“Muffin’s gone,” she screamed, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“What?” he asked.

“My dog,” she sobbed, rushing past him to go back outside. “Muffin! Muffin!” She continued shouting that one word as she frantically searched her front yard.

He stepped onto the porch, wondering what kind of mess he’d gotten himself into. If he were sensible, he’d head back to the SUV, climb inside and maybe phone this into the police on his way back to the distillery But what kind of guy would leave a woman alone in a situation like this?

“Hey!” he called, still having no clue of her name. “What’s Muffin look like? I’ll help you look.”

She froze a moment, looking at him as if she couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, then, “He’s a golden cocker spaniel. About this high.” She gestured to just above her knee. “He’s wearing a red collar with a gold heart ID tag on it and he has a lot of fur.”

“Okay.” He nodded and shoved his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll have a quick drive around. Why don’t you go check if any of the neighbors have seen him?” She appeared more worried about the dog than the house and the culprit looked long gone, so he decided to focus on the mutt first, as well.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice choked as she rushed over to the house on her right.

Callum jogged back to his SUV, climbed in and, shaking his head, turned the key in the ignition. When he’d woken up that morning he’d been engaged and planning a wedding. Now it appeared he was single and looking for a stranger’s dog. What crazy thing could happen next?

* * *

The McKinnels of Jewell Rock

A Dog and a Diamond
Rachael Johns

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RACHAEL JOHNS is an English teacher by trade, a mum twenty-four-seven, a chronic arachnophobe and a writer the rest of the time. She rarely sleeps and never irons. A lover of romance and women’s fiction, Rachael loves nothing more than sitting in bed with her laptop and electric blanket and imagining her own stories. Rachael has finaled in a number of competitions, including the Australian Romance Readers Awards. Jilted, her first rural romance, won Favourite Australian Contemporary Romance in 2012, and she was voted in the top ten of Booktopia’s Australia’s Favourite Novelist poll in 2013. Rachael lives in the West Australian hills with her hyperactive husband, three mostly gorgeous heroes-in-training, two fat cats, a cantankerous bird and a very badly behaved dog. Rachael loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website—www.rachaeljohns.com. She is also on Facebook and Twitter.

For Beck Nicholas and Jackie Ashenden—two awesomely talented writers who have been with me almost from the beginning of this crazy journey and have become great friends in the process.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“You have arrived at your destination,” announced the deep, monotone voice of Chelsea Porter’s GPS.

She slowed her car, frowning as she looked up at the sign that loomed above the private bridge to her right: McKinnel’s Distillery—Oregon’s Best Whiskey since 1977.

Definitely not a place of residence. Perhaps she’d misread the name and address on the client form. Before continuing, she grabbed her cell out of her purse, pulled up her email and checked the details that one Miss Bailey Sawyer had supplied.

Mr. Callum McKinnel, and then what she’d assumed was a residential address in well-to-do Jewell Rock but appeared to be the home of the renowned McKinnel’s Whiskey. She didn’t drink herself but her grandfather had sworn McKinnel’s was the best whiskey in the world. And, like most other members of her family, he’d drunk enough of the stuff to know.

You couldn’t live in these parts without having heard of the McKinnel family. Rumor had it the great-great-grandfather of the current McKinnels—and there were a lot of them—had once been a bootlegger. It was his face on the bottle’s famous label. Criminal or not, he’d been a handsome devil and, from what she’d heard, his descendants had inherited his good looks.

Now that she was here, staring across the bridge, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognized the name. There’d been an obituary in the newspaper a month or so ago for Conall McKinnel—he’d been the big boss at the distillery for almost forty years until his recent death thanks to a sudden heart attack. Then there was Lachlan McKinnel—a chef who had won numerous awards, he occasionally appeared on local television and blogged his unique recipes online, all while single-handedly raising his disabled son. Callum—whom she guessed to be one of Lachlan’s brothers—was probably as close to a celebrity as she’d ever get and her stomach clenched with uncharacteristic and ridiculous nerves.

A horn sounded and she realized she’d stalled in the middle of the road. She waved a hand in apology at the car behind her, turned right and then started over the bridge toward the cluster of rustic-looking buildings in the distance. The lake on either side of her sparkled and she shivered, imagining that at this time of the year it would be icy cold. As she emerged on the other side, the sight before her took her breath away. The building sprawled almost the length of the lake and the word quaint came to mind when she looked at it. Although the exterior was brown, there were so many windows that it didn’t look dark. The pine trees in the back and the immaculate, stone-bordered garden beds at the front reminded her of a postcard of a holiday resort. When the snow came in a month or so, this place would be magic.

Such a pity she wouldn’t have reason to return.

She’d never imagined a place that produced whiskey to be as beautiful and classy as the grounds and buildings that she admired now as she followed the signs to the parking lot around the side. Nope, she associated alcohol with shouting matches, slurred words, bad breath and prayers her parents wouldn’t kill each other.

Instead of white lines, the parking lot was marked out with old barrels, which made her smile as she turned off her ignition. Someone, or more likely a whole family of someones, had put in a lot of TLC to ensure this old building continued to sparkle.

Breathing in the crisp cool air that carried a hint of liquor as she climbed out of her car, Chelsea almost forgot to grab the chocolate bouquet off her backseat. Determined not to be distracted by her surroundings, she held her head high as she strode toward the main building, which obviously housed a café if the folks sitting at tables out the front were anything to go by. It wouldn’t be long before it would too cold for outdoor dining. She had to sidestep a couple of obvious tourists taking selfies to get inside and contemplated asking if they’d like her to take a photo for them, but reconsidered when she remembered why she was here.

Not to tour or dine or admire the scenery but to be the bearer of bad news to one of the illustrious McKinnels.

That thought made her feel as if she’d swallowed a brick. Why? This wasn’t the first time she’d done this. Even before she’d started her business, doing what she was about to do had been a gift. She was determined to get in and get out, because no matter how lovely this place was, it also made her uncomfortable. Chelsea strode the few more steps to the massive, glass-front doors and pushed one open.

If the outside of McKinnel’s took her breath away, the inside filled her with warmth as if someone had just wrapped her in a heated blanket. In addition to a number of fall decorations—gourds and pumpkins and whatnot—the walls hung with hundreds of whiskey bottles, black-and-white family photos and old prints related to whiskey drinking. And as she’d predicted, a massive fireplace roared away on one wall. It felt more like she’d stepped inside a cheerful family home than a business. She loosened her scarf and undid the buttons on her coat as she started toward the counter.

As she queued alongside the people waiting to buy or taste whiskey, she looked at the wall behind the counter and smiled as she read some of the many quotes scrawled on a massive chalkboard.

What whiskey will not cure, there is no cure for.

I’d rather be someone’s shot of whiskey than everyone’s cup of tea.

Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough. —Mark Twain

She might not agree with any of the sentiments but she liked the way all the quotes were in different handwriting as if lots of different people had scribbled their thoughts.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

At the deep voice, Chelsea spun round, tightening her grip on the bouquet as she came face-to-chest with someone. Then she looked up into the face of possibly the best-looking human she’d ever laid eyes on. And not in a clichéd way. Tall, dark and handsome didn’t begin to describe him. He was all those things and then some, with an element of something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And his sea-green eyes just happened to be her favorite color. Although he wore charcoal business pants and a lighter gray shirt with the distillery logo on the breast, his strong, muscular physique and the scar just above his right eyebrow told her he didn’t spend all his time behind a desk.

