I peek over my shoulder, and sure enough, Callan is sneaking a glance at me, his reassuring smile instantly making my heart skip a beat.
I turn back around, rolling my eyes, a little embarrassed but smiling all the same.
“Mmhmm,” Mom mumbles. “That’s what I thought.”
I focus on setting the table, because if I stop moving, I might actually have to process the fact that this is happening. My parents, my boyfriend, and me, all sitting down for a perfectly normal, not-at-all nerve-wracking family dinner.
Mom calls the guys in, and the kitchen fills with the usual clatter of plates and silverware. I look up just in time to see Callan stroll in like he’s lived here his whole life.
The audacity.
By the time we settle, with Callan and me on one side and my parents on the other, I realize the tightness in my chest has loosened. Either I’m finally relaxing, or I’m moments away from a stress-induced blackout. Fingers crossed for the first one.
Dad is still firing off questions, and Callan, the absolute menace, handles each one with that allure of his. No hesitation, no flustered stammering. Just smooth, confident answers like he was born for this exact interrogation.
“This smells delicious, Shannon,” Callan praises as he fills his plate. “I hope Bree has the recipe. She’s been trying to perfect her pot roast for a while now, I hear.”
I shoot him a look, but he just winks at me, completely unfazed.
“Oh, of course!” Mom says, beaming, clearly delighted by the compliment.
Ah. I see what he’s doing.
He’s got this all down to a fine art, making sure everything goes smoothly and making everyone comfortable. What I love most is how easy it all is. None of it feels forced. This is just who Callan is.
As we dig in, Callan, ever the charismatic storyteller, dives into tales of his travels, his eyes lighting up as he describes the wild, untamed beauty of the Scottish Highlands. Mom leans on the table, hanging onto his every word. Dad, usually a tough nut to crack, nods along, his serious expression giving way to something that looks a lot like respect.
He’s impressing the hell out of my parents right now, but last night? Well, he had me pinned to the mattress, whispering absolute filth in that same accent while proving, in explicit detail, that his talents extend well beyond storytelling. He’s got that rare skill that turns even the most proper, put together woman—which I amnot, but still—into an absolute wreck, all because he knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly how to do it.
I clear my throat and force my attention back to my plate, trying not to squirm in my seat.Dinner with my parents is not the time for this, I scold myself.
But with the way Callan is handling this… I can’t help but imagine all the ways he could put that confidence to better use later. Preferably with fewer clothes and significantly less talking.
“So, Callan,” Dad says, pulling me out of my sex-hazed thought. He pauses to take a bite, his eyes shifting from his plate to my boyfriend. “What exactly do you do for work?”
Pride flickers across Callan’s face, his posture straightening. “My brother and I run the family distillery. Fourth generation to do so.”
Dad nods, his curiosity piqued. “That sounds impressive. What’s it like, running a family business?”
Callan’s smile is subtle but genuine. He’s comfortable here, talking about something that clearly means the world to him. “It’s a lot of hard work, but it’s rewarding. There’s history in every bottle we make, a piece of our family in every step of the process.”
I watch as Callan talks about the distillery, answering Dad’s questions with ease, his passion for the work shining through. I’m content to just sit back, to let him share as much as he wants. I want my parents to get to know him.
Throughout the entire meal, though, Callan has kept his hand firmly on mine. It’s a small gesture, but the way he holds it, the constant reassurance of his touch, makes me feel like I’m the center of his world while conversation swirls around us.
I can’t help but notice the way he’s eating with his left hand, his grip on the fork a little clumsier than usual, like using it feels unnatural, but letting go of my hand is simply not an option. It’s both ridiculously sweet and mildly amusing, watching this otherwise capable man fumble through dinner just to keep me close. The effort is unnecessary, but the sentiment? Absolutely heart melting.
I catch a glimpse of Mom from the corner of my eye, her gaze fixed on Callan as he laughs at something my dad says. She’s watching him closely, and I see any hesitation start to fade. I know she’s been worried about me opening up to someone again, especially someone so far away. She was cautious when I first told her about Callan, unsure of the distance and the time zones and the uncertainty of it all.
There’s a shift from guarded concern to something closer toadmiration. She knows how much he’s been there for me these past months, how every day he’s been a constant in my life, even from miles away. How he listens, how he makes the effort, and how he makes me laugh.
As Callan shares a story, her smile widens in a way that tells me she’s letting herself see him as someone worthy of her trust.
I can’t help but breathe a little easier.
twenty-seven
CALLAN
