"Okay." I close my laptop and give him my full attention. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." He leans against the counter, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "The developer I met with today is building a resort near Whistler. High-end, eco-focused, exactly the kind of project Ridge Brothers was made for."
"That sounds great."
"It is great. It's also a two-year contract that would significantly expand our operations." He pauses. "They want me to oversee it personally. On-site presence at least three days a week."
"Whistler is what, five hours from here?"
"Six, depending on weather."
The implication settles over me. Three days a week, six hours away. That's half his time gone. Half our time gone.
"When do they need an answer?"
"End of the month." He sets down his glass. "I wanted to talk to you before I made any decisions."
"Why? It's your business. Your opportunity."
"Because whatever I decide affects both of us." He moves around the island until he's standing in front of me. "Three weeks ago you were about to walk out the door and fly back to Chicago. Now you're building a life here. Freelancing. Making connections. I'm not going to take a contract that keeps me away half the time without knowing how you feel about it."
"How I feel about it." I turn on my stool to face him fully. "Callum, I've been here three weeks. I'm basically a houseguest who contributes to groceries. You don't need my permission to run your business."
"You're not a houseguest."
"Then what am I?"
The question lands harder than I intended. But it's the question we've been avoiding. The one that keeps me up at night when he's sleeping soundly beside me.
What are we? What is this? Where is it going?
Callum is quiet for a long moment. Then he takes my hands in his, his thumbs tracing circles on my palms.
"Come with me."
"What?"
"To the playroom. There's something I need to show you."
My pulse quickens despite my confusion. "Callum, we're in the middle of a conversation."
"I know. And this is how I want to finish it." He tugs me gently off the stool. "Trust me?"
I do. That's the terrifying part. I trust him completely, even when I don't understand what he's doing.
The playroom looks different when we enter. The usual warm lighting is supplemented by candles, dozens of them, scattered across every surface. The bed has been made with fresh sheets in deep red. And on the padded bench where he's taken me apart so many times, there's a small velvet box.
My heart stops.
"Callum."
"Let me talk." He positions me in front of the bench, his hands on my shoulders. "Three weeks ago, you asked me what you are. You called yourself a houseguest. A temporary arrangement. Something convenient that would eventually end."
"I didn't mean?—"
"I know what you meant. And I know why you said it. Because it's easier to be temporary than to risk being permanent." His hands slide down my arms, warming my suddenly cold skin. "But I need you to understand something.From the moment you walked into that bar, you were never temporary to me."
"We'd known each other for an hour."