“Are you after a gift or...” His voice trailed off and she realized she’d been openly gaping at him.

Ignoring the strange dizziness that came over her—maybe she’d spun around too fast—she straightened, held her head high and addressed him in her most professional voice. “Hi. I’m looking for Callum McKinnel.”

He couldn’t be the man standing in front of her because no woman in her right mind would dump someone who looked like that. Not even her.

“Then look no more. You’ve found me.” The man’s illegally sexy smile didn’t falter as he offered her his hand. “And how may I help you?”

He was Callum? Oh, shoot. Heat rushed to Chelsea’s cheeks and she shuffled the chocolate bouquet she held in her right hand into her left, then slipped her hand into his, reminding herself she was here as a professional, not to ogle the produce.

“Can we go somewhere a little more private?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt.

Callum raised a deliciously dark eyebrow and a hint of amusement crossed his lips. “Do we have an appointment?”

She shook her head, trying not to stare at his lips, which were perhaps even more delicious than his eyebrows. Very kissable indeed. “No appointment, but I need to talk to you. I have a message from Bailey, and you might prefer to be alone when you hear it.”

At the mention of the other woman, recognition flashed across Callum’s face, his smile faded and his eyebrows knitted together. “You’d better come this way.”

Before she could ask which way he meant, she felt his large hand across her back and she bit down on her lip to stop from whimpering. What the heck was wrong with her? There were a number of layers between her skin and his; she could only imagine how her body might react if there were not. As Callum led her across the slate-tiled floor, she took a few deep breaths in and out, trying to regain her equilibrium. She told herself this weirdness must be due to where they were, but feared this wasn’t actually the case.

“We can talk alone in here,” he said as he pushed open a door with a gold sign on it that read Director—Callum McKinnel. The sign looked shiny and new as if it hadn’t been in place very long and, when she stepped inside, the office didn’t seem at all to Callum’s taste.

And how would you know that?

“Take a seat,” Callum said, gesturing to a shiny, dark leather armchair as he shut the door behind them.

“It’s fine, I’ll stand.” She rushed her words. “But you might want to sit down.”

“That bad, hey?” She couldn’t quite interpret Callum’s tone, but was glad when he walked around the massive desk and sat in a luxurious leather office chair on the other side. His elbows perched on the desk, he folded his hands and he looked up to her expectantly.

She took a quick breath before launching into her speech. “I come on behalf of Bailey Sawyer.” She cleared her throat and continued, forcing herself to look at Callum, despite the fact that looking at him put her all off-kilter. “Bailey acknowledges that you have been in a relationship for five years and that you have both invested a lot of time and energy into each other. She’s had a fabulous time with you, but I regret to inform you that she would no longer like the honor of being your fiancée. You’re more like a brother or a best friend, and although you had a lot of fun together in other aspects of life, when it comes to sex, the attraction has faded for her.”

His eyes widened and Chelsea couldn’t meet his gaze, heat flaring in her cheeks. The whole sex thing came up frequently in her line of work—not being physically compatible was one of the top reasons for dumping someone and she prided herself on delivering this news with the utmost tact. She wasn’t a prude by any means, but just saying the S word in front of Callum McKinnel made her feel like a teenage girl who’d just discovered The Joy of Sex in her parents’ bedroom.

Jeez, it was hot in here. She mentally gave herself a cold shower as she tried to remember the next part of her spiel. Bailey Sawyer hadn’t paid good money for Chelsea to make a mess of breaking up with her longtime boyfriend.

Oh, that’s right. She focused. “You are a great guy but Bailey has realized you’re just not her type. She doesn’t think you want the same things she does and wishes you the best in the future. She thinks one day you could make some woman a very wonderful husband, but she is no longer prepared to come second to your work.”

Her heart racing now, Chelsea stepped forward and thrust a bouquet made only of the finest Belgian chocolates across the desk. “These are from Bailey. Your favorite, apparently.”

He glared at the chocolates like they were soggy roadkill. “Not anymore, I don’t think.” He blinked and then ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I’m sorry...is this some kind of joke?”

* * *

Callum stared at the woman across his desk, waiting for her to say “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera” or whatever the hell the latest incarnation of that ridiculous show was. She was almost as tall as he was, which was rare in a woman, but she was definitely all woman. Despite the fact she’d just delivered him the news his engagement was over and she was wearing a heavy winter coat, he couldn’t help but notice the way her body curved in all the right places. She’d tied her caramel-blond hair back in a high, professional-looking knot, but he could easily imagine what it would look like if she let it all hang loose. Had she even told him her name?

It felt like hours but was probably less than a minute before she replied, “No, I’m sorry, but it’s not.”

He raised his eyebrows, kinda stunned by this whole bizarre situation and, if he were honest, more than a little annoyed. “What exactly does my relationship with Miss Sawyer have to do with you?”

She cleared her throat again and then glanced back at the door as if contemplating her escape, but he didn’t plan on letting her leave until she’d given him a reasonable explanation. “I am a breakup expert,” she announced as if this wasn’t an alien profession to him.

“A what?” He couldn’t help his scoffing tone. Maybe this really was a joke. Bailey liked to think herself a bit of a comedian; then again, he doubted she’d interrupt his work for a laugh. She knew how important the distillery was to him, even more so now that his father had died and he was running the show.

“I’m a breakup expert,” she said again. “I handle the difficult task of ending relationships for people who don’t feel up to the job themselves.”

“You mean gutless people who like an easy cop-out?” He shook his head before she could reply. “I can’t believe what the world is coming to. What kind of person does that?”

“Someone who cares deeply about their partner and feels they may end up staying in an unsatisfactory relationship because they don’t want to hurt the other person. Bailey had your best interests at heart when she hired my services.”

“I meant, what kind of person does this for a job?”

“Oh.” Color bloomed in her cheeks and she dropped her chin to her chest, staring at the floor a few seconds before looking up again and crossing her arms. “My reasons for my career choice are no concern of yours, Mr. McKinnel. And now I’m afraid I have another appointment. Good day.”

She’d turned and fled the room before he could call her bluff on another appointment. Did she actually get enough of these gigs to earn a living? He stood and hurried after her, weaving through the customers milling in the shop area—the time leading up to midday was a busy one, loads of tourists looking for a place to lunch—but she was fast and he saw no sign of her. Cursing under his breath, he emerged outside just in time to see a little red car reversing out of the lot.

“Dammit.” He patted his trouser pocket to check for his keys, then without another thought jogged around the back to his own parked car. Wondering what had come over him but unable to stop himself, Callum started his SUV and screeched after her, narrowly missing a whiskey barrel in his haste. He caught up just as she was turning onto the road in the direction of Bend, the nearest city to Jewell Rock.

As he drove focused on the car in front, he called his sister on speaker phone.

“Good afternoon, McKinnel’s Distillery, Sophie speaking. How may I help you?”

