Cursed. They were all cursed. What makes you think anything will be different now?
Her breath came out in quick, foggy little puffs—less substantial than those inside the building—and she knew the tip of her nose had turned bright red from the nip in the air.
What if she was wrong? What if her idea backfired and ended up being a public relations nightmare instead of a brilliant marketing move?
She started a little when Ben came up from behind and moved to stand next to her at the railing, resting his elbows on top as he leaned forward. “Nice view,” he said.
“It’s like a miniature of the balcony at Buckingham Palace—you know, where all the royal couples stand after their weddings and kiss for the throngs of people below.” There she was, babbling again.
“And like the pope’s balcony at St. Peter’s Square. But, as you say, smaller.”
She smiled, and the shape of her breath-puff changed. “That’s right. You get it. It’s just a shame so many unfortunate things happened here.”
Ben made a noise like he was about to say something then changed his mind. “Well, have you seen enough?”
“I guess so,” she replied, wondering why he insisted on staying here with her. She was perfectly capable of checking out a wedding venue all by herself. After all, that was her job.
He stepped back from the rail but seemed to be waiting for her to precede him off the balcony and into the room. Callie decided to acquiesce. He was right—it was getting too dark for her to be bumbling around in an unfamiliar building. And she’d missed lunch because an appointment with a potential new client back in Grand Rapids had gone long, and then she drove down here to pick up the key for the building.
“I’m heading to Uncle Trib’s restaurant,” she heard herself say as Ben opened the door to the landing and gestured her through. “I’d love to buy you a drink and, you know, maybe catch up on things? I’d love to hear your thoughts on Tom Holland’s Spiderman.”
“Oh, thanks a lot, but I’d better not. Not tonight. I’ve got some stuff to do,” he said hurriedly. “End of year is coming sooner than you think. Thanks anyway, Callie.”
It was a good thing it was dark in the stairwell so Ben couldn’t see the high, hot flags of color she knew burned on her cheeks. Well, that was pretty blunt and final and she should have just kept her mouth shut.
At the bottom of the steps she sailed out of the building, then turned and waited for Ben to exit so she could lock up. She was glad to have something to focus on instead of having to look at him. “All right, thanks a lot for stopping by,” she said, taking her time with the lock.
“It was really nice to see you again, Callie,” he said as she finished turning the key. “I—uh—hope your wedding goes well. Merry Christmas.”
And then he walked off across the square, shoulders hunched against the sudden, stiff breeze.
Two
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Ben called himself that and worse as he stalked away from Callie, striding across the snow-covered green toward the downtown area.
He should have known she was taken, that some guy had snatched her up and was going to—as they say—put a ring on it.
But when he’d heard Callie Quigley wanted to look at the old Tremaine Tower building, that she was going to be back in town for a project there, he carefully manipulated things so he could be the one to be there when she did.
He hoped like hell that the fact he’d carried a torch for her for eighteen years—hell, more than eighteen years, because it had started when they were six when he first caught sight of her bright copper pigtails—hadn’t shone like a beacon from his face. Especially once he realized she was back in town not just to visit, but to get married.
On New Year’s Eve.
In the very same place they’d done what he’d wanted to do since he was old enough to realize girls weren’t gross. Especially Callie Quigley.
Ugh.
Ben scrubbed his face with a hand, feeling the rough bristles of the beard he’d recently decided to grow, even though CPAs didn’t wear beards. Probably made him look like a creeper.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And then she’d invited him for a drink, for Pete’s sake.
That would have just been torture, sitting across from her soon-to-be-married self—or, worse, next to her if they sat at the bar—and trying to keep from looking at her. To keep from looking at her or brushing against her, to keep his gaze from getting caught by those bright, enthusiastic eyes, or getting trapped in one of their friendly debates about superhero movies and watching her get all passionate and worked up.
At least she’d been wearing a big bulky coat that hid all those bodacious curves he assumed—hoped—she still had.
Not that it mattered if she still was as round and soft and luscious as he remembered.
Her eyes had been really blue tonight. Had they always been that blue? Had her mouth always looked so full and pink and luscious?
Yes. Oh, yes, it had, and he had the memory—the experience—to prove it, as the damned mistletoe that still hung there in the clock tower room had reminded him.
He’d seen the stupid plastic sphere of greenery with its formerly pearl-colored balls almost the moment he stepped into the room. He couldn’t believe it was still hanging there from sixteen years ago. Horrified, he’d yanked his attention away immediately and hoped Callie wouldn’t, one, notice it herself, and, two, notice him looking at it.
And then that weird thing happened with the painting falling down, and he’d practically thrown himself at her…for what reason? To protect her? From what?
Argh. Doofus.
And when they were crowding up next to each other to examine the wall, he’d been close enough to smell her hair or whatever perfume she’d been wearing. The deliciousness of the scent went straight to his hormones. And elsewhere.
Thank God he’d popped a couple mints before he walked over from the office.
He stomped along until he found himself back on Pamela Ave…and he walked right by Trib’s, which was already crowded even though it was just after five. He didn’t even glance inside to see whether he spotted Callie and her bright hair.
And there was no way he was going to go in there any time in the near future, even though he was Trib’s accountant and the guy always comped him a beer or two—and last April, a whole five-course meal with the best steak he’d ever had after Ben had finished the restaurant’s taxes and they weren’t nearly as painful as Trib had feared.
No, this was a night for The Roost, Ben decided on the spot—instead of going back to the office like he probably should. And it was Tuesday, so that meant Dec and Baxter—and maybe even Jake, if he wasn’t on call—would be there for Trivia Night.
The scrawny, dingy bar was the diviest dive in the county with the longest beer list (draft and bottle) and the best burgers and other bar food. They even made great omelettes. And because it was Trivia Night, Ben—the self-proclaimed Trivia King—would be distracted from thinking about Callie Quigley sitting her delicious self at Trib’s only a half a block away and around the corner.
It was early yet, though, so when he pushed open the door of The Roost and saw Baxter was already sitting at the bar, Ben smiled with relief. And the smile widened when he saw that his friend had a cardboard box filled with brown bottles on the counter in front of him.