Page 6 of Bad For Me (Rock Canyon, Idaho 5)

Golden eyes stared up at him from a round, pale face, her mouth open in a surprised O. The way her wheat-colored hair flowed around her in a riot of curls made him think of a disheveled angel.

Then, the low rumbling of a dog’s growl broke through the spell of his fascination, and Everett stepped back from the woman to find a giant tan dog watching him, its lips pulled back enough to flash its canines.

“It’s okay,” the woman said softly, touching the dog’s head. The low growl stopped, but the dark eyes still followed Everett’s every move.

“Sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he said.

“Neither was I,” she said, holding up a torn newspaper that she must have been reading. “I guess this is why they say, ‘Don’t read and walk.’ ”

“I haven’t heard that one before. Is there one for thinking and walking?”

“You know, I have heard thinking is hazardous to pedestrian traffic.”

As he laughed, he watched her reaction to him—to his scars. Even now, eight years after a roadside bomb had taken out his Humvee, his best friend, and half the skin on his body, he waited for the inevitable awkwardness that followed an introduction. But as he studied her expression, he was surprised to find there was no pity, eye-shifting, or discomfort in her gaze.

Then again, she didn’t seem to find the conversation half as amusing as he did. She hadn’t cracked a smile once, despite her joke.

“I’m Everett Silverton,

” he said, holding out his hand.

She hesitated for a moment before taking it. “I know.”

A zing of pleasure went through him. “How do you know?”

Her cheeks turned a dusty pink. “You’re a local hero, and people talk.”

“Ah,” he said, a little disappointed when he caught her meaning. “So my scars gave me away, huh? I should start wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask; try to be a little more mysterious.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she said sharply.

“What?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “You shouldn’t try to hide who you are. What you did . . . well, it was very brave. You should be proud of your scars. They’re proof of your heart and your service.”

The statement was so frank that Everett was a little taken aback. Even she seemed thrown by her words. Most people tiptoed around his burns, even his brother and father.

“Well, they definitely make a fascinating conversation piece,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “By the way, do you have a name, or should I just call you Whiskey?”

“Whiskey?” she echoed.

“Yeah.” He tapped just below his eye. “Your eyes are the color of rich Scottish whiskey.”

“Why Scottish?”

“I went there and took a tour of one of their distilleries. Nobody makes a clearer or better whiskey,” he said, adding, “as the hangovers I suffered during that week will attest.”

“I didn’t know hangovers could be expert witnesses,” she said.

“Are you forgetting Brad Paisley’s ‘Alcohol’?”

“Touché,” she said, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile.

“Your name is Touché?” he deadpanned. Her soft laugh was exhilarating.

“Callie. It’s Callie Jacobsen. I’m actually the DJ for your brother’s wedding.” Callie tucked a stray curl behind her ear, just as the wind blew five more into her face.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to reach out and push her hair back, the soft strands sliding through his fingers—