“It’s me,” he barked. “Look, I’ve had to go out. Can you handle my calls for the next hour or so?”

“Out?” Sophie’s disbelief came across loud and clear. “Out where?”

“Never mind. Something’s come up. Call me if there’s an emergency.”

“I may be young and I may be a woman, but I’m more than capable of holding the fort for a couple of hours. Enjoy your mystery rendezvous.”

He snorted. Hah! If only she knew what he was really up to. “Thanks, Soph. I owe you one,” he said as the traffic lights in front turned amber. Breakup girl zoomed through and, determined not to lose her, Callum pushed down on the accelerator and just scraped through the intersection before the light went red. He checked the rearview mirror in case there were cops, then let out a puff of breath. He could just imagine the look on a police officer’s face while they asked him why he’d gone through a red light. Admitting to stalking the car in front could get him into all kinds of trouble and his father would turn in his grave if he garnered any bad publicity that could sully the McKinnel name.

As they drove past the boundaries of town and headed onto the highway toward Bend, Callum glanced at his fuel gauge, hoping he had enough gas to get to wherever she was going. Thankfully it was near full. He supposed he should call Bailey, if only to clarify that the woman he was currently trailing wasn’t some kind of lunatic. She’d seemed legitimate but one couldn’t be too careful these days.

Bailey always answered her phone but today the number went straight to voice mail. “Hi there, you’ve reached Bailey Sawyer, event planner extraordinaire—leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon. Bye.”

“Bailey, what the hell is going on? Call me.”

He’d been acting on some sort of adrenaline until now, but as he followed the little red car, navigating the country roads between Jewell Rock and Bend, realization dawned on him. What would he tell his mother if his relationship with Bailey had actually ended? She’d been so pleased when he and her best friend’s daughter had announced their engagement...and annoyed that they’d taken years to get to the stage of almost tying the knot. This, so soon after the loss of her husband, would devastate her. Anger surged inside him at Bailey and he almost missed the moment when breakup girl turned down a street on the outskirts of Bend.

He slammed on the brakes and swerved to follow. He’d been a teenager with a brand-new license the last time he’d driven this recklessly and he was out of practice. About three minutes later, she swung into the driveway of a little house that looked in dire need of renovation.

Callum parked on the street out the front. Should he confront her now or wait until she was done with the next lucky recipient of her “work”? He waited and watched a moment, but when he saw her unlock the front door and go straight inside instead, he realized she must live here.

In that case... He climbed out of his SUV and beeped it locked, all psyched up to confront her, to demand more of an explanation. And, if he were honest, to tell her what he really thought of her career choice. But his bluster cooled the moment he stepped into her doorway. Either her housekeeping skills were dismal, or while she’d been delivering him the breakup speech, some scumbag had broken into her house. The smashed glass panes on her door indicated the latter.

Standing in the middle of the disarray, she bent down, grabbed some kind of vase off the floor and then spun around and held it as if she were about to hurl it at him. “Stay right there!”

He froze and held his hands up in surrender.

Recognition dawned in her eyes. “You! What are you doing here?”

“I...um...” For once in his life he was lost for words. Now didn’t seem the time to pay out on her.

“Never mind.” She shook her head, threw the vase onto the couch and headed down a hallway, wailing “Muffin, Muffin!” as she went.

Frowning, Callum stepped inside and surveyed the mess. Whoever had done this had left no stone unturned. What a violation. He dug his cell out of his pocket, about to call the police when she returned.

“Muffin’s gone.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“What?”

“My dog,” she sobbed, rushing past him back outside. “Muffin! Muffin!” She continued shouting that one word as she frantically searched her front yard.

He stepped onto the porch. What kind of mess had he gotten himself into? If he were sensible, he’d head back to the SUV, climb inside and phone this in to the police on his way back to the distillery. But what kind of guy would leave a woman alone in a situation like this?

“Hey!” he called, still having no clue of her name. “What’s Muffin look like? I’ll help you look.”

She froze a moment, looking at him as if she couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, then said, “He’s a golden cocker spaniel. About this high—” she gestured to just above her knee “—he’s wearing a red collar with a gold heart ID tag on it and he has a lot of fur.”

“Okay. Got it.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll have a quick drive around, why don’t you go check if any of the neighbors have seen him?” She appeared more worried about the dog than the house and the culprit was probably long gone, so he decided to focus on the mutt first, as well.

“Thank you.” Her voice was choked as she rushed over to the house on her right.

Callum jogged back to his SUV, climbed in and, shaking his head, turned the key in the ignition. When he’d woken up that morning he’d been engaged and planning a wedding, now it appeared he was single and looking for a stranger’s dog. What crazy thing could happen next?

Chapter Two

“Did you find him?” Chelsea asked as half an hour later Callum climbed out of the SUV he’d just parked behind her car.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely so and a prick of guilt jabbed her heart that she’d dumped him without hanging around to offer support. The services of The Breakup Girl included counseling of the dumpee and it wasn’t unusual for her to spend up to an hour with the brokenhearted after she’d done the main part of her job. She let her clients’ exes pour out their hearts to her, and by the time she’d finished, most of them had decided getting shafted was the best thing that had ever happened to them. As her old friend Rosie often said, some people could cook soufflés that didn’t flop in the middle, some people could play a musical instrument and Chelsea’s talents lay in the art of dumping people. But she’d failed dismally in being a professional where Callum was concerned; being in the confined space of his office had flummoxed her.

And instead, here he was helping her.

“I guess you didn’t either,” he said as he walked toward her.

She shook her head, sniffing as the tears threatened to fall again. She hated crying and rarely did so—especially in front of other people—it made her feel weak. But there was only one thing in the world that truly mattered to her and that was Muffin, so these were exceptional circumstances. How would she survive if he didn’t come back?

“Let’s get you inside,” Callum said. And before she realized what was happening, she felt his arm close around her shoulders as he ushered her toward her front door. He was so warm, so solid, and she had a crazy urge to lean into him but instead she pulled away and headed inside, conscious of him following behind her. Chelsea was unsure why he was hanging around, but not in the head space to question. She’d barely noticed the mess the first time—so focused on Muffin—but now she hardly recognized her home. Living alone it was easy to keep things tidy as she liked them, but her little house looked as if she’d moved in a year ago, emptied everything she’d owned onto the floor and left it there.

“I don’t understand what they were looking for,” she said, surveying the mess. It would take her days to clean this up, but her first priority was finding Muffin.

Callum came up behind her. “Probably just kids, but either way, we should call the police before you move anything.”

“I need to do up some notices about Muffin and hang them around the neighborhood.” She glanced over at her little desk—or rather where her little desk was usually set up in the corner—and promptly burst into tears. They hadn’t taken her laptop or her printer but the desk had been upturned, her laptop looked to be broken in two and her printer lay in a number of smashed up pieces.

Callum cursed as he followed her gaze. Two seconds later he was right beside her. “Here.” He offered her a crisp white handkerchief. She took it, surprised—she didn’t know men still carried such things.

“Thank you,” she whispered and then used it to wipe her eyes.

As if a mind reader, he said, “My mom makes me carry it. She says you never know when you’ll need one and I’d never admit it to her, but it does come in handy every now and then.”

