Callan's Proposition

“Iced tea.”

“Iced tea?”

“Manhattan iced tea,” she repeated and took another sip.

He coughed, then raised both brows. “You mean a Long Island iced tea?”

“That’s it,” she said with delight. “Would you like one?”

“Have you ever had one before?” he asked carefully.

“Of course not, silly.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Sinclair, I’m so sorry.”

“Why don’t you call me Callan for right now?” he said with a sigh, then turned and made a gesture to a man standing behind the bar.

A man who looked strangely familiar, Abigail thought, and slid her reading glasses down her nose so she could get a better look. “Do you know that man?” she asked.

“My brother Reese,” he answered. “He owns this place.”

Reese Sinclair. Abigail nearly groaned. He’d been in the office several times over the past year. In her dis-composed state, she’d forgotten he owned Squire’s Tavern. So that was how Mr. Sinclair had found her so quickly.

Darn it, darn it, darn it.

“Mr. Sinclair, I truly am—”

“Callan,” he reminded her.

“Callan,” she said awkwardly. She’d never called him by his first name. “I’m sorry for leaving your employment so suddenly. I’m afraid I had no choice.”

The waitress brought a frosted mug of beer and a steaming cup of coffee, then quickly left. Callan pushed the coffee at her.

She didn’t want coffee. For the first time today, her stomach wasn’t in knots, and her chest wasn’t aching. She felt calm and relaxed and just a little giddy.

And hot. She felt hot. She unloosened another button and, ignoring the coffee, took another sip of her drink. She still felt hot, so she slipped her jacket off.

Callan’s beer sloshed over the side of his mug when she fanned the open vee of her blouse. He frowned at her and set his drink back down. “You owe me an explanation, Abigail. You can’t just leave me and not even tell me why. Did you find another job?”

“No.”

“Do you want more money?”

She lifted her chin at his insult. “Certainly not. If I’d wanted more money, I would have asked you.”

“So why did you quit?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s personal.”

Callan’s eyes darkened with concern. “Are you sick?”

She shook her head.

“Pregnant?”

“Heavens, no!” Her eyes went wide at the absurdity of that question.

He thought for a minute. “You’re engaged.”

She blinked slowly, then her gaze dropped, and she took another sip of her drink.

“That’s it?” He leaned closer, surprise on his face. “You’re engaged?”

Her heart started to pound. She wanted to deny it, tell him that her being engaged was absolute nonsense, but even with alcohol rushing through her veins, she still couldn’t lie.

“Something like that,” she mumbled, and felt her cheeks burn.

“Something like that?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“Excuse me?” she repeated.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Bloomfield isn’t all that big a town, maybe I know him.”

The foolishness of her situation suddenly struck Abigail. She covered her mouth and started to laugh. Callan stared at her incredulously.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You are,” she said between giggles.

“I’m funny?”

“No.” She sucked in a breath and composed herself. “You’re my fiancé.”

Two

He was her fiancé?

Callan stared at her, narrowed his eyes, then stared at her some more. She’d said the words perfectly clearly, but he must have heard her wrong.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re my fiancé.” She stared down into her near-empty drink, and her glasses started to slip down her nose. She pushed them back up with her index finger and looked at him, her brow furrowed. “Don’t you see that’s why I had to quit? It’s so humiliating.”

He didn’t see at all. In fact, he was completely blind on this one. It had to be the drink, he decided. She was confused. Extremely confused.

But then, so was he.

“It’s humiliating to be engaged to me?” he asked.