Page 66 of I've Got Your Number

He held me close, as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go. Behind us, Barry unloaded all my stuff onto the drive. Frank complained loudly about being in his carrier still. Elvis had followed Callan from the house and was sniffing at the metal grill trapping Frank. The dog’s plaintiff woof was followed by a loud bark as Elvis smashed his snout to the cage and Frank’s paw came through the grid to bat at the intrusion.

Done unloading the vehicle, Barry rattled the food bags. “I’ll… I’ll just take these to the house, if that’s okay?”

Callan released me abruptly, and left me swaying on the drive as he rushed to the young man. He seized the bags from Barry’s right hand, then promptly shook it wildly. “Barry, you are a lifesaver. I don’t know what we’d have done without your help. I owe you big time.”

Barry’s smile grew. “I think I’ll like having a star like you owe me a favor. Once I graduate, I’m going to need a job.”

Callan laughed. “Give your details to James before you leave. We’ll have a job waiting for you when you’re ready.” He glanced down. “But, we have a dress code. No skinny jeans. Get you some boot-cut Wranglers, ya hear?”

“But these are Uniqlo. Best brand money can buy.”

“Best brand for cutting off a man’s circulation. Get some Wranglers. I didn’t steer you wrong on the boots, right?”

Barry’s brows drew together and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Guess I should have led with thanks for the boots. I think that makes us even.”

Callan looked over his shoulder at me. “Nah, brother. I think you’re still way ahead in the favors owed department.” He smiled at me as he took the rest of the bags from Barry.

James rushed down the stairs just then and grabbed my duffle and Frank’s carrier. “It’s not normal for a delivery driver to linger this long. Gotta keep it realistic here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, man.” Barry hustled around the car and opened the door.

I trotted toward him. “Thanks, Barry. I really appreciate your help this afternoon.” I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed.

He awkwardly patted my shoulder blades, his motion stiff as the peaks of meringue Naomi typically whipped up for her lemon pie.

By the time Barry drove away, Callan was next to me, arm draped over my shoulder, holding me tightly against his side. He steered us inside the house.

When the door slammed shut, a rush of emotion sped through me, adding to my sense of safety. Comfort, security, relief. A ladder-back chair sat next to a table in the entry hall, and I collapsed onto it. I bent over my knees and buried my face in my hands.

Callan squatted in front of me and rubbed his hands along my thighs, his touch reassuring as he crooned nonsense to me. I fought for control of the shudders wracking my body. My fingers were wet, which is how I realized I was crying. I drew a ragged breath, sat up and wiped my cheeks.

My momma and daddy didn’t raise me to be a weak twit. That wasn’t me at all. I’d lived through the initial humiliation of Steve creating the video of us in the bedroom—one he’d conveniently forgotten to tell me about—and then Tiffani posting it online. I could do this with strength and grace. No time for tears.

“Red, you’re killing me, but you cry all you want. You deserve it.” He traced the track of a tear down my cheek with his thumb. His eyes glittered liquidly. “I’m so sorry I got you into this.”

I cupped his jaw and pressed my forefinger to his lips. “This wasn’t you. Don’t take responsibility for some chick taking our picture, or the idiocy of my ex’s turd of a new wife trying to get her ten minutes of fame. None of that is on you. Or me, for that matter.” He sucked the tip of my finger between his lips, making me sigh and smile. “You were incredible at handling everything. And I trust Asher and Carrie’s guidance. We’ve got this, right?”

Callan’s knees creaked as he dropped to them and straightened to look me in the eye. “Atta girl. I love your fighting spirit.”

Frank streaked past us, followed by Elvis, whose tail wagged about a million miles an hour, smacking into Callan’s back, and the legs of the chair, and any other innocent inanimate object in the path of danger.

“Hound! You behave,” Callan ordered with a half-hearted grin. He directed his attention back to me. “Let’s get you settled.” He pushed upright and held a hand out to me.

My legs were much sturdier when I rose. He didn’t let go of my hand as he grabbed my duffle. “James, we’ll be back down shortly. Gonna get Catie settled in.”

“Take your time,” James hollered from the kitchen. That was followed by yet another twangyboom-chicka-bow-wow.

“Asshole,” Callan shouted as he led me up the staircase.

He steered me down a long hallway and opened a door on the left. It was not the room I’d spent the night in yesterday. He set my bag on the bench at the bottom of the queen-size bed.

“Um…” I wasn’t sure how to begin.

He moved to the side of the bed as far from me as he could get.

Did he not want me sharing his space? Maybe he was pissed off about me being a magnet of attention for him. He liked his private life…well, private. “I guess…well, I thought…” My shoulders slumped as doubt dragged my head back under.

Callan shifted his weight. “Well, this is—”

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