Page 8 of Goode Tidings

I laugh, but only because if I don't, I'll scream. I've been driving for hours, I'm hungry, and I'm positive there is a strongly worded email from Chuck-wad waiting for me in my email inbox. Without thinking, I reach out like I'm going to pat Callum's chest. My touch would make landfall, but he shifts slightly, and I swipe the air.

Note to self: the guy doesn't like to be touched, even in playful jest.

Feigning cheerfulness, I say, "We're here for a year, Naked Guy." Yeah, I omitted the Hot part of his nickname. He owns a mirror. He must know he's a sight to behold.

Callum pales. "A year?"

"Uh, Mom?" Oliver breaks in. "Dad's been talking for a full minute and nobody's listening."

Oops. I guess I'd been pretty locked into delivering the shock of the year to Callum.

"...Eden, call the police. Callum, your ass is going to jail. I have to go. Now I'm the last person to board this flight, and there probably won't be any overhead space for my carry-on."

"Boo-fucking-hoo," Callum mutters.

"Language," I hiss, pointing a parental finger at him.

"Sorry," he murmurs, glancing at Oliver.

I've got to get off the phone with Justin and start dealing with all this. "We'll get everything figured out over here. Safe travels." The words trip from my mouth in my haste. "Good luck meeting your wife." I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket.

Callum looks like he'd like clarity on my good luck meeting your wife comment, but I can't get into Justin and his harebrained choices. We'll be here all night.

Crossing my arms, I face off with the man whose face is becoming more pleasing every time I look at it.

Ugh. Familiarity is most certainly not breeding contempt, and I wish it would. At this precise moment, I would like to be very, very angry that this man has hurled a giant conundrum into what was supposed to be a fun year for me and Oliver.

Straightening my shoulders, I pull from my never-ending well of big sister, eldest child, single mom handler-of-situations, and say with authority, "You need to find somewhere else to live."

Callum's having none of it. Dry humor in full effect, he asks, "Oh, really?" He turns toward the cabin. Climbs the stairs. Strides across the porch and sails through the front door.

"Stay here," I instruct Oliver. "I'm making sure he's leaving." I don't wait for Oliver's response. Clad in my mint green sweat outfit, this little Andes Mint follows Hot Naked Guy into the depths of the cabin in which he's squatting.

CHAPTER 4

Eden

The place smells incredible.

Pine, definitely, and something smoky. But also like meat and potatoes, as if someone warmed up a bowl of hearty stew. A man lives here, but not just any man. A capable man. The kind of guy who handles his own minor home repairs, then eats homemade stew beside a roaring fire burning firewood he chopped himself. He's tall, dark, and handsome, and he wears flannels and ribbed henleys, scuffed boots. He can shave his face after breakfast and be lightly dusted in scruff by dinnertime.

Yes, I'm romanticizing a stranger's life. I'm not proud. I should probably get out more.

Pausing in the foyer, I spend a moment taking in my surroundings. It's obvious I've walked into a home. Not a cabin. A home. A set of car keys lies on a long, narrow table next to the front door. In the living room, burned out logs sit in a real stone fireplace. Likely the source of that smoky scent. The couch is big and overstuffed, covered in a coppery colored velveteen. A single bookshelf stands across the space, crammed with books. The walls are bare, every surface undecorated, nothing to tell me about the personality of the man living here.

From somewhere off to my right comes the sound of cabinets closing, drawers slamming home. Callum appears, stalking toward me down a hallway, jaw set tight. His backward ball cap no longer sits on his head, his deep brown hair standing in wild tufts, as if his hands have recently dragged through it.

"Are you angry?" I ask when he stomps past, a careful distance between us. "Because you shouldn't be. The most you should be is chagrined."

Thank you to my wordy little brother for teaching me that word. I'll have to tell him I used it in a sentence, and it was a perfect fit.

I hustle after Callum and his long-legged stride, turning a corner in time to see him toss an overnight bag on a round wooden table off to the side of what is obviously the kitchen.

The kitchen is nice. Like, really nice. Stainless steel appliances. A fancy oven that looks complicated, with knobs I am equal parts intrigued and intimidated by. Beautiful oak cabinets. A wide window over the sink offers a view of the backyard sloping down to the lake. The very same lake I haven't had a moment to appreciate, because I'm too busy handling this curveball.

"Chagrined?" Callum makes a bit of an offended face at me before pulling open a cabinet and reaching in.

My hands find my hips. "It means⁠—"