She blinked. “I wasn’t planning to make an announcement, no. It’s not really anyone’s business.”
“Except it kind of is since I’m dating you now,” he reminded her brusquely, daring her to contradict him. She might tack on “casually,” but they were dating. “I don’t relish the idea of anyone thinking I’m moving in on someone else’s territory.”
And he had a lot of plans involving late-night rendezvous on his balcony. Strolls down the street to Ruby’s, hand in hand. Jaunts to the springs where they may or may not remember to wear bathing suits. One or all of those things were on the horizon if he had anything to say about it, and he’d rather not have anyone think negatively about Havana or their new mayor while he was doing it.
“They’re not going to think that.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “And so what if they do? We know the truth.”
“Do we?” He shut off the SUV and gave her his full attention, resting one arm across the top of the steering wheel as he faced her. “Do you have any concept of how much I want to kiss you right now? And how I’m holding back because… Well, I don’t know why.”
“Because of me?” she guessed quietly. “Or because of what happened in the parking lot. With the stuff you’re carrying around from your time in the service.”
Both. Neither. He had no idea whether he was coming or going with Havana, and it was messing him up. “Maybe I do have some things to work through.”
She cocked her head. “Before what?”
Before he deserved her.
That blank had filled in instantly without any conscious thought.
It was not what he’d have said the answer was, but it was true. That was the bottom line. Syria had messed him up way before Havana had and then kept making things worse. She no doubt sensed that. Of course that was the reason she’d held back, insisting that she didn’t want anything serious and refusing to see that Caleb wasn’t her ex— that wasn’t the real reason.
It was an excuse. She knew he hadn’t quite gotten it all together yet. Knew he was plagued with self-doubt and had become the king of second-guessing every single step.
Honestly, that was why he hadn’t pushed back when she’d jumped on the casual bandwagon. He’d instinctively known space was what he needed too. And that sucked.
“Maybe table this discussion?” he mumbled, taking the coward’s way out. But it was all he had at the moment.
He let her retreat in the lobby of the hotel, not because he wanted to, but they both needed the downtime. Besides, he had some recruiting to do. Who better to head up the town’s infrastructure than four guys at loose ends who had his back? And vice versa.
He started with Tristan Marchande, who answered his hotel room door on the first knock.
“If it isn’t our illustrious mayor,” Tristan said with a grand bow that at his height only made him look stupid.
Caleb brushed past him with a well-placed elbow. “Don’t call me that.”
“Maybe I should call you Lover Boy instead?” Tristan suggested with a snicker, shutting the door and jerking his head toward the lone window in his room. “Saw you head out with Ms. Nixon this morning, looking very cozy.”
“So?” Caleb shrugged it off. Marchande was the last person he needed poking into the status of his relationship with Havana. Tristan never had female problems and would probably laugh his butt off if he found out Caleb couldn’t resolve his. “We went to talk to Scott about axing the shopping center. It went well.”
“That’s great. What did he say?” Tristan threw himself on the bed to get comfortable, his default when embroiled in a serious conversation. It meant he was ready to dig in for as long as it took and why not be relaxed while doing it?
Caleb couldn’t claim the same ability. When things got real, he tended to pace, which worked well when the other party stayed out of his way. Marchande got that and had automatically made room. Yet another reason he was here. Tristan had a smart mouth, but he also had a thousand other great qualities that couldn’t be bought for any amount of money.
“He gave us six months to build a town. Like the whole thing. I’m officially behind the eight ball.”
Tristan pursed his lips. “But with the right stick, the ball goes in the corner pocket in one shot. Where does my name go on the list?”
And like that, Tristan was in. Relief eased the pressure in his chest. “I need a fire chief. You’ve already got the nickname. Put it to good use.”
They didn’t call Tristan Le Torch strictly because of his skill with the ladies. The man knew fire better than anyone he’d ever met, bending it to his will with almost supernatural ability. It was mindboggling.
But instead of immediately nodding and asking when he could start, Tristan laughed. “C’est fou, mon frère. Get back to me later when you’ve had your coffee.”
Caleb paused midpace to toss Marchande a scowl, having easily translated his teammate’s French after so many years of hearing it. “It’s not crazy, it’s perfect.”
Sobering, Tristan stared at him. “I’m not ‘in charge’ material, Hardy. Bark up another tree.”
This was not how this conversation should be going. “You think I am?”