our area of expertise. I suggest—”
“But,” interrupted his superior, “as Muffin may have been stolen he is our responsibility. I assure you we will do our best to find him and return him to you and get to the bottom of all this.” He gestured around him at the mess.
“Thank you,” Chelsea said, standing. She saw the two men to the door and then grabbed a ball cap off a hook on the wall near the door. It appeared to be the only thing in the whole place left untouched. She tugged it down onto her head and was about to step through the front door when she turned back, as if suddenly remembering him.
“And thank you for everything too, Callum,” she said. “You’ve been beyond generous with your help and if there’s anything I can ever do to you to repay the favor...”
“Forget it.” He waved his hand. “You going out looking for Muffin again?” Stupid question.
“Yes. I want to have a thorough search of the neighborhood on foot before it gets dark.”
“I’d offer to help,” he said, “but someone should stay here and wait for the security guys instead.”
Her face fell and it was obvious she hadn’t given one thought to her unsecured house. “Oh. No, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly. “You’ve helped enough already.”
Damn straight he had and he couldn’t really explain why he’d offered, but neither could he just walk away. He liked animals as much as the next guy, but he’d never seen anyone quite so distraught over a dog as Chelsea appeared to be. She really shouldn’t leave her house unattended the way it was or someone might come in and loot the place. “My conscience says otherwise. Now go find Muffin. Unless you don’t trust me.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t trust anyone, but I also care little about the contents of this house.” And with that, she turned on her heels and hurried down the front steps, the sight of her cute ass in her tight business trousers making his gut clench.
Alone and cursing his red blood cells, Callum called his sister again and told her he’d be out longer than he’d first imagined. Although he heard the curiosity in her voice, she didn’t pry and for that he was thankful.
His life had suddenly become very complicated, and he wasn’t sure he could explain everything that had happened today even to himself.
Callum glanced at his watch, hoping the security company he’d called wouldn’t be too long, and then once again looked around the cottage-sized house surveying the mess. The cops had done their thing—although he didn’t think they were taking this burglary as seriously as they should be—so he could start the cleanup without fear of disturbing evidence. Although this wasn’t his house, he’d never been the type of guy to sit around and twiddle his thumbs. Putting his phone and keys down on the kitchen counter, Callum pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, wondering where to start. Not wanting to overstep the mark by rifling through Chelsea’s possessions, he chose to begin with gathering up the broken glass and other damaged goods.
He found plastic trash bags in a drawer in the kitchen and a vacuum in the cupboard in the hallway. Taking his time not to throw out anything that looked important or of sentimental value, he went through the house collecting the big bits of unsalvageable debris. On the kitchen table were a few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He glanced down and saw hundreds of other tiny pieces scattered on the floor. Collecting them back up into the box took a while and he hoped he’d found them all. Next he righted the furniture that had been upturned in the invasion and put the pieces of her computer back on her desk. As he did so, his gaze caught on a photo—miraculously it didn’t appear to be a victim of the carnage—and he realized something that had been bugging him about Chelsea’s home since he stepped inside. The one-and-only photo Chelsea had on display was of an old man sitting in a tattered armchair with a teenage girl standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his neck. To him, it seemed almost unfeminine not to surround yourself with photos of memories and loved ones; it was just something he’d taken for granted as part of the female way. Until now.
Without thinking, he picked up the frame and stared down at the photo. The young girl had to be Chelsea, all that unruly caramel-blond hair hanging over her shoulders. Yet, although her mouth was stretched into a massive grin, her eyes weren’t smiling—instead they harbored an anxious, unsettled look, exactly the same as the expression she’d been wearing today. He frowned in response and found himself wondering what her story was. Why didn’t she have other photos? Was this man her only family? There were all these prints of affirmative quotations on the walls—All That I Seek Is Already within Me, Allow Your Soul to Sparkle, You’re Never Too Old to Wish Upon a Star—as if she were trying to create a safe happy haven, but there was something missing here. Something warm, something real.
A knock on the open front door startled Callum from his reverie. “Hello! Anyone home?” called an overly chirpy male voice.
Callum rolled his eyes. Exactly how many people left the door open if they went out? And if they did, well, they probably deserved to be burglarized. “Yep. Come on in,” he called, putting the framed photo back down on the desk and turning toward the front door.
A short but very buff guy, dressed in a tight-fitting uniform stepped inside and raised his eyebrows as he looked around. “Someone sure went to town on your place.”
Callum didn’t correct him or comment that he’d already tided up a lot of the mess. He just wanted this man to leave again. Instead, he nodded. “I need you to replace the locks on all the doors, replace the glass that’s broken and,” he added almost as an afterthought, “can you also install proper locks on the windows?” Chelsea’s current locks wouldn’t even keep out a small child, and for some reason, knowing what she did for a job, he didn’t like the idea of her living in an insecure house. Even he, a relatively levelheaded man, had felt a surge of rage toward her when she’d first “dumped him,” so he could imagine there were men out there who might get a little heavy-handed after such mortifying rejection. He didn’t like the thought of that one bit.
“No problemo,” said the security man, dropping a toolbox to the floor and then stooping to open it. He started immediately, and although he whistled while he did so, he worked quickly and efficiently and of that Callum approved.
While the worker changed the old locks and installed new ones, Callum continued tidying up. The noise of the security man’s machine blocked out his whistling and Callum experienced a sense of achievement when he finally switched it off and examined his progress. Callum’s mom would be proud—she always harped on about raising new-aged heroes—and Bailey didn’t know what she’d lost.
Bailey. He was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t done him a favor. She was right—he didn’t have the time at the moment to give her what she wanted as all his energies needed to be piped into reviving the distillery.
He simply wished she’d had the guts to tell him to his face.
Callum sighed at that thought. His dad had done a stellar job of pretending everything was okay, but the truth had startled him when he’d finally gotten his hands on the business’s books. McKinnel’s Distillery wasn’t in dire straits but it was pretty damn close. He put this down to the fact his father refused to move with the times, despite the number of other boutique distilleries and breweries that were popping up all around them. Every time he’d raised this issue when his dad had been alive, every time he’d suggested a new idea that could raise revenue, Conall had pooh-poohed whatever the latest proposal was and reminded his son who was in charge.
Sometimes Callum couldn’t believe he hadn’t cut and run from the family business years ago, but the truth was, he loved the distillery almost as much as Conall had. You had to wonder though whether the stress of declining business had contributed to his father’s fatal heart attack.
If only you’d let me help, Dad. If only you’d given me the chance to prove myself.