Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
D eb stood staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink as if it could somehow steady the storm inside her. The scratch on her forehead was deeper than she’d first thought, an angry red mark that seemed to mock her. She had cleaned it, smeared antibiotic cream over the wound, and scrubbed the blood from her hair until her scalp burned. But none of that erased the way she felt.
Brock’s words had hit harder than they should have. She wasn’t sure why, maybe because he didn’t know her well enough to lie to her. Maybe because, for just a second, she wanted to believe him.
Most of the time, she told herself she didn’t care what people thought of her. She had built a reputation for a reason, after all. A shield. A warning. But that was a lie. A damn lie. It bothered her more than she would ever admit. And Brock… if he hadn’t already heard the worst of it, he soon would.
She exhaled sharply, pressing her palms against the cool porcelain. It didn’t matter. Let him hear. Let him judge. She was used to it.
Wasn’t she?
With a huff, she pushed away from the mirror, unable to stand looking at herself any longer. Brock’s words— You’re not so bad yourself —echoed in her mind, refusing to be ignored.
She wanted to brush them off and laugh at their absurdity. But she couldn’t. Because deep down, she knew exactly why they bothered her so much. She wanted them to be true.
But they weren’t.
Deb Snodgrass had spent too many years tearing people down before they could do the same to her. Regret clawed at her insides, an ache that never truly left, no matter how hard she tried to bury it.
Shaking her head, she stormed out of the bathroom as if she could outrun the thoughts chasing her. Brock didn’t know her. Not really. So why did it matter what he thought?
The question gnawed at her as she entered the kitchen, stopping by the window. Outside, Brock and Hunter stood talking, their heads slightly tilted toward each other in a conversation she couldn’t hear.
Her gaze locked onto Brock. He was undoubtedly handsome, rugged, and strong. His untamed look made it easy to forget he wasn’t just any man. He was a predator. A wolf. But that wasn’t what unsettled her. It was the way he carried himself, the quiet intensity in his stance, and the way his dark eyes seemed to strip away layers, seeing more than she wanted anyone to see.
A shiver ran through her. It wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something she didn’t dare name. And that scared her more than anything. She refused to do this again. No man was worth the pain and humiliation that was sure to come. Deb had learned a hard, painful lesson that she would never forget.
Taking a deep breath, she headed for the door and stepped outside. “So, what’s the bad news?”
"You need a new roof," Hunter said, his frown deepening as he glanced back up at the roof.
"Figured as much." Deb sighed, biting her lip. "At this rate, if these storms keep up, my insurance company is going to drop me."
"Why don’t you just sell this place?" Hunter asked, glancing around.
Deb followed his gaze, taking in the old house and the surrounding land. This place had been her refuge, even when she didn’t deserve one. She had thought about selling many times, but the memories here were mostly good. And when everything else in her life made her feel like garbage, this place—at least somewhat —made her feel like she was worth something.
"I tried to give it to Emily," she admitted, her voice quieter. "But she doesn’t want it."
Hunter’s brows pulled together. "Give it? Are you made of money? You’ve got this place, and you bought the Crumpton property. You rob a bank or something?"
"Yes, Hunter," Deb deadpanned. "I robbed a bank. Next, I’m going to buy the town and become Mayor."
Hunter snorted, shaking his head, but the way he studied her made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced.
Deb felt Brock’s gaze on her. When she turned toward him, he didn’t look away. Instead, he just watched her too closely, like he was trying to figure her out. Good luck with that, she thought with a snort.
"I’m a bitch, Hunter," she said suddenly, throwing it out there like a challenge. Her gaze flickered back to Brock. She wanted him to hear it from her lips, not from the town gossips or anyone else. " Not a thief." And just like that, she braced herself, waiting for the judgment that always came next.
"I don’t know about all that," Brock said, breaking the silence that had stretched too long between them. His voice was calm and steady, unaffected by her words. "But someone who opened a place for women on the run? That doesn’t sound like a bitch to me."
Deb's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she couldn't speak. No one— no one —had ever countered her self-condemnation like that. People either agreed, laughed at her, or simply walked away. But Brock stood there, watching her with those intense eyes, as if he saw something in her that she or others couldn’t see in her.
She scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. "Don’t make me into something I’m not, Brock. What I’m doing with the Crumpton property… it doesn’t erase everything else I’ve done."
"It doesn't have to." His voice was low, firm. "People aren't just one thing, Deb."
She swallowed hard, her walls cracking just a little under the weight of his words. But instead of acknowledging the warmth in his voice, the unexpected kindness, she did what she always did—she deflected.
"Great. Now you’re a philosopher and a handyman," she quipped, forcing a smirk. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"
Brock didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh. He just kept looking at her like he could see straight through the armor she was trying to hold together.
"Maybe," he said. "Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out."
And just like that, Deb felt her carefully built defenses tremble, threatening to collapse under the weight of something she wasn’t sure she was ready for.
"Annnnd on that note," Hunter cut in, glancing between her and Brock like he was watching a live match of some sort. "Don't call the insurance. We can handle the work ourselves. I still have a good stash of shingles left over from when I did the Feed Mill."
Deb blinked. Just like that? No hesitation, no expectation of anything in return? She wasn’t used to this type of kindness without a catch. It made her uneasy.
Even though this was her brother-in-law, she hadn’t expected kindness from him. Why would she? She had never given it to him. She’d been cruel, dismissive—hell, even downright nasty. And yet, here he was, offering to help like the past didn’t matter. Like she hadn’t once made it her mission to tear Emily down to make herself feel better.
Guilt twisted in her gut. She wasn’t about to turn away help, not when she needed it.
Still, she swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. "I appreciate that." The words felt awkward coming out, foreign on her tongue.
Then a thought hit her, and she straightened. "Did anyone else have damage?"
Hunter glanced down at his phone. "Nothing major. A few trees down, but nothing that can’t be handled."
"And nothing at the Crumpton place?" she asked, finally forcing herself to meet Brock’s gaze.
"No, ma’am," Brock replied, his voice a deep, steady rumble that sent an odd shiver down her spine.
"It’s Deb, not ma’am," she corrected, her voice sharper than she intended.
Why did it bother her so much? She’d heard men call her "ma’am" before—hell, plenty of times. But something about the way Brock said it sent a shiver through her as if he saw her differently than everyone else did. Like he wasn’t looking at the person she used to be but the one she was trying—failing—to become.
She crossed her arms, shifting uncomfortably under his steady gaze. “Just Deb,” she added, softer this time.
A small, almost knowing smile curved his lips as he nodded. "No, Deb," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to settle deep in her chest. "No damage at the Crumpton’s place."
Holy shit.
She should have stuck with Ma’am because hearing her name roll off his tongue did more than make her shiver. It sent a slow, unwelcome heat through her. It was ridiculous, really. Just her name. But damn, if he didn’t make it sound like something else entirely. Something dangerously sensual, and it was only one boring syllable for crying out loud.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to break eye contact, focusing instead on the shingles scattered across the ground. "Good," she murmured, but her voice wasn’t nearly as steady as she wanted it to be.