thing where I can’t manage to hold down a relationship for long. Rosie believes I’m just dating the wrong guys, but whatever the reason, at about the three-month mark, I always lose interest and we break up. But we always manage to stay friends. So far this year, I’ve been to five weddings of ex-boyfriends. Anyway, Rosie once joked that I was the queen of breaking up and could do it for a living and then a friend of hers actually asked me to do so. I only did it as a favor, but it went so well someone else asked me to do it. And...”
“The rest as they say is history?”
She smiled as she nodded. “Yes. I’ll admit it’s not a very common profession but I honestly think I’m doing a necessary service. Do you know how many people stay in bad relationships because they’re too scared to get out?”
He shook his head and she guessed he came from one of those perfect families. She didn’t know much about the McKinnels, but his father’s obituary had definitely painted him as the ideal family man. And Callum had how many brothers and sisters? She racked her brain but couldn’t come up with the number. It was a lot, anyway, reminding her again what different worlds they came from.
“Well,” she said, “it’s a lot.” Then she said, “Thanks for the dinner. It was good.” Hopefully he’d take the hint that it was time for him to leave. That she no longer needed babysitting, even if a tiny part of her wanted it.
He nodded toward her sandwich still sitting on its grease-proof paper on the table. “You barely ate.”
“Sorry.” She bit her lip. “I’m too worried about Muffin.”
He nodded grimly. “Fair enough. I guess I’d better be going.” But he didn’t make a move to stand—for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t appear in a hurry to abscond.
“Thanks for everything,” she said, trying to encourage him. She just wanted him gone so she could ignore her hormones and get back to worrying about Muffin.
Callum reached out and wrapped his long fingers around hers, then gave a little squeeze. “I’m sure he’ll be okay. You’ll find him.”
“Thanks,” she said again, slipping her hand out of his for self-protection and then standing. If the guys she’d dated before had all been as lovely as him, maybe she wouldn’t have felt compelled to dump them.
He stood, as well, and awkwardness buzzed between them. What was the protocol here? This wasn’t a date. He wasn’t going to kiss her good-night and ask when they could see each other again. Likely they’d never see each other again and tonight would become some distant memory and she would one day wonder if it had ever actually happened.
“Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down at her—not many men looked down on her and she liked the thrill it gave her. “Maybe call me when you find Muffin. Just so I know.”
She rubbed her lips together, loving the confidence in his voice that she’d find her dog but also joyful at the prospect of an excuse to call him. Her tongue twisted at the thought, so she nodded.
“You’ll need my number,” he said.
“I think it’s on my front door.”
“Right...of course it is.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “In that case, good night.”
Chelsea followed him out, waved as he reversed out of the drive and then closed the door behind her, the thud echoing around the now empty house. Having Callum here had been so bizarre, it had given her a few minutes’ pardon from missing and worrying about Muffin, but now that he was gone, she had nothing left to do but worry. She retreated to the couch, collapsed into a heap and wished there was something more constructive she could do than cry.
It was late by the time Callum returned to the distillery and all but the security lights were switched off. He contemplated going home, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep without checking that everything had gone okay this afternoon. Although Sophie had a good head on her, his sister was only twenty-six and had rarely been left alone with the responsibility of the office and the tasting room. Sure, they had a couple of employees to help serve customers, but this had always been a family business and they were the ones with their hearts and souls invested in it.
He parked out the front, let himself into the building and then, happy everything looked as it should, he headed into his office where he poured himself a generous shot of bourbon and took a much-needed sip. This had been, without a doubt, the weirdest day of his life and he scratched his head as he leaned back in his chair and thought over it.
Leaving Chelsea shouldn’t have been as difficult as it had been. Sure she was hot and sexy as all that, but so were heaps of women. They’d never made him want to look after them the way she had. It felt more like a compulsion than a want.
The sound of the main distillery door opening broke into his thoughts and Callum sat forward, his muscles immediately on edge. Who the hell would be coming in at this time of night?
“Hey, baby boy, it’s just me,” called a voice he recognized better than his own. A voice that still insisted on calling him “baby” even though he was thirty-five years old and her eldest child. “Mom,” Nora McKinnel clarified a moment later, just in case he’d forgotten.
He rolled his eyes, chuckled and prepared himself for something halfway between a lecture and a sympathy speech. “In the office,” he called back, as he stood and retrieved another glass from the shelf behind the desk.
His mom appeared in the doorway as he was pouring her glass. She was wearing a pink fluffy dressing gown, a scarf, a beanie, Wellingtons and her cheeks were flushed from the cool outside air. She still lived in the main house, which was a hundred yards or so behind the distillery buildings, with his brother Lachlan, Lachlan’s son, Hamish (the second), and his other brother Blair, who’d moved home a couple of years ago after his divorce. Officially Callum lived in a cottage also on the property but he often stayed at Bailey’s apartment in town. He guessed that wouldn’t be happening anymore. And dammit, he’d have to go collect his stuff.
“Oh, thank God you’re okay.” His mom rushed at him, her boots thumping against the solid floor, and threw her arms around him. He just managed to put down the bottle in time.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, although he’d already guessed the answer.
She pulled back slightly and looked into his eyes. Hers were a little puffy as if she’d been crying. “I thought you might have...you know...driven off a bridge or drowned your sorrows in the merchandise.”
So she’d heard about him and Bailey. How good news traveled fast. “I’m fine, Mom,” he said, escaping her embrace and gesturing for her to take a seat and a drink. Perhaps he shouldn’t be okay, but he was. Not that she’d probably believe him anyway. Thanks to Bailey, he could guarantee Mom would be fussing over him for weeks.
“Are you sure?” She frowned as she lowered herself into Dad’s leather recliner; he’d called it his “thinking seat.”
Callum nodded, sat back in his own seat and lifted his glass again. “Damn, we make good bourbon,” he said, trying to distract her. Flavor wasn’t the distillery’s issue, it was the fact that the younger generation of drinkers were into boutique beers instead.
