Chapter 2

Callie

With the morning sunlight streaming through the blinds. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in slow, lazy circles, trying to convince myself I hadn't imagined the night before.

But I hadn't. He was real.

Grayson Carter was real.

The man in the kitchen, a man with rough stubble along a hardened jawline.

I sat up, clutching the sheets. My heart had been playing a ridiculous rhythm ever since I stepped into that kitchen. I shouldn't be this affected. It had been years. I was just a kid the last time he saw me. He was Mia's dad. Her off-limits, twice-my-age dad who had no business looking like he'd stepped out of a damn rugged calendar shoot.

I shoved the thoughts away and got up. My suitcase lay half-unpacked at the foot of the bed, clothes spilling out in messy chaos.

I tugged on a tank top and shorts, twisted my curls into a messy bun and headed downstairs, determined to act normal. Like my heart hadn't tried to beat its way out of my chest last night.

Mia was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into two mugs.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," she teased, pushing one toward me.

"Morning." I grabbed the cup, grateful for the distraction. "Where's your dad?"

"Garage, probably. He gets up insanely early to work on bikes. Says it's therapeutic."

Therapeutic. Right. My image of him, smudged with grease, silent and towering in the kitchen didn't exactly scream peaceful meditation. He'd barely looked at me. But when he had... something in his gaze shifted. Like he was trying to place me.

Like the memory of the girl I'd been, didn't match the woman standing in front of him.

"What are you doing today?" I asked, sipping the coffee. Strong and bitter

"Meeting Lexie for lunch. Want to come?"

I shook my head. "I think I'll hang around here today. Unpack and maybe explore."

Mia shrugged. "Suit yourself. Oh, and if you run into Dad... don't let him intimidate you. He acts gruff, but he's harmless."

I smiled weakly. Harmless? Not even close.

Once she left, I wandered to the back porch, coffee in hand, and leaned on the railing. The garage was visible from here, the door half open, music faintly leaking out. I could see the outline of his back, broad and hunched over the engine of a Harley.

I knew I shouldn't go near him.

I went anyway.

The gravel crunched under my bare feet as I crossed the driveway. The smell of oil and metal hit me like a wave. He didn't look up when I stopped in the open doorway.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual.

He paused, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned. His gaze settled on me, slowly, like he was taking inventory.

"Callie," he said. His voice was deep. "Didn't think you'd be up so early."

"Jet lag or maybe your coffee."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "Mia still makes it like tar, huh?"

"Some things never change."

But everything else had.

He looked different. His eyes, blue and too damn observant, lingered on me longer than they should have.

"You grew up," he said, almost to himself.

"So did everyone."

He let out a low chuckle. "Fair enough."

"Are you still riding?" I asked, nodding to the bike.

"Always. Builds character. Keeps my hands busy."

I leaned against the doorframe, ignoring the warning bells in my head. "I remember you teaching Mia how to ride. She almost crashed into the mailbox."

"She still has no coordination," he muttered, shaking his head. "Stubborn as hell, too."

I laughed softly. "Guess some things don't change."

His gaze dropped briefly to my legs, then back up, too fast. But not fast enough. My skin prickled.

"So what are your plans this summer?" he asked, voice rough.

"Mostly just... breathing. Getting away from the city. Trying not to burn out."

He nodded. "Smart. This place will slow you down. Whether you like it or not."

I swallowed.

"You don't look like her," he murmured.

I blinked. "Who?"

"The Callie I remember. You were always in pigtails, running barefoot, begging for popsicles."

I smiled.

I stepped back. "I should let you get back to it."

"Sure. Be careful around here. The garage gets slippery."

I turned and walked back to the house, my heart hammering. Not because of what he said.

But because of how he looked at me.

Later that afternoon, I sat on the back steps with my sketchpad. The sun was setting, casting gold across the sky. The door creaked open behind me.

Grayson stepped out, wiping his hands with a rag again. "You draw?"

"Sometimes. Help me think."

He sat beside me without asking. The heat of him was overwhelming.

"Are you always this quiet now?" he asked.

"Only when I'm thinking."

He glanced at the pad. "What are you thinking about?"

I met his eyes. "Whether I still belong here."

His brow furrowed. "This town? This house?"

"Both."

He looked away. "The town hasn't changed much. But you... you're not a kid anymore. Maybe that's what makes it feel different."

I turned the page and started sketching. Not because I had an idea, but because I needed to do something with my hands. His presence made me restless.

"You still fix everything yourself?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Old habits die hard."

I nodded. The silence stretched again.

"I should go inside," I said eventually.

"Yeah, you should."

But I didn't move. Neither did he.

We just sat there, side by side, on a porch that suddenly felt too small.