Inseverable: A Carolina Beach Novel (8 page)

“I’m from Texas,” he rumbles.

I bat my hand in true “pa-shaw” fashion like I didn’t just insult him and everyone he knows. “Oh, I’m sure you’re the exception. You, your momma, your daddy, your brother―”

“I don’t have a brother.” Again the edges of his mouth curve.

“Sister?” I offer.

“Three,” he admits.

“Okay, I’ll make the exception for them, too―and maybe a couple of first cousins.” I scissor out my hands. “But I draw the line at second cousins twice removed. They’re always a freaky bunch.”

“Is that right?” he asks.

“Yes. Like I said ‘dem Texans are nuts.”

For once I shut my mouth, even though I think I maybe entertaining him, however mildly. We hit the end of the beach and turn around. He stays quiet, but by now it’s been like ten whole minutes since I said anything, and if you’ve been paying attention you know that’s a lot for someone like me.

“So you’re from Texas,” I say.

“That’s right.”

“Did you play football?” I ask. “I know football’s real big there.”

Although it’s a fairly simple and not very personal question, he seems hesitant to tell me. “You can’t be a country boy in Texas and not play ball,” he finally answers.

“Were you the quarterback? I can picture you as a quarterback.” I toss him a wink. “A mighty,
mighty
quarterback.”

And lookee here. There’s that almost grin, again.

“I was a first string lineman,” he admits.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Hmm. I bet all the pretty girls were just lining up so you could deflower them, huh?”

His head ever so slowly rotates my way, but then he catches himself resumes his attention ahead. “No. I think the quarterback took care of all that.”

It occurs to me then how much I love messing with him. “Did it bother you, not having all those girls to deflower? You can tell me seeing how we’re BFFs and all.”

He smirks, but mostly I think to squelch his widening grin. “Believe it or not, I didn’t care,” he answers.

He slows to a stop as my post comes into view. But I’m not ready to let him go.

“We can keep going if you’d like,” I offer. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” He frowns, appearing either confused or unsure so I add, “Besides, that man in my bed is shackled good and tight, he’s not going anywhere till I set him free.” I throw out a hand. “Don’t worry. I left the remote in his hand and plenty of water so he’s fine.”

The way Callahan straightens, makes me think that maybe I pushed the joke too far. But then he shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with you,” he mumbles.

“I think you might have mentioned that once or twice,” I remind him.

I wave to my boys as we sprint past the station, ignoring the growing twinge in my thighs. But the further we run, the more that twinge develops into a steady burn. I was always a runner, and participated in cross-country all through high school. I kept up my stamina by running every other day while I was in college, but after Hunter and I broke up, I hiked up plenty of miles dealing with the stress and the depression that followed—so many in fact, I was able to participate in my first half marathon this past Spring.

I pride myself on keeping fit, but by now, Callahan and I are a few miles in, and in my haste to meet him, I never bothered with breakfast. So instead of teasing Callahan a little more, like I’d really like to, I focus on steadying my breathing and pushing through the ache.

“You all right?” Callahan asks.

“Yes. I’ve gone longer.”

We glide across the sand, our strides purposeful and even, both of us working harder to maintain our pace. He seems to want to ask more, but doesn’t.

When I’m sure he won’t ever speak again without being prompted he asks, “How long?”

“Twelve miles.” I crinkle my forehead. “We are talking about running, right?”

He loses his footing, but then catches himself, and semi-smoothly resumes his gait. My muscles are tightening so bad I should focus on breathing. But watching Callahan lose his footing
and
his composure is too much to resist. No.
He’s
too much to resist.

“Ever have a one-night stand?” I ask.

“What?—
Jesus
.”

I breathe deeply so I can keep talking because hey, Trinity Summers is on a roll.

“I won’t think less of you if you have,” I tell him. “You’re young, these things happen.”

He says nothing so of course now I have to. “So the times that you have, were they like a lot? Or was it more like one here, one there―Oh, but don’t tell me if it involves more than one girl, or a man, or crazy shit like on a roller coaster. That sort of thing is personal.”