She almost smiled. “I’m Chelsea Porter, by the way. And tell your mom thanks.”

“I will. I’d tell you my name but I think you already know it. Can I fix you a drink? A coffee or maybe something stronger? I’d offer you a whiskey but I left in a bit of a hurry and didn’t bring any.”

Wasn’t she supposed to be the one offering him a drink? She shook her head. “Thanks, but all I care about right now is finding Muffin.”

And she didn’t drink—not that he needed to know that.

“I know you’re concerned about your dog,” he said, his tone soft and understanding, “so let me call this in to the cops and then I’ll help you work out what to do about Muffin.”

She sniffed and looked up at him properly. Lord, he was delicious, but she didn’t even know him. “You’re being very kind to me, considering...considering what I did to you.”

He shrugged. “I have two little sisters. I’m used to female hysterics.”

She noticed he made no comment on his now ex-fiancée. “I can guarantee I’m not usually like this.”

His lips curled up at the edges and she couldn’t help but smile a little too. “Besides, my mom would have my guts for garters if I left you alone to deal with this.”

“I like the sound of your mom.”

“She’s not bad. But if you’d prefer, I could call a friend to come and be with you.”

She should tell him that he could go and she would call a friend herself, but the truth was she hadn’t made any real friends in her time in Bend. Acquaintances yes, but no one she’d call on in an emergency, and however pathetic it made her, she didn’t want to be left alone right now. This burglary had shaken her up, reminded her that no matter how hard she worked to achieve the things she wanted, she still didn’t have complete control over her life. “I haven’t been in town long enough to make many friends.” Then she added, “But you don’t have to babysit me. I’m a big girl.”

“You are tall,” he said. “I haven’t met many women who are up to my chin without wearing heels, but I wouldn’t call you big.”

He’d noticed she was wearing flats? She couldn’t help being impressed—in her experience most men noticed nothing unless it was naked—and also a little flattered. Which was ridiculous. He’d just been dumped by his fiancée and Chelsea’s priority right now was finding Muffin. Her heart rate quickened again and she swallowed, trying to halt another wave of tears.

“But,” he continued, hopefully oblivious to her thoughts, “you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. Let me call the police and then we’ll work out what to do next.” Without another word, he stepped back outside onto her porch and a few moments later she heard his illegally sexy voice on the phone.

She sighed and flopped down onto the sofa, unable to believe this had happened. It felt surreal—Callum whom she’d only just met here helping her, yet Muffin achingly absent. Since she rescued Muffin from a shelter almost three years ago, he’d always, without fail, met her at the door with his tail wagging and his tongue hanging out when she’d returned home. It was true what they said about no one loving you quite as much as a dog did; she’d never had anyone who even came close.

She’d tried to make this house a home by filling it with bright cushions, bookshelves, funky ornaments and life-affirming, happy quotes, but without Muffin, it felt empty.

“A patrol unit will be here as soon as they can,” Callum said, coming back into the room.

“Oh, thank you.”

He sat down on the other end of the sofa and her belly did a little flip at his proximity. She hadn’t had a man in her house for... Well, not since she’d moved to Bend actually.

“Now,” he continued, not at all affected by her proximity to him, “the police suggested you make a list of what’s been taken for when they arrive. They don’t want you to move or touch anything, if possible. While you do that, I’m going to call the local vets and animal shelters and give them Muffin’s description. Have you got a photo?”

“Um...” She nodded and gazed around the mess, looking for her framed photos, but in the end, gave up and dragged out her cell. “Here,” she said after a few seconds of scrolling through photos. The majority of her photos were selfies of herself and Muffin—walking in the park, chilling on the couch—but she didn’t want to show Callum those photos. Eventually she found one of Muffin standing on the front porch looking out onto the street at something. It was one of the rare moments that her hyperactive dog had stood still.

“He’s a cutie.” Callum took her phone to look at the photo and his fingers brushed against hers in the exchange. Something warm and tingly curled low in her belly but she tried not to show it on her face.

“He is.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll go make that list.”

* * *

The first call Callum made was to a local security firm, asking them to stop by Chelsea’s house ASAP to fix her windows and change her locks. He hoped she had insurance to cover this disaster, but if not, he’d foot the bill—call it his good deed for the day. Then, he called every refuge and vet clinic he could find on the internet in the vicinity of Bend, leaving his cell number as a contact because, as he realized when speaking to the first place, he had no idea what Chelsea’s was. Besides, he guessed her contact details were on Muffin’s collar, so if anyone found him, they’d likely call her first anyway.

As he was disconnecting the final call, a police patrol car rolled to a stop on the curb. He shoved his cell in his pocket and went over to meet the cops.

“You call in a burglary?” asked cop numero uno as the two officers climbed out of the car.

“Yes, I did,” he said, trying not to smirk as he eyed the pair who were each other’s opposites in almost every possible way. One was short and fat with gray hair and smile lines around his eyes. The other was tall and thin, looked like he’d gotten his police badge from the toy section in Kmart and wore a scowl on his face as if a mere neighborhood burglary wasn’t at all the excitement he’d hoped for when he’d signed up.

“Your place?” asked the young guy.

“No,” Callum explained as he led them through the sparse front yard to the house. “It’s owned by Chelsea Porter. She’s a...” What the heck was she besides a woman who’d walked into his workplace and dropped a bombshell on his world? Or what should feel like a bombshell but after the initial shock didn’t make him feel anything much more than annoyed. At Bailey, not Chelsea. “She’s a friend,” he concluded, deciding the officer didn’t need to know their exact relationship as it had no bearing on the case.

They stepped in through the front door to find Chelsea staring at the mess in the living room, a notebook in her hand, a pen caught between her lips and a frown on her face. Even with this expression, she was gorgeous, and the fact he could think such thoughts made him wonder if perhaps he owed Bailey a favor. While he loved her—they’d known each other since they were in diapers and had a lot of fun together—he couldn’t deny he’d gotten engaged to show his dad he could settle down. Also because he wanted a family and was traditional in the sense that he believed children should be raised within a marriage. He didn’t believe in the type of love his mom and sisters gushed about while watching sappy made-for-television movies, but he did believe any relationship could work if you put in the hard yards.

“Jeez, what a freaking mess,” commented the younger man, echoing Callum’s thoughts as the two officers surveyed the crime scene.

Chelsea looked up and took the pen out of her mouth.

“Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Moore and this is Officer Fernandez. You must be Chelsea,” said the older officer. “I’m sorry this has happened and I know you probably want to get things cleaned up as soon as possible, so—”

“Frankly, I don’t give two hoots about the mess right now,” Chelsea interrupted. “Ask me what you need to and then tell me you can help me find my dog,”

“Your dog’s missing?” questioned Sergeant Moore.

She nodded.

“And—” Officer Fernandez gestured toward the notebook in her hand “—is that a list of the things that were taken?”

“That’s just it.” Chelsea glanced down at the notebook as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “I don’t think anything was.”

Officer Fernandez frowned. “Except the dog?”

Shock flashed in Chelsea’s eyes. “You think they stole Muffin? I just imagined he got scared and ran away.”

She sank down onto the sofa and Callum found himself crossing the room to sit beside her. He glared at the young cop.

