Page 4 of Bad For Me (Rock Canyon, Idaho 5)

Rhett.

Turning off the “record” button, Callie tried to ignore the giddy butterflies fluttering through her stomach. “You’re late.”

“You noticed.”

“Well, you’ve been almost OCD about the time you call, so it’s a little hard not to notice.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I overslept this morning. Can I just say I’m actually flattered? Were you counting down the minutes?”

Callie’s face burned, and even though he couldn’t see her, she rubbed her cheeks with one hand. “Actually, it’s just because you’re the only person with any taste who calls in.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” she said, turning around in her chair so she couldn’t see Dave and her tech, Sam, making kissy-faces at her. “Now, what Blake song do you want to hear?”

“Uh-oh, did I get you in trouble with the boss?”

“No, I just . . . there are just a lot of calls coming in, so I can’t talk as long.”

“I understand,” he said, and there was a pause on the line before he cleared his throat. “Maybe we could talk more later? Off air?”

Callie’s heart pounded. Was he asking for her number? Giving him her number made their interactions more than just a flirtation. What if he was dangerous? The scars on her body tingled with apprehension, a silent warning.

“I’m going to take it from your silence that I’ve freaked you out,” he said, breaking into her panicked thoughts. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

He hung up before she could say anything. Without his trademark farewell.

Way to go, you paranoid freak.

Though really, Callie didn’t think she was paranoid; she was cautious. Having your fiancé turn into a complete stranger—a violent stranger—six months before your wedding could do that to a person. Thinking of Tristan was painful, and she tried to push him from her mind. Tried to forget their past together. If she didn’t, the nightmares might start up again—and the urge to drink herself into a stupor along with it.

Just then, Dalton came walking in with Ratchet. The minute he let him off leash, the large dog lumbered over and laid his head in Callie’s lap, as if sensing her dark thoughts. Stroking his dense fur, she murmured softly to him until he sat and eventually flopped to the ground.

“Callie, you’ve got callers holding,” Dave said over the intercom.

Pressing the button, she took the next call, but her thoughts were still on Rhett. Was she ready to let someone in and trust again?

She really wasn’t sure.

EVERETT SILVERTON TOOK off the headset just after two and stretched his arms above his head, cracking his neck in the process. He had been sitting in the same position for five hours, counseling traumatized and frustrated veterans, and added to the two hours of farm work this morning, he was damn sore.

It was worth it, though, to have a safe place to come home to. Veterans coming back after long tours who realized that the world hadn’t stopped while they were gone had it much worse. Despite the fact that he’d spent several months in a hospital overseas and had come home to a wife who couldn’t handle his scars or his “issues”—as she’d kindly referred to his PTSD—he’d always had his father and brother. Some vets didn’t have anyone—no stability, no job, and the adjustment often took its toll on their psyches. It was hard to come back from a world of violence—one where any minute a roadside bomb could go off or a

sniper’s bullet could take you out—unscathed.

Everett ran a hand over the scarred side of his face, every ridge and rough patch a badge of dishonor, of his failure to Robbie, his best friend. A constant reminder that Robbie’s wife, Cara, and son, RJ, now had to live without him. In the end, the scars on Everett’s body couldn’t hold a candle to the abrasions on his soul.

Everett stood up and headed for the kitchen of his three-bedroom modular to grab a soda. His brother, Justin, had actually wanted to build a home for Everett on their land, but Everett hadn’t needed a stick built. He was happy with his picked-from-the-lot manufactured home. It had cost him about fifty thousand for the house and all the amenities, but his place was serviceable and perfect for him.

“Hey, Rhett,” Everett’s dad called as he poked his head in through the open door.

Everett’s gut clenched just hearing the nickname. Justin and his father were the only people who called him that, but now it was just a reminder of his crash-and-burn with Callie.

He’d started listening to the Kat when he moved home and had especially loved listening to Callie Jay in the mornings when she took over the show five years ago. She was funny, and the music she played wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill modern country rock; she mixed in the old-school eighties and nineties. He had no idea what she looked like, since the station website only had a cartoon avatar for her instead of a photo, but he didn’t care. Her voice, which was a low, husky rasp, was sexy as hell, and he found himself addicted to hearing her over the line.

Finally, a little over a year ago, he’d been unable to resist calling in to her all-request hour. And again the next day. And the next.

But despite how friendly their conversations had become, he’d had no intention of pushing for more. It was just fun. Besides, there was no guarantee that she’d be able to see past his scars. None of the other women he’d gone out with since his divorce had.

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