“
And this isn’t
?” he fires back.

“I’m just saying―”

“All right, you want to go there. Have
you
ever had a one-night stand?”

He means to shut me up. If so, he needs to invest in duct tape. “Yes. Twice. But it’s not really my thing.”

“You’ve had one-night stands?” He emphasizes the first word, but the rest is distinctly quieter.

I smile thoughtfully. “I had a bad breakup last Christmas. Afterward . . . I don’t know, I was sort of lost, and maybe a little desperate. So, I did.” I look up at him. “What about you? Have you had your share of hook-ups? Or are you more the committed type?”

He returns to his more solemn demeanor, making me think I somehow hurt him by asking—and I absolutely want to kick myself for it.

I start to apologize only for him to interrupt. “I had a couple of steady girls in high school. Nothing real serious. After I enlisted, I didn’t have the time or opportunity to meet anyone.”

“That makes sense.” I wait then say, “What about when you weren’t in active duty? Or when you got out?”

He thinks about it. “That’s when I had my share of . . . interactions.”

“Oh,” I answer, giving away the sadness I suddenly feel.

Aside from caressing his face, I haven’t really touched Callahan. Not like I’ve wanted to. It bothers me to learn there’ve been plenty of women who have stroked a lot more than his beard. It’s not that I’m surprised. Not by a long shot. That doesn’t make the news easier to swallow.

Callahan isn’t a good-looking man. Nope, not at all. Callahan is hotter than fried chicken sizzling in Hades. The waves of his dark brown hair have lightened significantly over the past few weeks, giving his ravishing blue eyes an extra sparkle. His thin beard crawls along his jaw, up and over full lips that can alter him from rugged hunk, to sexy god when they pull back into a grin.

“Have there been many of these interactions?” I ask, my voice so quiet it surprises even me.

“No,” he admits before cutting his eyes my way and offering a smile that flips my heart. “It’s not really my thing either.”

Ah, and there’s my smile, too. “Good,” I say.

He slows to a stop when we reach a path lined with palms and mangroves to our right. “This is where I get off,” he tells me.

I wipe some of the perspiration from my brow and peek down the path. A ranch, covered in weather-beaten grey shingles, rests further back among the ancient trees. The trim and newly erected deck are painted in a fresh coat of bright white, and the roof and windows appear brand new. I take my time admiring the work he seems to have put in, permitting my breathing to relax.

“This is old man Callahan’s place,” I say after a moment. “I take it you’re related?”

He nods. “He was my uncle. I was named after him.”

“Now that I know where you live, I figured as much.”

He crosses his arms, appearing to look at the house without really seeing it. “Did you know him?” he asks.

“Only a little bit,” I answer. “I’d see him around town now and again. At the post office or supermarket.” I speak slowly, watching his chest rise and fall as his breathing starts to settle. “He was a nice man, gentle. But mostly kept to himself. Were you close?”

“When I was younger we were.” He bends when something catches his attention in the sand. He lifts a small rock with a sharp tip. I barely catch sight of it before he flings it into the dense brush. “My daddy wasn’t around much so my uncle tried to be there for me as much as he could.”

Like so many times before, Callahan’s face gives nothing away. But his stance when he said “daddy” stiffened in a way I’ve never quite seen. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, feeling the depth of my words down to my bones.

He cocks his head, frowning slightly as if expecting me to press for more information. But while I want to know everything about him, I’d never force him to share something he’s not ready for.

“My parents divorced when I was a few months old,” he admits, watching me closely. “With only girls in the house, my momma felt I needed a strong male’s influence. So she asked her brother to step in and be the man my father never was.”

Just when I think Callahan can break any more of my heart, there goes another chip. My daddy is my hero. He’s always been there, ready to catch me when I fell and cheer me on when I got back up. But now is not the time to tell Callahan as much, not when he still seems hurt by the father he never quite knew.

“I’m glad your uncle was there to guide you,” I say.

