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"Only in Center County," she said.
I looked down, realizing I was standing in St. Mary's. I met the bartender again a few feet down the bar. "I'd like two glasses of bourbon to go."
"Done," the bartender said, placing them on the bar in plastic cups with lids.
"And I'll buy a round for everyone at the bar," I added.
The bartender's eyebrows shot up, but she accepted the stack of bills I handed her without a word. I couldn't help but glow under April’s surprised gaze too. I didn’t want to throw my money around, but if I could impress her a bit, that wasn’t a bad thing. And there were like seven people in the bar.
April smiled and lifted the to-go cups off the bar.
"Ready?" I asked.
April nodded. "Yeah."
15
Taking the Cat on the Road
April
Maybe a more responsible person would have just gone back to her hotel room, I thought as I rode next to Callan in his truck, holding "to-go" cups filled with bourbon. He did ask if he should drop me off. But I’d looked over at him, caught that hopeful gleam in his mischievous eyes and seen the corner of his mouth twitch up. And I’d said no. "My place?" He'd asked then, and I had nodded, knowing I had already crossed some lines. Knowing that if something went wrong between us, I could end up adding this to the long list of jobs I’d lost.
But Callan had gotten under my skin. How could any sane woman see him—all that muscled perfection topped with dark hair and those eyes that drove me mad—and not make some bad decisions? He was the guy from the underwear billboard, for heaven's sake, right here smiling at me. And he had that wounded vulnerability, that little glimmer of the lost boy looking to be found. And I found myself wanting very much to find him. Even if I should be working on finding myself instead.
The town glowed around us as we navigated the narrow streets, heading back to Callan's house. Now that the tree was lit in the square, it cast a golden light for blocks, throwing light into the close damp winter air and making it impossible to forget that Christmas was near. I imagined that Singletree—er, um, Christmas Tree, that was—must be a great place to be a little kid. Every day felt a little bit like something special with all the decorations and twinkle lights and general excitement for the holiday in the air.
As we pulled down the lane to Callan's, his own house glowed almost as brightly as the town square. "Man, look at that," he said, his voice warm.
"It's beautiful," I said, and I found that I meant it. The old plantation house was lit within and without. The windows glowed in a welcoming tint and the pillars out front were wrapped in twinkling lights that looked like glitter. A family of snowmen had been added since yesterday, and there were stacks of decorative presents on the sprawling front porch.
"You're starting to be won over," Callan said, pulling through the gate after pressing the remote button he’d had installed and parking the car. "Admit it." He turned and looked at me, his mouth lifted in that half grin again. But it was his voice, velvety and low, that had me thinking I’d admit anything he wanted me to.
"I am," I said, my eyes never leaving his. I was being won over, and I wondered quietly how badly this would end.
"Come on," he said, and he slid out of the car and came around to open my door for me. His limp was more pronounced than it had been earlier.
"Are you okay?" I asked, handing him the drinks.
"It's just the cold. It's a little worse when I'm stiff." He looked away from me as he said this, and I realized he didn't want to talk about his injury, so I let it drop. But my heart twisted a bit as we climbed the stairs, wishing I could do something to help him.
Inside, Callan put on music—not carols, though, I drew an absolute line at voluntary Christmas carol listening—and we sat on the rug in front of the gas fire, bourbon in our hands.
"I had fun with you," Callan said, taking a sip.
I felt my cheeks flame, though I wasn't sure if it was the bourbon or Callan's words. "Me too," I said after a minute.
"And I was glad you weren't ready to go home yet."
Home, I thought. Callan meant the inn, but my mind was wandering back to my quiet dark apartment, cold and empty. Was it strange that I had recently started thinking I might get a tree when I got back? "Yeah," I said quietly. Then I raised my eyes to meet his. I would have to go home at some point, of course. And then this would end. This—whatever this was. I might as well enjoy it until then. I’d gotten in a little too deep to back out gracefully now, and there wasn't a cell in my body that actually wanted to anyway.
"So," Callan said, clearly trying to draw me out. I knew I had been quiet since leaving the distillery. "You're off now for a bit, right? You said the next week is when the LA office reviews the film you got this week? So where does that leave you?"
I smiled. I had wondered that myself. "Well, tomorrow I'll need to write up a few things to go with the package we're sending back for review. The camera crew actually goes back—or one of them does—with the files, and does a bit of editing. So they'll review what we've got next week, give me any new direction, and then we'll wrap the last two houses."
"So you have the next week off, basically?"
"Yeah, I guess so," I said. "Technically I'm on call, but yeah."