The older one offered Chelsea a sympathetic smile. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll ask you a few questions and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay,” Chelsea whispered, her voice shaky.

The sergeant ran through the usual questions—how long Chelsea had been out of the house, what time she came home, had she touched anything, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Callum could see her getting more and more agitated as the questions became more and more repetitive.

“Do you think they could have been looking for something?”

She quirked an eyebrow at the cops. “I earn an honest living, but I haven’t got any family jewels lying around if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Callum couldn’t help but smile at her sass.

“Okay. And what do you do for a living?” asked the tall, young cop. The way he spoke made it sound as if Chelsea was the one who’d committed a crime and Callum fought the urge to say so.

“I’m a breakup expert,” she said, in much the same manner she might say she were a hairdresser or a nurse.

Like Callum had done earlier that day, the officers raised their eyebrows and adopted mutual expressions of confusion at this reply.

Chelsea offered a short explanation. “I break up with other people’s partners, via phone, email or in person, so they don’t have to do it themselves. But I really don’t see what my career has to do with this.”

“Hmm...” Sergeant Moore pondered. “Could any of these men you’ve broken up with bear a grudge? Could they want to hurt you like you hurt them?”

“First,” she said, her eyes sparking, “it’s not just men I dump, and second, I am good at what I do. So no, I think that is a highly unlikely possibility. Are we almost finished? While we’re sitting here, none of us are out there looking for my dog. What exactly are you going to do to try to find Muffin? Can you register him as missing?”

Officer Fernandez smirked and spoke in a patronizing tone. “Missing dogs aren’t actually 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.

Chapter Three

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.

But Conall McKinnel had been a hard man, almost impenetrable to anyone except his wife, for as long as Callum could remember. Mom put it down to the tragic loss of his twin brother, Hamish, which had happened not long after the two had established the distillery.

“I’m all done,” announced the security dude, appearing suddenly beside Callum in the living room and offering him a bunch of shiny, new keys. “You’ve done a good job of cleaning up here too.”

At the other man’s tone, Callum almost expected him to give him a pat on the back. “Thanks,” he said, referring to the work done, not the compliment. He dragged his wallet out of his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

The man quoted what sounded like an exorbitant amount, but Callum handed over his Amex without question. “Can you give me a receipt for the insurance company?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Callum flinched at the term of endearment and bit his tongue, which wanted to say that they weren’t “buddies” at all. According to his mom, sisters and even Bailey, he had a tendency to be unnecessarily grumpy. Quite frankly, he thought much of the population had an unnecessary tendency to be jovial.

When the workman realized Callum wasn’t the type for idle chitchat, he left, beeping his horn and waving as he reversed out Chelsea’s drive. Once again Callum found himself alone at this stranger’s house. Standing on her front porch, he looked up at the darkening sky and then down at his watch. Chelsea had been gone a few hours now and he guessed this meant she hadn’t found her mutt, but surely she couldn’t stay out all night looking. He’d called the shelters, the cops and neighbors knew the dog was missing—what more could she do?

With this thought, he decided to go look for her himself. Callum found a scrap of paper, scribbled down his cell number in case she returned before he found her and needed to get inside her house, then stuck it onto her front door. Ensuring her house was indeed secure, he locked the door, popped her new bunch of keys into his pocket and then jogged toward his SUV. Although he’d grown up in Jewell Rock, he’d never spent much time in Bend and he’d certainly never driven around this end of town.

He drove slowly down the surrounding streets, getting the occasional odd look from locals who wondered who this stranger patrolling their neighborhood was, but the only woman he wanted to pick up was the intriguing Chelsea Porter. A rush of blood shot south at this thought, catching him off balance. He wasn’t in the market for a hookup. All he wanted was to get Chelsea home safely, so he could get on with his life.

Finally, he saw her and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Miss Porter was a damn sexy woman and he was defenseless against his pounding red blood cells. Calm the hell down, he told them, as he pulled his SUV over to the side of the road and wound down the window.

“Chelsea!”

She turned and blinked at him as if he was the last person she expected to see. Although she didn’t speak, her eyes were bloodshot and mascara was streaked down her cheeks. His heart turned over in his chest at the sight.

“You’ve got new locks on your house,” he said, hoping this might give her a lift. It didn’t. She blinked as if wondering what that had to do with the price of eggs. “How about I take you home? It’s getting dark.” Left unsaid was the fact that if she hadn’t found the dog by now, it was unlikely she would.

Chelsea shook her head, a few golden locks that had escaped her ponytail swishing across her face in the process. “I can’t. Muffin is out here somewhere. All alone. He needs me.”

Her desperation told him she likely needed the dog more than the dog needed her. Callum curled his fists around the steering wheel, but refused to let his frustration show on his face. What was he supposed to do now?

“How about you get in...” He leaned over and opened the passenger door. “And I’ll drive you around a bit more.” Maybe once she was in the confines of his SUV, he could convince her to go home and call it a day.

She looked at him skeptically a few moments, then sighed and climbed into the vehicle. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She asked as she tugged the seat belt over her breasts and clicked it into place. “After what I did to you today?”

“That wasn’t personal. Besides, I’m a nice guy,” he replied, although the thoughts he was currently having about her breasts contradicted this statement.

She shrugged as if she didn’t believe in the fairy tale of nice guys—smart chick—but at least she was in the car. He didn’t need to win her approval, he simply needed to get her home and hand over her keys, so he could leave in good conscience.

As he steered the SUV back onto the road, Chelsea spoke again. “You can take me home and I’ll grab my car,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ll be able to cover more ground that way.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Two sets of eyes are better than one. I’ll help you.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear, and then settled back into the seat.

“How long have you lived in Bend?” he asked as they circled her extended neighborhood a few times. So far they’d witnessed two fat cats having it out in someone’s front yard and a teenager who was learning to drive reverse into a fence, but they’d seen no sign of her cocker spaniel.

“Just over a year,” she said, as if that was the end of the conversation, but stuff it, he was playing chauffeur here and for some bizarre reason wanted to know more. His mom always said he was like a bear with a bee in his bonnet when he wanted something.

“Where was home before?”

She mumbled the name of a suburb in Portland, her gaze never veering from out the window.

“What brought you to Bend, then?” he asked. “Family? A boyfriend?” There hadn’t been any signs of either in her house, and he found himself hoping it was because the latter didn’t exist. Which was ridiculous. It’s not like he wanted to play the part.

She turned her head to glare at him, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Are we playing a game of twenty questions that I don’t know about?” Even with bloodshot eyes and all that runny mascara, especially with the edge of irritation in her voice, she was gorgeous. Quite simply one of the most stunning creatures he’d ever laid eyes on.

His mouth quirked at the edges. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

She sighed and crossed her arms over that delicious rack as he kept driving. “My grandfather—the only family that mattered to me—died fourteen months ago and I needed a change of scenery. I had no boyfriend, a dead-end job, no family, so I saw no reason to stay in Portland. I decided to get in my car and drive until something inside told me to stop and put down roots. I had plans to go much farther afield, but something about Bend got to me. Maybe it was the fact that apparently 49 percent of people here own dogs? Besides, I found out Muffin wasn’t big on road trips.”

