Calamity had history and character. Once upon a time, maybe one of these buildings had been called the General Store. Jane’s might have been the saloon, complete with swinging doors and a hitching post. Instead of cars parked in diagonal spaces, horse-drawn buggies would have traversed this street.
Part of the reason I’d bought a home built in 1953 was because I wanted to soak in the old stories. I wanted to live in a place where memories had been made. My house reminded me of my childhood home in Denver. That two-bedroom house, albeit small, had been happy.
No more high-rise apartments where I had a better relationship with the doorman than my neighbors. No more lonely weekends working because I had nothing else to do but focus on my career. No more Friday nights alone with a sudoku puzzle and a pint of ice cream.
I wasn’t just in Calamity for a job and change of location. I was here to banish my solitary life. To create a home.
Why was Cal moving to Calamity? Why did he pop into my mind so often?
This sleepy town was not his scene. He was all about loud stadiums and ruckus fans. He craved the spotlight and attention, even if it was negative. He’d be miserable here.
And that misery would be contagious.
There wasn’t a person on earth who set me on edge like Cal Stark. A single glare from his hazel eyes and my blood pressure would spike. He always had a rude comment. His favorite pastime outside of football was making fun of my hair or clothes. Rarely an encounter passed when he didn’t deliver at least one insult.
Granted, he could say the same about me. Neither of us held back when it came to the censure.
The constant tension between us would ruin everything. Cal couldn’t move here. He had to leave.
My entire adult life—and most of my teenage years—I’d worked to prove myself to the world. And to Cal. I was honest enough with myself to admit that part of what drove me was a desire to show him I was good enough. To show him that I wasn’t . . . less.
The doubts and insecurities he’d helped create in my years at Benton still existed deep beneath the surface. Maybe they always would.
God bless high school.
If Cal lived here, I’d be tiptoeing around Calamity, constantly on guard. I didn’t want to go to the grocery store and fear my cart would bump into his in the frozen food aisle. I didn’t want to walk into Jane’s for a girls’ night and see him sitting at the bar.
I didn’t want to walk down First Street on Memorial Day weekend and spot him at the other end of the block.
Speak of the devil. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
There was a crowd surrounding him. It was mostly men and teenage boys but a few women were mixed in with the huddle. A brunette was in the process of hiking up the hem of her skirt. And in the center of the cluster, Cal stood head and shoulders above the rest.
His chocolate-brown hair had grown out this spring, the ends curling at the nape. His chiseled jaw was dusted with stubble. His biceps strained at the sleeves of his T-shirt.
The man hadn’t just been given exceptional athletic talent, he’d also been gifted with an extraordinarily handsome face. It was unfair. Utterly unfair.
Cal wore a tight, fake smile on his smooth lips as he scribbled his name on caps and napkins and whatever else the mob was thrusting his way. His knuckles were white as they gripped the marker. His shoulders were tense. His eyes narrowed. Even irritated, he was devastatingly good-looking.
For a split second, I felt bad for him. For just a moment, I wished those people would leave him be. Constantly being hounded for an autograph or a photo had to be exhausting.
My empathy was short-lived. Every time I felt compassion toward Cal, a memory from high school would pop into my head.
Like the time he’d accidentally thrown water on me my freshman year. I’d been wearing a white shirt and a thin bra. To this day I could hear the jeers from the football players who’d been in the hallway.
No, I refused to pity Cal.
“Not after he made me self-conscious about my nipples,” I mumbled.
An older woman gave me a sideways look as she passed by.
Whoops.
No, Cal could not live here too. He needed to be in Tennessee or Tallahassee or Timbuktu for all I cared. Somewhere far, far away from Montana.
But God, that man was stubborn. He’d stay here just because I wanted him to leave. Unless . . .
What if I made his life agony? Yes, he was pig headed, but if he was unhappy, maybe he’d reconsider. An evil grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. I doubted it would work, but it was worth a try.
Calamity was mine.
“I got here first.”
The ice in my coffee rattled as it melted. The sound sparked an idea. With a smirk on my lips, I marched toward the group. The woman with the skirt looked me up and down as I approached, probably thinking I’d be a threat to her chances at scoring a famous, wealthy man.
I didn’t spare her a glance. My eyes stayed locked on Cal.
He shifted, taking another paper to sign, when he spotted me. For the briefest moment, there was relief in his gaze. Did he think I was coming to his rescue? That was Pierce’s job, not mine.
But I used his assumption to my advantage, and when he started nudging through the crush, pushing my way, I let him use that strong, muscled body to clear a path.
“Excuse me,” he told one guy.
Cal usually started off polite. It was when people didn’t budge that he’d snap a get the fuck out of my way. And those moments were typically the ones caught on camera, then posted to YouTube and Twitter.
I steeled my spine as he pushed past the edge of the gathering. My hand threatened to tremble, but I kept my grip on my coffee cup tight. So tight the lid popped free.
Perfect.
“Hey.” Cal jerked up his chin. “Can we go some—”
His question was cut short when my hand shot out for the waistband of his jeans. I gripped it, tugged, and poured the remainder of my vanilla latte down his pants. He gasped, jumping back with a yelp. Ice cubes traveled down his legs, escaping the hem and clattering to the sidewalk, breaking beside his feet. The creamy liquid darkened the denim of his crotch as it spread.
God, that is satisfying.
“What the hell, Nellie?” Cal swept at his pants, his palm coming away wet. Droplets went flying as he shook it out.
He glared down the straight line of his nose. The sharp corners of his jaw flexed. His gray T-shirt molded to the broad planes of his chest and accentuated the hard lines of his pecs as he seethed.
“That’s for sending a dick pic to my mom!” I lied.
A chorus of gasps filled the air. Men inched away. The woman with the short skirt turned on a heel and vanished. One of the younger teens looked Cal up and down and muttered, “Dude. Gross.”
My pulse raced. My hands shook. But I stood still, fighting to keep a straight face as I faced the man who’d been my archnemesis for nearly twenty years.
Damn, that had been satisfying. Almost orgasmic.
“The. Fuck?” Cal’s nostrils flared as he planted his hands on his narrow hips.
I stood on my toes, leaning in closer. “You threw water on me once. Remember? Consider this leveling the score.”
His eyes widened, the sun catching the flecks of gold and caramel in his irises.
Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded him. Maybe I should have let him wonder why I’d doused him with espresso and milk.