A Dog and a Diamond (5 page)

Chapter Four

I
t 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.

Who does he think he is?

She screwed up the paper in her hands, knowing her insurance company would only see fit to pay for a fraction of this. How on earth would she pay him back? Her business made a good living—she managed to pay her bills and tried to put a little aside for rainy days—but she hadn't asked for this! Fury pacing through her, Chelsea turned and stormed into the living room where the piece of paper Callum had left with his contact details now resided.

She snatched it up and was halfway through punching his number into her cell when second thoughts stopped her. She may not have been raised well—manners were always an afterthought used only to get something you wanted in whichever household she lived in—but she knew getting angry at Callum tonight wouldn't be fair. He'd set aside his own pain of being dumped and gone out of his way to help her today. Getting angry at him, although she was furious, would be like a slap in the face.

Instead, she took a deep breath, left the receipt in the room and went off to ready herself for bed. She'd call tomorrow when she'd calmed down a little (and was hopefully a little less physically aware also) and arrange some kind of payment plan. But, as predicted, sleep didn't come easily. Chelsea tossed and turned all night, worrying about Muffin and, much to her annoyance, dreaming dirty thoughts about Callum.

* * *

Callum stared at his computer screen, pondering the best time to talk to his siblings about rolling out a rescue plan for the distillery. The ringing of his cell interrupted his thoughts and he snatched it up off the desk, glowering at the unknown number.

He cleared his throat and pressed answer. “Hello, Callum McKinnel speaking.”

A pause followed, which made him think this was one of those annoying, automated telemarketing calls. Then, just as he was about to disconnect, a soft voice sounded. “Hi, Callum. It's Chelsea. We met yesterday.”

His gut tightened in recognition as awareness flared through the rest of his body. As if he could forget. “Hi.” He cringed at the way his voice sounded choked and a tad needy. “Have you found your dog?” That was the only reason he could imagine she'd call him, even though he had secret wishes that she'd called for another reason entirely.

“No,” she whispered, her disappointment heavy in her tone. “I went out again first thing. I've called all the vets and shelters again and put up signs around the neighborhood but, nothing so far.”

“I'm sorry. But it's still early. I'm sure he'll come back or someone will find him today.” He wasn't sure of any such thing—if the intruder had taken Muffin, Chelsea might never seen him again, but he knew better than to say so. “Anything I can do to help?”

“I think you've already helped enough.”

He blinked and frowned at her terse tone. “Excuse me?”