He chuckled. Despite being obviously distraught, she had a sense of humor.

“I’m guessing you’ve lived in these parts all your life,” she said, indicating discussions about herself were done.

“Yep. Born and bred in Jewell Rock. I was recently considering spreading my wings a little, but then my dad died and, well, now I’m needed at home. At the distillery.” Which was what he’d always wanted—he just hadn’t wanted his dad to be pushing up daisies in order to make it possible.

“Were you and Miss Sawyer going to move?”

Truth was, Chelsea was the first person he’d confessed to about the fact he’d been considering leaving the family business. Guilt made his gut heavy at the thought. “We were in discussions,” he lied.

Silence reigned a few more moments as they both kept their eyes on their surroundings, then, when they neared a famous chicken fast-food joint, Callum’s stomach rumbled so loudly he felt certain Chelsea must have heard it too. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and he guessed she hadn’t eaten in hours either.

Without a word, he pulled into the drive-through.

“Hey,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing?”

“Ordering us some dinner. What do you want?”

* * *

All Chelsea wanted was her dog back and she thought she’d made that perfectly clear, but now that Callum mentioned it, she was starting to feel a little light-headed. Maybe she needed food. Or maybe the dizziness was because of being in a confined space with six-feet-plus of sexy McKinnel. Either way, she found herself asking for a fried chicken sandwich and a serving of french fries. Callum ordered the same, but added some coleslaw. The teenager behind the speaker who took their order giggled ridiculously at the sound of his deep sexy voice.

“Did your mom tell you that you should have veggies with every meal?” Chelsea asked as they waited in front of the window for their food. She thought it kinda cute the way he’d mentioned his mother a few times.

“Something like that.” He almost smiled and something inside her quivered so that she had to glance away. Looking out the window made her realize she hadn’t thought of Muffin in all of two minutes. Not that she wanted to forget him—she desperately wanted, needed to find him—but Callum had given her a few moments’ reprieve from her anxiety.

When their orders were ready. Callum took their food from the teenage attendant and passed it over to Chelsea. The smell of hot, greasy goodness filled the car, making her want to moan out loud. She rarely ate takeout—years of not being able to afford such luxuries had become a habit.

“Let me give you some money for this,” she said, snapping back to reality and realizing she was sitting in a stranger’s car—a client’s ex’s car more to the point—and he’d just paid for her dinner.

He waved a hand in dismissal as he drove away from the restaurant. The warmth of the food seeped through the paper bag, making her thighs hot. She inhaled again and her taste buds begged her for a fry, but Callum couldn’t eat while driving and she couldn’t very well eat hers in front of him.

“We can pull over somewhere a few moments if you like so you can eat,” she suggested.

“Or we could go back to your place and eat there.” His tone was innocuous and it wasn’t that she thought he was about to take advantage, but the idea of eating dinner with a guy in her house was so alien it made her nervous.

“But we haven’t found Muffin yet.” She hated the neediness in her tone but couldn’t help it.

“Look, Chels,” Callum began, turning to look at her so that his deep green eyes sought hers and made her skin hot. Or that could simply be the way he’d used a nickname for her, as if they were friends, rather than recent acquaintances. She was loath to admit it, but she liked it. “I know you’re worried about Muffin, but we’ve both searched high and low. I’ve called every dog refuge in a three-hundred-mile radius of Bend. I think maybe it’s time to call it a night. What if Muffin comes home while you’re not there?”

And with that one simple question, he got her. The thought of her dog finding his way back to the house and her not being there to welcome him tore at her heartstrings. “Okay.” She gave one nod of defeat. “If you could take me home, that would be great.”

He gave her a warm smile and turned the SUV in the direction of her place. The closer they got, the more nervous she began to feel. Not nervous that maybe she would never find Muffin, but nervous about Callum McKinnel coming into her house. Granted, he’d already spent a good deal of time there earlier in the day, but this now felt like the closest thing she’d had to a date in months.

Don’t be ridiculous, came a voice inside her head. The man just got dumped by his long-term fiancée.

Actually you dumped him, said an opposing voice, but she blocked her ears—that was simply semantics. Besides, he likely wouldn’t stay long—just enough time to scarf down his dinner and, as he was a guy, that could be merely a matter of minutes.

Ten minutes later, Callum parked in her driveway for the third time that day. Chelsea got out of the vehicle and carried their takeout up the path to the front door, all the while trying to act calm, cool and collected. Callum was a few steps behind her and only when she read the note he’d stuck to her door did she remember he had her new house keys. She spun around and almost slammed right into him.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as his hands shot out to steady her.

“Not a problem.” That smile again. Quite aside from the fact Callum was a client’s ex, as a McKinnel, he was also way out of her league.

She swallowed a groan of disappointment as he let her go and then retrieved a bunch of shiny keys from his jacket pocket. Stepping past her, he selected a key and slid it into the lock, then turned it and opened the door to her house for her. Bamboozled by his touch, she let him usher her inside and take the lead.

“Shall we eat in the kitchen or do you prefer the couch?” he asked, shutting her door behind them.

Silence echoed around the house, reminding her of Muffin’s absence, but in spite of the aching hole in her heart, she couldn’t help notice the state of her house. All clean and tidy now, barely any evidence of the burglary. “Did you do this?” She gaped around and then turned her attention on him.

He nodded and shrugged. “Had to do something while I waited for the security company.”

No, actually, he did not. He owed her sweet eff all, but for some reason unknown to her, he’d gone out of his way to look out for her today. That Bailey Sawyer needed her head read. Who cared if Callum wasn’t all that between the sheets? He was kind and thoughtful, not to mention hotter than the sun itself; these traits weren’t ones to be scoffed at in a man. All she could think to say was “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked away because she could no longer handle his intoxicating smile. “Let’s eat in the living room. It’s more comfortable there.”

He followed her to the couch, where he sat beside her as she handed out their food. She’d taken a bite into her sandwich before she remembered her manners. Dammit, she wasn’t used to hosting guests. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked, putting the sandwich on the coffee table and shooting to her feet. “I’ve got club soda or cola.”

“I’ll have a cola, thanks.” He smiled again and then sank his teeth into his own sandwich. It was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen in her life. Maybe I’m the one who needs her head read? With that thought she scuttled away to the kitchen, wishing it was farther away so she’d have a little more time to pull herself together.

Chelsea opened the fridge, pulled two cans of cola out and pressed one against her forehead, thankful Callum had his back to her. She could see him from the kitchen, sitting back against her couch as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She shook her head—was this some kind of weird dream? Nightmare? Maybe she’d wake up and discover Muffin sleeping by her feet as he always did and find out Callum McKinnel was nothing but a figment of her imagination. Yet the pain when she pinched herself to check this spurred her into action and she carried the cans and two glasses back over to him. No one in her family had ever drunk soda out of glasses—unless the soda was mixed with something stronger, which it usually was—but Callum had a mom who made him carry a hanky, so the glasses felt necessary.

“Thanks,” he said as she cracked open a can and poured it into a glass for him. She tried not to drool as he lifted said glass to his lips and took a sip, the thick columns of his neck muscles flexing as he did so.