“I am, too,” he murmurs. “But our time together was always limited. He’d visit every summer, holidays; things like that. But his home was here, and ours was in Texas.” He shrugs. “When I was trying to decide what to do with my life, he’s the one who convinced me to go into the Army. We lost touch after I finished boot camp. I think the last time I spoke to him was about a year before he died.”

I close the space between us, unable to stomach the sadness in his voice and place my hand carefully on his arm. “You must have meant a lot to him for him to leave you his home.”

He watches my hand as it slips from his arm. “I suppose,” he says, returning his attention to the house.

I’m not sure how many times the waves crash behind us, or how many gulls soar over our heads in their mad rush to fish. But it’s not until a dragonfly zips between us that Callahan once more speaks. “You seem worn. If you want, I can give you a ride back to your post.”

“You’re not going to ask me inside for breakfast?”

His head jerks back to face me. “
What
?”

I regard him with a pensive expression I have to work hard to muster. “It’s the Southern and hospitable thing to do,” I remind him. And if that’s not bad enough, I add, “After all, I did save your life.”

Again he simply stares, disbelief spreading along his manly features while that grin I can’t suppress around him warms my cheeks. I wait, taking in the way his expression alternates from “this girl is crazy” mode to “maybe she should have just let me die”.

He whirls away, storming toward the house. “
Fine
,” he says.

Chapter Eight

Trinity

Rather than skipping ahead and into his house, I follow behind him. It is his home and far be it for me to impose. Plus, it gives me a chance to ogle the muscles along his broad back and the way his bitable butt cheeks clench and unclench with each step. With all the strength and will I possess, I resist the urge to tackle him and have my way with him. I’m a Southern lady, after all, so I keep my dirty thoughts inside my head where they belong.

We step through the clear glass doors off the deck and into a large open family room painted light beige with a white trim. I pause to take everything in. The furniture is minimal, but comfortable and practical, giving the room a modern décor and an earthy feel, all while complimenting the original structure. Freshly sanded wide plank floorboards greet my feet as my stare travels to where a thick shaggy rug lies between a flat stone fireplace and comfy-looking brown couch. Despite the multiple tools lining the far wall, the dustpan filled with wood shavings in the corner, and all other evidence of his ongoing renovation projects, Callahan’s house is clean and homey.

“This is really nice,” I say. “You’ve done such a beautiful job bringing it back to life.”

“You’ve been in here before?” he asks.

“Just once with my momma. We stopped by with a few casserole dishes when we heard your uncle was sick, but only stayed long enough to bring the food in.” I smile softly. “He was sweet, but he didn’t seem up for company and we didn’t want to impose.”

I point ahead to the open kitchen. “I remember there was a wall there before, separating it from the family room. I like it better this way. There’s more light.”

“Yeah. Me, too,” he admits, growing quiet.

I’m not sure what Callahan’s thinking, all I know is that he seems so sad. Maybe he misses his uncle, or maybe it’s more than that. I scan the area, searching for something to draw his attention away from his thoughts and hopefully onto something better.

My eyes fall on a guitar perched on top of a brown and cream striped recliner. “You play?” I ask.

“I never had any formal training, and I don’t know how to read or write sheet music. “He steps toward it. “But I do know a few songs I learned by ear.”

“You learned by ear?” I ask.

His focus hones in on my face, but then he looks away. “That’s right.”

“Well then consider me impressed,” I say. I laugh, mostly to myself. “I can’t read or write music either, but my brother taught me a few songs I can play well enough.”

His brows knit together. “You play, too?”

“Just a couple of songs. Don’t ask me about chords or anything technical. I never committed to learning, so there’s a lot I don’t know.”

He nods like he understands, stepping around me and into the kitchen. He opens the door to a stainless steel refrigerator. With a smile that doesn’t quite want to leave me, I watch him fumble through the contents.

“You want some sweet tea?” he asks.

“Ah, sure. If it’s not too much trouble. I don’t want to be a bother.”

It’s my last comment that momentarily freezes him in place. I cover my mouth as I slip onto a bar stool at the raised granite counter, doing my best not to full-out laugh. In an effort to settle, I skim the ceiling. Wires hang through the holes drilled directly above me. “What’s going on up there?”