Page 82 of Chasing the Sun

He closed the distance, heat rolling off him like a storm. “You think I don’t respect what you’ve done here? I do. But don’t pretend this is just about a legacy for you. You want that land because it feels like something you can fix. I’m not the only one with something to prove.”

I flinched. He wasn’t entirely wrong, and that made it a thousand times worse.

My arms crossed. “And why do you suddenly want it so badly, Callum? I wouldloveto know what magical dream you’re fulfilling by taking this away from me.”

Emotion flickered over his dark features, but they weregone before I could decipher them. Then he smiled, slow and dangerous. “Maybe I just don’t like losing.”

I barked out a laugh as my eyes rolled. “Fine. May the bestwomanwin.”

Cal leaned in, voice low. “The historical society will decide, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? You don’t have the money.”

“And you don’t have the charm. Like you said, theKeepersdecide, and they’re already Team Ellie.” I narrowed my eyes at him in playful mocking. “Ooh, I bet knowing that pisses you off.”

The tension crackled between us like a live wire, but neither of us moved. His lips hovered inches from mine. His dark eyes bore into me. When his gaze flicked to my lips, they parted on an inhale. Instead of moving forward, he scoffed and turned on his heels.

I watched, swallowing past the grit in my throat as I watched him walk away.

A flash of hurt tweaked beneath my ribs. Sure, poking at Cal had become my new favorite pastime, but this felt different.Personal.Watching him walk away struck a chord that I didn’t particularly want to examine. Instead, I needed to focus on convincing the Keepers that I was the best choice for Star Harbor Farm.

It’s just money. I could find it anywhere.

That night,I stood at the edge of the field, the moonlight turning everything silver and strange. I could hardly believe that it was just over a month ago that my wild ideas had accidentally gotten me in over my head with Stan. I never anticipated how it would feel to build something biggerthan myself, to feel as though I was setting down roots, to finally have apurpose.

I held Gideon’s business card between my fingers, the paper soft and worn from where I had run my thumb over it a hundred times.

The land was quiet. The kind of quiet I had quickly grown to love. Now it felt like a challenge hung in the air.

I was keen enough to recognize that Cal was hiding something—his strong reaction to my ideas was more than a man protecting his peace and quiet. His angry glare had hurt and disappointment written all over it. Cal had plans for the land that he hadn’t shared, I was sure of it.

A tender part of me felt guilty for making things harder on him. Whatever his plans were, he was keeping that information close to the vest. For Cal, this was personal.

I sucked in a lungful of night air and reminded myself that the whole point of this adventure was to help Stan honor the land he had loved for decades. The farm was bigger than the both of us.

Stan was gone and the future of the farm wasn’t guaranteed, but one thing had become abundantly clear—if I wanted it, I was going to have to fight like hell.

In the distance, across the dunes, my eyes snagged on a flash of white as a cold shiver raced up my back. My arms crossed over my middle.

I didn’t know what the future held for me, but I couldn’t give up. Not on Stan and not on myself. I wasn’t just going to build a barn. I was going to build something no one could take from me.

TWENTY-FIVE

CALLUM

My kitchen was too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that settled in with the night and wrapped itself around your shoulders. This silence felt sharp. Hollow. The kind that made you feel like the walls were waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

I didn’t know what to do with it.

So I scrubbed the same damn coffee mug three times before finally setting it on the drying rack and grabbing a dish towel. I wasn’t really thirsty, but I filled a glass with water anyway. Then I emptied it into the sink. Then filled it again.

Stan would’ve told me I was being an “overthinking bastard” and shoved a beer into my hand.

He would’ve laughed at how long I’d been putting off fixing the wobbly leg on the kitchen island, calling me out for walking past it every day like it wasn’t mocking me.

“You see the problem. You’ve got hands. Fix it,” he’d said once when I complained about a leaky faucet.

I pulled the stool out and crouched beside the island, wrench in hand. The bolt wasn’t even that loose, justenough to give it a little wobble when you leaned too far left. Still, I tightened it like it might keep the whole damn building from falling down.