Right, time to get a grip on reality. She poured cola into the other glass and downed approximately half of it. Although she hadn’t eaten since this morning, the butterflies dancing in her stomach put her off eating. She racked her brain for something to say and then remembered how she’d fled from his office without offering her full service.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she said.

Callum raised an eyebrow. “About dumping me?” He made it sound like they’d been in a relationship and she’d ended it.

She shook her head. “Usually after I’ve delivered a message to someone, I hang around to chat and see if they’re okay.”

His other eyebrow lifted. “Good customer service? I approve. So why did you not follow through on that promise this morning?”

The way he spoke, the way he looked at her, made her think he knew the reason and heat rushed to her cheeks. “I’m...not...sure.”

“It’s okay,” he said, half chuckling. “I’m not a big talker and Bailey probably did me a favor.”

“Really?”

“Sure, I wouldn’t want to be with a woman who didn’t consider me Mr. Right.”

Callum sounded so lighthearted, but she guessed there had to be pain behind those words. She was about to offer to talk about it now, but he asked a question before she could.

“This breakup business? Is it seriously what you do for a living?”

Surprisingly, she detected none of the repulsion he’d had earlier in his tone.

“Yes. Until recently I also waited tables.” She named a well-known establishment in Bend. “But it was either hire another employee to take on some of the breakup load or quit my second job. I chose the latter.”

His eyes widened. “No offense, but I’m surprised breaking up with other people’s partners is such a lucrative profession.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I wouldn’t say lucrative, but I take pride in my work and my reputation is spreading. Breaking up is never easy to do. My service is much like hiring someone to clean your house or mow your lawn. Only cleaners and landscapers don’t usually offer counseling, as well.”

“How many of these gigs do you get a day?”

She did a quick mental tally. “One or two in-person breakups a week—I only offer that service to customers in Bend and surrounding areas, but I do a lot of online work. Emails, et cetera. Follow-up phone calls for the brokenhearted. Business is good enough that I’m thinking of expanding and looking for freelancers to do face-to-face breakups in other areas.”

“You learn something new every day.” He popped a french fry into his mouth and she ate one, as well. Then he said, “How exactly did you get into this business?”

Chelsea took a deep breath and surprised herself by telling him pretty much the truth. “My best friend, Rosie—she lives back in Portland—actually suggested it. I have this thing where I can’t manage to hold down a relationship for long. Rosie believes I’m just dating the wrong guys, but whatever the reason, at about the three-month mark, I always lose interest and we break up. But we always manage to stay friends. So far this year, I’ve been to five weddings of ex-boyfriends. Anyway, Rosie once joked that I was the queen of breaking up and could do it for a living and then a friend of hers actually asked me to do so. I only did it as a favor, but it went so well someone else asked me to do it. And...”

“The rest as they say is history?”

She smiled as she nodded. “Yes. I’ll admit it’s not a very common profession but I honestly think I’m doing a necessary service. Do you know how many people stay in bad relationships because they’re too scared to get out?”

He shook his head and she guessed he came from one of those perfect families. She didn’t know much about the McKinnels, but his father’s obituary had definitely painted him as the ideal family man. And Callum had how many brothers and sisters? She racked her brain but couldn’t come up with the number. It was a lot, anyway, reminding her again what different worlds they came from.

“Well,” she said, “it’s a lot.” Then she said, “Thanks for the dinner. It was good.” Hopefully he’d take the hint that it was time for him to leave. That she no longer needed babysitting, even if a tiny part of her wanted it.

He nodded toward her sandwich still sitting on its grease-proof paper on the table. “You barely ate.”

“Sorry.” She bit her lip. “I’m too worried about Muffin.”

He nodded grimly. “Fair enough. I guess I’d better be going.” But he didn’t make a move to stand—for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t appear in a hurry to abscond.

“Thanks for everything,” she said, trying to encourage him. She just wanted him gone so she could ignore her hormones and get back to worrying about Muffin.

Callum reached out and wrapped his long fingers around hers, then gave a little squeeze. “I’m sure he’ll be okay. You’ll find him.”

“Thanks,” she said again, slipping her hand out of his for self-protection and then standing. If the guys she’d dated before had all been as lovely as him, maybe she wouldn’t have felt compelled to dump them.

He stood, as well, and awkwardness buzzed between them. What was the protocol here? This wasn’t a date. He wasn’t going to kiss her good-night and ask when they could see each other again. Likely they’d never see each other again and tonight would become some distant memory and she would one day wonder if it had ever actually happened.

“Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down at her—not many men looked down on her and she liked the thrill it gave her. “Maybe call me when you find Muffin. Just so I know.”

She rubbed her lips together, loving the confidence in his voice that she’d find her dog but also joyful at the prospect of an excuse to call him. Her tongue twisted at the thought, so she nodded.

“You’ll need my number,” he said.

“I think it’s on my front door.”

“Right...of course it is.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “In that case, good night.”

Chelsea followed him out, waved as he reversed out of the drive and then closed the door behind her, the thud echoing around the now empty house. Having Callum here had been so bizarre, it had given her a few minutes’ pardon from missing and worrying about Muffin, but now that he was gone, she had nothing left to do but worry. She retreated to the couch, collapsed into a heap and wished there was something more constructive she could do than cry.

Chapter Four

It was late by the time Callum returned to the distillery and all but the security lights were switched off. He contemplated going home, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep without checking that everything had gone okay this afternoon. Although Sophie had a good head on her, his sister was only twenty-six and had rarely been left alone with the responsibility of the office and the tasting room. Sure, they had a couple of employees to help serve customers, but this had always been a family business and they were the ones with their hearts and souls invested in it.

He parked out the front, let himself into the building and then, happy everything looked as it should, he headed into his office where he poured himself a generous shot of bourbon and took a much-needed sip. This had been, without a doubt, the weirdest day of his life and he scratched his head as he leaned back in his chair and thought over it.

Leaving Chelsea shouldn’t have been as difficult as it had been. Sure she was hot and sexy as all that, but so were heaps of women. They’d never made him want to look after them the way she had. It felt more like a compulsion than a want.

The sound of the main distillery door opening broke into his thoughts and Callum sat forward, his muscles immediately on edge. Who the hell would be coming in at this time of night?

“Hey, baby boy, it’s just me,” called a voice he recognized better than his own. A voice that still insisted on calling him “baby” even though he was thirty-five years old and her eldest child. “Mom,” Nora McKinnel clarified a moment later, just in case he’d forgotten.

He rolled his eyes, chuckled and prepared himself for something halfway between a lecture and a sympathy speech. “In the office,” he called back, as he stood and retrieved another glass from the shelf behind the desk.

His mom appeared in the doorway as he was pouring her glass. She was wearing a pink fluffy dressing gown, a scarf, a beanie, Wellingtons and her cheeks were flushed from the cool outside air. She still lived in the main house, which was a hundred yards or so behind the distillery buildings, with his brother Lachlan, Lachlan’s son, Hamish (the second), and his other brother Blair, who’d moved home a couple of years ago after his divorce. Officially Callum lived in a cottage also on the property but he often stayed at Bailey’s apartment in town. He guessed that wouldn’t be happening anymore. And dammit, he’d have to go collect his stuff.

