Page 16 of Goode Tidings

Looks like I'll be intruding on him a second time today.

The wind whispers over the lake, pushing through the trees. Water laps at the rocky shore.

"Hey there," I say, but he doesn't turn. He must be lost in thought.

I step onto the opposite end of the dock, slowly making my way closer. More of Callum's shape comes into relief with every step I take. The breadth of his shoulders, his thick neck, the wild bend of his dark hair. There's definitely an opportunity to make a joke about it being a full moon night and him showing me his full moon earlier, but I let it pass. It doesn't feel like the right time.

I come to a stop halfway down the dock. In a louder voice, I call, "Legolas! What do your elf eyes see?"

Callum startles at the sound of my voice, but his shoulders quickly lower and he swivels gradually until his gaze meets mine. Backlit by the moon, his face is in shadow. I can't tell what he thinks of me quoting The Lord of the Rings.

I step closer until I can make out his expression. His eyes are wary. Cautious. He looks as if he'd like me to keep my distance.

Something in my chest pinches. Should I stop where I am and set the food down? No. Callum's not a skittish dog. He's guarded. Wounded? Wary in the way someone who's been hurt might be unsure how to respond to their present situation.

My grip tightens on the container. His home, his space, whatever it is he created for himself here. I'm part of the reason it's gone.

I can't do much to change that. But I can feed the man.

I stride forward, adopting a nonchalance I don't feel. "Here," I say, thrusting the container between us. "I'm not sure if you've already had dinner, so if you have, here's a midnight snack. I'm also not sure if you like baked ziti, so if you don't, toss it out and don't tell me."

Callum stares up like he's not sure what to make of me. His gaze drops to the offered food, but he doesn't take it.

"It's not poisoned," I add. Heaving an irritated sigh, I unlatch the lid from the container and grab a piece of pasta, popping it into my mouth. "See?"

He squints up at me. "I didn't think it was. But, for the record, it is far worse to stick your fingers in someone else's food than it is to sit in your own hot tub without clothing."

Wow. I really offended him with that hot tub comment earlier.

Nothing about his expression indicates whether that was a joke. I bite off the frown that pulls at my lips and set the food down on the dock. "Take it or leave it, Naked Guy. I don't care."

I shift, the jeans I changed into for our trip to the grocery store softly rubbing together. The sound joins all the soft sounds around us. The water. The wind.

But not the man in front of me. Nothing about him is soft. He is rugged and rough, hair overgrown on his head and his face. His expression is impenetrable, his body language stiff. His eyes stay soft though, not with kindness, but with something akin to reluctance. As if his soul doesn't want to be as hard as his heart.

Is his heart all that hard? He's down here on this dock, staying in a tiny space and sleeping on a chair, so that Oliver and I can have his cabin. Maybe the steeliness is an act? A defense?

Callum doesn't say another word, and the silence stretches until it's awkward. I pivot, taking a step away from the statue behind me, when he quietly says, "Is there an Andes Mint included with my pasta dish?"

I turn back around. He's not looking at me. His eyes are on the glass container at my feet.

"Uh, no. It's homemade," I explain.

He grimaces, palming the back of his neck. Finally, a break in his stoic demeanor. "I know. You mentioned Olive Garden earlier."

"Right. I did." The words trip from my lips in my haste. It doesn't seem like Callum makes small talk all that often, and I don't want to discourage him from it by not engaging when he tries. "I don't think the town of Snowflake has an Olive Garden, though⁠—"

"It was a joke," he cuts in, irritation tightening his tone.

The tip of my tongue presses at the center of my upper lip as I nod. "Oh. Ok. Yeah." My fingers, fully acting of their own accord, form finger guns. "Good one." Did I…Did I just…Oh my gosh. My internal cringe begins at the tips of my toes, zinging all the way to my eyebrows. Finger guns? Really? I need off this dock immediately. Maybe even the planet.

Callum looks up at me, stoicism firmly in place once again.

"Good night," I all but bark, rushing off the dock and back up to the house. I'm walking too fast to be afraid of the literal forest I'm hustling through, and besides, anything frightening probably saw my finger guns and thought never mind I'll eat someone who isn't so embarrassing.

"Are you ok?" Oliver asks when I throw myself into the cabin.

"Never better," I answer, swiftly locking the back door.