Chapter 10 Brenna
Chapter ten
Brenna
My grip on the wheel tightens as I roll over the dirt road into the parking spot by the rental cabin. Graham’s old truck is parked up next to his own cabin, which means he’s around here somewhere.
After what happened at the brewery a few hours ago, I half expected to find my suitcase sitting out here waiting for me. But there’s no luggage in sight, just a freshly swept front porch that gives me hope even as my heart aches from his rejection.
A woodpecker hammers somewhere nearby as I climb out of my Range Rover.
The rich scent of pine needles fills my lungs as I trudge through the still muddy meadow toward his cabin, confusion and hurt twisting in my stomach.
How could the man who held me so tenderly last night pretend not to know me earlier today?
I knock, but there’s no answer. Frustration builds under my skin as I peer through the window. What? He could rescue me last night, whisper sweet things in my ear, but now that he knows I’m Eric’s daughter, he can’t even face me?
I try the handle, and the door opens.
“Graham?” I call into the empty space, but silence greets me back. He’s not inside.
His truck’s here, though, so he must be nearby. I circle the cabin, noting details I missed last night. The neat stack of firewood under a covered overhang, a full barrel positioned to catch runoff from the roof, everything purposeful and well-maintained.
Then I spot it. A smaller building tucked back into the trees, maybe the equivalent of half a block or so in city distance behind the main cabin. A rhythmic sound, like some sort of humming comes from inside, steady, and methodical.
My pulse kicks up as I follow a well-worn path through the trees. The scent of wood grows stronger with each step. By the time I reach the workshop’s wide open garage door, my heart hammers against my ribs.
Graham stands with his back to me, hunched over a massive workbench. His flannel shirt stretches across his broad shoulders as he works some kind of tool along what looks like a tabletop, each stroke deliberate and controlled. Curls of pale wood spiral away, collecting at his feet like fallen snow.
The sight of him, focused, competent, and creating something beautiful with those strong hands, sends a ripple of heat through my core. I watch him for a minute longer, not wanting to interrupt.
But he must sense me because he freezes mid-stroke, his knuckles going white around the tool’s handle. For a heartbeat he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. Then slowly, he turns to face me.
Those storm-gray eyes are carefully neutral, but his jaw tightens when his gaze sweeps over me. The same face that looked at me with such hunger last night now shuttered and distant.
“Brenna.” My name comes out rough.
Last night, he held me as if I were something precious. Earlier today, he shook my hand like a stranger. Now, he’s looking at me as if I’m a problem he doesn’t know how to solve.
I step into the workshop and look around, buying time to find the right words.
The space is incredible, with rows of hand tools hanging on a pegboard wall and lumber sorted into piles.
A dozen pieces in various states of completion beg for my touch.
Graham watches me explore, his arms crossed over his broad chest like armor.
“This is amazing,” I breathe, running my fingers along the edge of a buffet. The wood is satin-smooth under my fingertips, and I picture his hands shaping every curve.
A dining table, with legs that look like tree branches, sits off to the left. Every piece speaks to patience, artistry, the kind of craftsmanship that’s becoming extinct in a world of mass production and instant gratification.
“Just keeping busy,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans.
There’s a copy of Architectural Digest tacked up on the wall behind his workbench. When I step closer, my breath catches. The cover features an elegant Park Avenue penthouse. And there, taking up half the page, is a walnut dining table.
“Is this…?” I look from the magazine to Graham, whose jaw has gone tight again.
“One of my pieces? Yeah.”
The casual way he dismisses it makes me want to shake him. This isn’t just furniture; it’s art. Museum-quality craftsmanship featured in one of the most prestigious design magazines in the world. He’s so competent, so…
I shake my head. I’m not surprised that this man, who makes me feel so safe, who pretends to be so gruff but is soft as a feather duvet on the inside, can create these pieces with only his hands. But that’s not why I’m here right now. I’m here for answers.
I turn to face him, squaring my shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Why did you act like you didn’t know me a the brewery? Like last night didn’t happen.”
His hands clench at his sides. “Because it shouldn’t have happened.”
“Why? Because I’m Eric’s daughter?”
Pain flashes across his features, quickly replaced by something that looks like self-loathing. “Eric pulled me out of the darkest period of my life. He’s the closest thing I have to family, and I repaid that trust by taking his daughter to bed. Taking her…”
“My virginity,” I supply, watching his loyalty battle desire in his eyes.
He blows out a long breath.
“You didn’t take anything I didn’t give. Willingly,” I shoot back, stepping closer despite the warning in his eyes. “I chose you.”
“You’re twenty-two years old.” The words come out like an accusation. “You deserve someone better. Should be with someone who…” But he doesn’t finish the thought.
I almost step back. Almost let him retreat into the distance he’s trying to create. But then I remember why I came to Vermont in the first place. To stop being the perfect, polished daughter who never rocks the boat. To find out who I really am when I’m brave enough to lay claim to what I want.
Fury takes over, hot and bright. “For someone who claims to see imperfections as beauty, you’re awfully quick to decide what’s best for me.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. “You don’t know what you want.”
“Don’t I?” I close the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off his body, until his familiar soap scent makes my head spin.
I place my palm flat against his chest, his heart racing under my touch. “Last night, you looked at me like I was everything you’d been waiting for. Are you saying the fact Eric Pruett is my biological father changes that?”