“Oh, thank God you’re okay.” His mom rushed at him, her boots thumping against the solid floor, and threw her arms around him. He just managed to put down the bottle in time.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, although he’d already guessed the answer.

She pulled back slightly and looked into his eyes. Hers were a little puffy as if she’d been crying. “I thought you might have...you know...driven off a bridge or drowned your sorrows in the merchandise.”

So she’d heard about him and Bailey. How good news traveled fast. “I’m fine, Mom,” he said, escaping her embrace and gesturing for her to take a seat and a drink. Perhaps he shouldn’t be okay, but he was. Not that she’d probably believe him anyway. Thanks to Bailey, he could guarantee Mom would be fussing over him for weeks.

“Are you sure?” She frowned as she lowered herself into Dad’s leather recliner; he’d called it his “thinking seat.”

Callum nodded, sat back in his own seat and lifted his glass again. “Damn, we make good bourbon,” he said, trying to distract her. Flavor wasn’t the distillery’s issue, it was the fact that the younger generation of drinkers were into boutique beers instead. He had a few ideas about how to attract them; he simply needed to convince the rest of his family.

Nora took a sip, then, cradling the glass in her hands, nodded. But the expression on her face said he hadn’t succeeded in diverting her thoughts. “Marcia called me this afternoon and told me you and Bailey had split up.”

Although he knew she wanted him to tell her it wasn’t true, he saw no point in delaying the inevitable. “That’s right. We decided we weren’t right for each other. Better now than later, right?” Not exactly the whole truth, but he didn’t think Bailey should take all the blame when she’d been the one with the guts to end it.

His mom sighed and downed the rest of her drink. “I was so looking forward to the wedding after the awful year we’ve had.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked down into his glass.

“Is it too much to want another grandchild?”

Here we go. “Of course not,” he said merely to placate her. Currently she had two—a granddaughter and a grandson, both his brother Lachlan’s kids—but as she herself had seven adult children, she believed this number vastly inadequate.

“I had so much hope for next year with you and Bailey getting married and I’d thought that Mac and Sian would follow soon after. Now all my hopes and dreams have gone up in smoke.”

Used to his mother’s drama-queen tendencies, Callum tried to offer a sympathetic smile, but she barely paused in her rant.

“Now you and Bailey have followed Mac and Sian instead of the other way around...” Mac had also recently been dumped by his long-term girlfriend. What a sorry lot they were. “Lord knows Quinn can’t keep a woman longer than a weekend, or he doesn’t want to—either way, I failed dismally with him. Lachlan married a selfish cow, who broke his poor heart, and as much as I adore Hamish, not many women are prepared to become a parent to a special-needs child. Annabel seems destined to mourn Stuart forever.” She sighed and took a quick breath. “Why the heck Blair and Claire got divorced is a mystery to us all considering they still live in each other’s pockets. I love her like she were my own daughter, but he’ll never meet someone else if he stays best friends with her, and Sophie doesn’t show any interest in men whatsoever. Do you think she’s a lesbian? I have been wondering quite some time if that’s the issue.”

Callum almost choked on his last sip. “What? No. I don’t know. Maybe?” He shrugged. To be honest, he’d never given it much thought. Sophie was almost as much of a workaholic as him and that left little time for dating.

“Not that I would care,” Nora said, waving her hands dramatically as she spoke. “Homosexuality runs in the McKinnel family, after all...” She was referring to his father’s twin, who’d died before Callum was old enough to remember him. “And I haven’t got a problem with lesbians. I just wish she’d open up to me. I am her mother!”

“Yes, indeed, you are.” Callum stifled a smile, knowing his mom didn’t think this conversation amusing whatsoever. She continued on, lamenting her children’s foibles, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He hoped Chelsea would find her dog and wished there was something he could do to make sure of it. He wondered how she was coping now she was alone, and once again, his ribs tightened as he regretted leaving her by herself. Maybe he should call and check in on her? But it was late—what if she’d managed to fall asleep and he woke her? They didn’t have the kind of relationship where he could phone at all hours; they didn’t have a relationship at all. Tomorrow; he’d call tomorrow. And then, goddamn, he remembered he’d given her his number but he hadn’t asked for hers.

His mom’s heaving herself noisily off the recliner brought him once again back to the moment. “I guess if you’re okay, I better head home to bed. Don’t stay up too late working though. Promise me? All work and no play makes Callum a very dull boy.”

“Are you calling me dull, Mom?”

She came toward him, grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him on the forehead. “You are a number of D words, my son—determined, driven, discerning, droll, dependable to name a few—but you could never be dull.” She frowned a moment. “Is that what Bailey said? Because if it is, my best friend’s daughter or not, I’ll have to kill her.”

Callum chuckled. “Thanks, Mom, and no, Bailey didn’t say that.” Although she had said he was bad in bed, which irked him, especially since she’d said it to Chelsea.

“Just as well.” Nora started toward the door but turned back as she got there. “So if you weren’t off plotting your own death, where have you been all afternoon and evening?”

He swallowed, not wanting to answer this question for fear he wouldn’t be able to explain why he’d gone out of his way to help a stranger. Also not wanting to go into the whole Breakup Girl thing. Such a concept would fascinate his mom and then she’d want to spend all night hearing about it.

“I was checking out some business...stuff,” he lied.

She sighed and shook her head sadly, buying this excuse immediately. No doubt she blamed his obsession with the distillery for his split with Bailey; perhaps to a certain extent she was right.

* * *

After waving Callum McKinnel goodbye, Chelsea had tried to distract herself with a little TV. She now lay on the couch, mindlessly flicking through channels—something that had always irritated her when her granddad did it—but nothing could take her thoughts away from Muffin. And Callum. Both the couch and the house felt awfully empty without them here.

Missing Muffin she could understand—it had been years since she’d watched TV or gone to bed without his furry body to keep her warm and his heavy breathing as background noise. But missing Callum? What the heck was that about?

She’d known the man less than twenty-four hours and he was head of a freaking whiskey distillery. After the role it had played in her childhood, there wasn’t much in the world she despised as much as alcohol, and whiskey, bourbon, whatever you wanted to call it, was one of the worst offenders. Interestingly enough, Callum hadn’t smelled of whiskey, and she should know. She’d sat close enough to him in the car and again on the couch to have memorized his unique and delicious smell. Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure it now—something woodsy and sweet. She licked her lips and took a quick breath, then aimed the remote at the TV and switched it off.

Perhaps going into her bedroom where she hadn’t been with him, would help exorcise him from her mind. Besides, she needed her sleep so she could continue looking for Muffin first thing. Standing, she stooped to gather their takeout wrappers, empty soda cans and glasses from the table and then took them into the kitchen. Although exhausted, going to bed and leaving such a mess was something Chelsea would never do. Not after a childhood of living with drunks who couldn’t care less about hygiene or tidiness.

In the kitchen, she dumped the trash in the can and the glasses in the sink and then her eyes came to rest on a piece of paper on the countertop. It was an invoice for the locksmith. She eyed the price and... Hells bells! Was her new lock made of pure gold? Picking up the receipt, she took a closer look, noticing that, not only had the front door lock been fixed, but Callum had also had the back door lock and all her window locks replaced. Without her consent.

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