The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(9)

Larke and I shifted out of the way to make room for the next customer, sharing pictures of baby Constance as we waited. Then, with our drinks in hand, walked outside together.

“Good luck shopping. I’ll see you in a bit.” Larke took a step away, but I stopped her before she could leave.

“Hey, Larke? Thanks for inviting me. I don’t, um . . . I don’t have a lot of friends.”

Maybe admitting it was unnecessary. But Mom had always told me that part of friendship was letting your vulnerabilities show. Dropping my guard was never going to get easier if I didn’t get more practice.

“This is a small town.” Larke laughed. “You’re going to have more friends than you know how to deal with. That’s a blessing and a curse, by the way.”

I smiled. “Noted.”

“See ya soon.” She set off in one direction, while I turned in the opposite.

The sky was a cloudless blue, the morning air crisp. The sun shone brightly, warming my face as I set out on a leisurely stroll.

Calamity was tucked into a mountain valley in southwest Montana. Sweeping, green meadows sprawled toward the towering, indigo peaks in the distance. The new Grays Peak building was located in the outskirts of town, and from my corner office, I’d have an unobstructed view of the breathtaking landscape.

Cars and trucks rolled down the street, their pace not much faster than my own. The absence of noise was noticeable. No honking. No sirens. No beeping crosswalk alarms.

People meandered the sidewalks. No one was in a hurry to get from one end of town to the other. The tourists were here to explore and soak in every detail. So I joined them, window-shopping as I sipped my coffee.

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.