“Yes,” he explodes, grasping my hips for just an instant before he jerks away. “Everything changed when I found out who you are.”
“I’m still me.”
He steps back, holding up his hands as if admitting defeat. Maybe, I should give up, too. I take a deep breath, blowing it out long and slow. I’ll walk away and never look back if that’s what he really wants.
I lift my gaze to his and ask quietly, “What was your news, Graham? What were you so eager to tell Eric before you found out who I am?”
He goes perfectly still.
Hope stirs to life within me.
“What was so important that you drove into town to tell your best friend?” I press, not letting him retreat. “What changed between yesterday and today?”
“It was nothing—”
“Bullshit.” The word explodes from me, surprising us both. “You said you had news. Big news. What was it?”
Tell me, dammit. Admit it.
His jaw works as if he’s chewing glass before he finally speaks in a rush of words. “You. It was about you.”
I knew it, but the satisfaction doesn’t taste sweet. It tastes like bitter medicine. “What about me?”
He glances off, out the wide-open doors. “I was going to tell him I’d met someone.” His voice comes out strangled. “That I’d found the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”
The wind is knocked from my lungs as my knees almost buckle. I grip the workbench and lift my chin. “And finding out I’m his daughter changed that?”
“It changed what I can do about it.” The words sound as if they’re being torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “Your father saved my life. When it hit me what I’d done…
” He stops, running both hands through his hair.
“Christ, Brenna. I wanted to take you over my knee for not telling me. For letting me touch you when I had no right.”
Heat floods my cheeks and pools low in my belly. The image of being bent over this man’s lap, completely at his mercy, with his calloused palm on my bare ass sends fire racing through my veins.
“And then?” I whisper, my mouth dry.
“I realized it wasn’t your fault. Hell, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. You didn’t know Eric and I are friends any more than I knew that you were his daughter.” His voice turns rough, pained. “But that doesn’t change what happened. Doesn’t change that I betrayed his trust—”
“Graham.” I erase the distance he’s put between us, moving close enough that my breasts brush against him. Close enough I see his pupils dilate. “The thought of you taking me over your knee? That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
A strangled sound tears from his throat, and his control visibly cracks. His hands fist at his sides.
“You can’t say things like that,” he growls.
“Why not?” I loop a finger into the front pocket of his jeans and press against his rock-hard length. “Because it makes you want me?”
“Because it makes me want to forget everything except how perfect you felt beneath me.” The confession explodes from him through gritted teeth, as if he’s been holding it back by sheer force of will. “Because when you look at me like that, I don’t give a damn about anything except making you mine.”
“Then do it.” I go up on my toes, bringing my mouth inches from his. “Make me yours.”
For one perfect heartbeat, I think he’ll give in. His hands lift toward my face, his breathing ragged, and heat radiates off him in waves.
Instead, he jerks back as if I’ve burned him.
“I can’t.” The words come out harsh, final, as if they’re tearing him apart from the inside. “Not when it means betraying Eric. Not when he trusts me. He’d never approve—”
“How do you know what Eric thinks?” I interrupt. “Did you even ask him what he’d think about us? Did you even give him a chance?”
His face goes white. “I don’t need to ask—”
“I came here to find myself, Graham,” I say, desperation bleeding into my voice. “To stop living my life according to other people’s expectations. And I thought I did. For one perfect moment earlier, I thought everything had clicked into place.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, clearly not wanting to hear what I have to say. He doesn’t want to admit I’m speaking the truth.
“You’re deciding for all of us without even having the conversation,” I continue softly, my heart breaking in two. “You’re so convinced you know how everyone else feels that you won’t even fight for what you want. What you deserve.”
“I…” he starts, raking a hand through his hair, “I need some air.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me alone with the echo of everything I just confessed.
I sink onto the stool by his workbench, my hands shaking.
The silence is deafening until the rumble of his old truck’s engine turns over, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel as he drives away, leaving me completely alone.
Outside, the sun sinks behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that should be beautiful but instead feel like an ending.
Minutes tick by as I sit surrounded by the evidence of his skill, his artistry, his careful attention to detail. Maybe, I was wrong. Maybe, one night was all we were ever going to have.
But as I breathe in his lingering scent, I can’t bring myself to regret it. Even if Graham pushes me away forever, for one perfect night, I felt as if I belonged somewhere. With someone. And that’s more than I’ve ever had before coming here.
Eventually, I make my way back down the hill to the rental cabin.
I punch in the code on the lock again, and the green light flashes on the keypad.
Inside, everything is as it was this morning when I popped inside.
A cozy family room gives way to a small kitchen, a stone fireplace that reminds me of Graham’s again the far wall.
I head out to the back porch, and the sight stops me cold. This morning, the pottery wheel was covered with a sheet. Now, it gleams. Fresh blocks of clay, wrapped in plastic, rest on a small shelf next to it, along with tools and a basin of clean water. Even a canvas apron hangs on a nearby hook.
My throat tightens as I approach the wheel, running my fingers over the smooth surface. While I was in town sorting out my thoughts this afternoon and wandering up and down Main Street, Graham was here, making sure I had everything I needed.
Even as he’s pushing me away, his actions tell a different story. I sink onto the small stool beside the wheel, my heart aching with hope. Maybe, this isn’t over after all.