t I tell you I was the idiot who had attempted to ask for your number on the air and only succeeded in epically freaking you out? Not exactly a conversation starter.”

“You deliberately withheld information. Information that was important—”

“Why? So you could think up a reason for why I’m not right for you? Or why we can’t be friends?”

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