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Four
Six hours later, my artist shadow had moved from the main café to the the well-worn leather couch in the reading nook. He’d been busily scratching in his sketchbook, his gaze tracking my movements off and on. Just enough off that I didn’t call Sheriff Brooks. Stalking wasn’t sexy.
Callum, however, didn’t give off that creepy vibe. He was just intense.
Along with being charming, he could make small talk with anyone and everyone. It was an enviable trait, but it still pissed me off. Especially since every female seemed to fall under his spell.
Including Mrs. Gunderson who could talk a body into the ground and then shovel after them to talk some more. But he didn’t look bothered in the least.
I shot a glance over my shoulder at the chirpy laugh that came out of the older woman. Dear God, was she flirting with him?
Callum caught me looking and gave me a half smile that made every blood cell in my system go into overdrive before he refocused that obscene attention on Judy. There was no annoyance in his eyes, just a quiet friendliness that seemed to draw everyone into his sphere.
A few murmurs of gossip had fluttered through the air the first hour. That he was trouble and had been sketching in the park—what kind of man was he?
By the end of the lunch rush, he had a line of people waiting for portraits.
He didn’t charge, so Macy didn’t give him any trouble as long as he kept buying food and drinks. I’d also spotted him stuffing twenties into the tip jar at the register every time he got a coffee or tea. Was he trying to buy me off?
What kind of woman did he think I was?
Annoyed, I marched over to pick up the dishes scattered around him. A cookie plate with a few crumbs was stacked on his panini plate, and there was now a collection of mugs. I went around the back of the couch he’d made his mini office and literally couldn’t go another step.
On his pad was a perfect rendering of the book nook area, including the haphazard mix of Halloween and Christmas that was Macy’s aesthetic. From the perspective to the tiny details it was like a photograph, only far more clever. He’d added a few faces on the pink pumpkins stacked everywhere. Some were sweet, some reminded me of The Nightmare Before Christmas, and still others had a flair that was completely his own.
In the center of the portrait was Macy’s step-daughter, Dani, who was in her usual spot doing homework. Instead of her face in a book, he’d created a rendering of her climbing the bookcase in the midst of decorating the top shelf. She had a sweetly mischievous look on her face and a lock of hair falling forward from her sharp pixie cut that matched Macy’s.
“That’s amazing.”
I wanted to saw off my tongue. Giving him compliments would not move him along in any way.
Mrs. Gunderson shifted and looked over the top of the couch at me. “Isn’t he amazing? I’ve commissioned him to do my cats for Christmas.”
I pressed my lips together against a laugh. When it was sufficiently buried, I stepped around the end table and gathered his plates. “Is that right?”
Callum grinned. “They sound like rapscallions.”
Judy’s laughter filled the room. “Oh, you are so correct. I can’t wait. Are you sure that forty dollars is enough? It seems like your talent is worth so much more.”
He patted Judy’s hand. “Well, I’m here for a bit longer it seems.” The look he gave me could have melted my panties. “It keeps my skills sharp.”
“If they get any sharper, you’ll need to open up your own shop,” I muttered.
“Would you like that? Me here all the time?” He curled his long fingers around the handle of his mug and brought it to his lips. “Seeing you everyday would definitely make work far more palatable. I even got my own drink from Macy.”
“What?” I blinked and my hand stilled over the stack of mugs. “She gave you one?”
He grinned. “Is that something special? I had a feeling it was kind of her thing.”
“Yeah, but only if she likes you. And it usually takes at least five or six visits before she gives someone their own drink.”
“I didn’t have a choice in the drink. She just put it in front of me.”
“That’s how it works.”
“Hmm.” He took another sip. “Now she calls me Bourbon.”
“Wow.” Her bourbon-aged espresso beans weren’t pulled out very often. Then again, he had been stuffing big bills into the tip jar. Macy was often a slave to the almighty dollar. Charging him extra for her special blend plus all those tips… Well, how could she resist?
