Yes, please. The worst part about being single was constantly going places alone.
“I’d love to.” I picked up my purse and dug out my wallet while she did the same, each of us leaving cash on the table for Jane. “I’m going to use the restroom before I walk home.”
“Okay. Bye.”
I waited until Larke walked out the door before crossing the bar, not for the restroom, but Cal’s stool.
Peter was yammering on about cars and how he could give friends a great deal on the newest model Ford half-ton.
Cal’s hands were balled into fists. His jaw was clenched. To steal Larke’s phrase, he was insanely gorgeous, even when he was angry. Fury gave his features an edge. But Cal was never more attractive than when he smiled. And that side of Cal was as rare as his championship rings.
Frustration simmered beneath the bulging muscles of his shoulders. His traps were bunched and pulled close to his ears. Peter was about to get tossed off that damn stool if he didn’t shut up soon.
“Hi.” I slid onto the stool on Cal’s other side.
He glanced over, then slid his beer glass away. “You can throw another drink on me, but it won’t run me out of town.”
“But it would be fun.”
He frowned.
“Why are you here, Stark?”
“Because I was hungry. But if I’d known it was going to take a fucking year to get my food, I would have gone somewhere else.”
“Not the bar. Calamity. Why are you in Calamity?”
“I live here. Thought I’d better get to know my local bartender.”
On cue, Jane appeared with a cheeseburger, fries and a basket of onion rings. “Another beer?”
He shook his head. “Water.”
“Say please, Cal,” I ordered.
The corner of Jane’s lip turned up as she waited.
“Please,” he gritted out.
“Nellie, can I get you anything?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
Larke had introduced us earlier. When I’d asked Jane if she could make me a martini, she’d informed me that it would be with vodka and it would be dirty. I’d liked her immediately.
Jane filled a glass with ice water for Cal, then brought him a bottle of ketchup before helping a customer at the opposite end of the bar.
Cal tore into his burger, his eyes closing on the first bite. A deep, throaty moan came from his chest. The last time I’d heard that moan it had not been over food.
A pulse bloomed between my legs. I crossed them, shoving forbidden memories aside, and focused on my task at hand.
Cal had to leave. He couldn’t live here. My window of opportunity to convince him of such was short. As soon as he had a home, it would be much harder to run him out of town. So I had to push and push hard.
“Looks like you’ve made a new friend.” I leaned in closer, my shoulder brushing his. The heat from his skin seeped through his thin T-shirt.
He stopped chewing, his gaze dropping to where we touched.
The air around us crackled. The world blurred. The little voice in the back of my mind whispered. More.
I shied away and blinked reality back into focus.
That voice got me in trouble, especially where Cal was concerned.
“Is this really how you want to spend your evenings?” I glanced past him to Peter who was doing his best to eavesdrop. “Have your ear talked off? Have your neighbor tell you how you botched the AFC Championship when you threw that pick six in the third quarter?”
Cal’s nostrils flared as he growled a warning, “Nellie.”
Razzing him about football was always a guaranteed way to make his temper spike.
“You don’t fit in here,” I said.
“Who says?”
“Me.”
“And you’re the expert on Montana?”
I’d known him for nearly twenty years. No, I wasn’t an expert on Montana. But I had figured out Cal a long, long time ago. “There’s no place for you to hide here, Cal. Everyone in town will see your true colors.”
He tensed.
Bullseye.
We both knew I was right. There would be no blending into crowds, no matter how hard he tried. Cal would always stand apart. And though he loved being the center of attention on the football field, he was oddly private in his personal life.
Someone would eventually intrude and piss him off. Then he’d explode. A town this size, people would talk.
Maybe I didn’t have to run him out of town. Maybe he’d do that all on his own.
“You’d be happier in a bigger city. There, you’d fit.”
“Maybe I don’t fit anywhere,” he murmured, toying with a french fry. “You’re being particularly harsh today.”
Now it was my turn to tense.
Harsh had never been my style. That was Cal’s specialty.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but before I could speak, Cal glanced over with his signature smirk.
“Maybe the one who needs to leave town is you, Blondie? Maybe if I make your life miserable enough, you’ll head back to Denver. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do to me? Make me leave?”
My nostrils flared. “So what if I am?”
“Two can play that game. But don’t worry, I’m sure Pierce will still let you be his secretary, even if you lived in Colorado.”
Any guilt vanished. Now all I wanted was to sprinkle arsenic over his onion rings.
“First of all, I’m not a secretary.” I’d given up telling him to stop calling me Blondie ages ago, but the secretary comment always struck a nerve. “Second, you will never run me out of this town.”
It was ironic that we’d both jumped to that conclusion. That instead of trying to find an amicable peace, our instincts were to drive the other away.
But that was the world of Nellie Rivera and Cal Stark.
We drew battle lines.
We’d been drawing them since we were fourteen.
“I bet you could find an old house in Denver,” he said. “Something with a lawn that your dad could mow.”
This son of a bitch. There were a few buttons Cal knew were risky to press. The subject of my father was one of them.
“I hate you,” I seethed.
“Then go away.”
I slid off my stool.
Cal chomped another bite of his burger, grinning as he chewed.
If he thought I’d just walk away, if he thought he’d won this round, he was about to be disappointed.
Instead of leaving the stool, I climbed up again, this time on my knees. My fingers went to my lips and I let out an ear-splitting whistle.
Jane, bless her heart, killed the background music.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Cal Stark, the Cal Stark, former NFL quarterback”—I pointed down at him as he gaped up at me—“has been so overwhelmed with the welcome Calamity has given him that he’s covering everyone’s tab tonight. Food. Drinks. Everything.”
A round of cheers broke out. The crowd applauded.
And I clapped right along with them, a sugar-sweet smile on my face as I picked up his beer, draining the glass dry. “Bottoms up!”
The whoops and whistles were deafening as glasses were raised in the air.
This scheme could backfire and endear Cal to the community. But it could also set expectations that every time he came into the bar, he’d cover the bill. If I knew Cal, which I did, this would give him pause each time he stepped into a restaurant. Especially if I was in the room.