Chapter 45 War
Chapter forty-five
War
Ishould’ve taken a regular flight. Air Beaumont drew more attention than I wanted, commotion, cameras, a fuss that left me itching to be anywhere else. But when I leave here, it’ll be with Olivia, and she deserves the best, whether she wants it or not.
I had to call a taxi to drive me into Brokenwoods, and the ride feels like entering another world.
The streets are narrow, lived-in, lined with weathered storefronts that have been here longer than my family’s empire.
Small. Soft. Quiet. The kind of place that folds in on itself.
No wonder Olivia is always trying to make herself smaller, hidden.
Doesn’t think she shines the way she does.
The car pulls to a stop in front of a two-story building with a wooden sign partially cover by snow, Baker’s Inn. Paint peeling. Porch steps sagging. But there’s a warmth to it, the kind of place people return to year after year. I step out, bag in hand, and tip the driver.
I turn, my eyes lift across the street.
Her parents’ house. Quaint. Nostalgic. Curtains drawn back just enough to see blurred photos framed in the fogged window. The kind of home that feels like it has roots sunk deep in the earth.
And standing in front of it, three men; in flannels and sweaters, arms folded across their chests like a human barricade. Her brothers, no doubt. Beside them, an older man whose presence is sharper, heavier.
Olivia’s father.
I square my shoulders, grateful I didn’t wear a suit this time. Wool sweater under my thick coat, dark jeans—casual, but intentional. I was right to go this way.
The men don’t move as I cross the street. Arms stay folded. Feet planted. Cold wind cuts down the block, but none of them flinch. A line I’ll have to walk through to get to her.
Pecking order matters. Always.
I stop first in front of the older man. His shoulders are straight, his jaw set, but his eyes are steady rather than hostile. I extend my hand. “Mr. Baker.”
His grip is firm, testing. “Call me John.”
I incline my head once. A man like him respects brevity more than charm.
Then my attention shifts to the three brothers.
The eldest is easy to peg. Logan. His narrowed eyes haven’t left me since I stepped out of the cab, sharp and calculating, the same way I’d watch a man I didn’t trust. He’s sizing me up. Measuring.
The second steps forward before I can speak. “Chase,” he says, extending his hand with a smirk that plays at his lips like he can’t quite help it. Dirt streaks his palms, under his nails. He’s the Wilder, no question—ready to get under my skin for the fun of it.
The last one nods once, quick, before offering his hand. “Dean.”
I study him a beat longer. Younger than the other two, but still older than Olivia. His kind of protectiveness isn’t about control or bravado… it’s quieter. Older brother, not patriarch. Harder to place, and that makes him more dangerous.
Their clothes tell me as much as their eyes. Logan’s sweater is stamped with the Inn’s logo. Chase’s dirt-stained hands speak of hard labor, the kind that leaves a mark. Dean wears a firefighter’s shirt, under his flannel the name stitched over his heart. Solid. Trusted.
I clock it all, every detail filed away.
“Come inside,” John says finally, voice even but firm.
I step up onto the worn wooded patio following him in.
Inside, the air is warm, lived-in. The kind of house that wears its years proudly.
“Drop your bag by the door,” John says, not unkindly. “Coat can go in the closet.”
I do, then follow him toward the kitchen, taking everything in along the way.
The photos. Olivia everywhere. Big smile, crooked braids, arms slung around a redheaded girl I peg as Ella. School pictures. Family portraits. Snapshots in mismatched frames that somehow belong together.
My Olivia.
Raised in safety.
Comfort.
Warmth.
The kitchen table is crooked. The chairs creak when we sit.
And it doesn’t matter.
Because I smell them.
Peanut butter cookies.
My peanut butter cookies.
Fresh.
Hers.
Dean grabs the plate and sets it on the table before he sits; easy, like it’s nothing.
To me, it’s everything.
He takes one. Bites it.
Fire licks irrationally at my throat.
John folds his hands, steady eyes on me. “Olivia hasn’t told us much, except she felt trapped. My Olivia has always been a strong girl, independent and kind. For her to feel trapped means something. So I’m going to ask you—what were your intentions with Olivia?”
The word trapped twists in my gut.
Logan leans in, voice cutting. “A man like you going after a girl like her, what was the motive, Beaumont?”
That bothers me more than I let show. A girl like her.
I look between them, waiting for more questions. When they don’t come, I turn back to John. My voice is even, clipped. “Olivia didn’t communicate that she felt trapped. If I had known, I would have rectified it.”
I slide my hand into my pocket and pull out a small box. I set it on the table. It lands with a quiet thud. “My intentions are easy. I want to marry Olivia.”
Dean chokes on his cookie. Logan’s jaw tightens; Chase’s smirk stutters.
Good.
I use the moment to fix my gaze on Logan. “And if you ever refer to Olivia as ‘a girl like her’ again—as if to imply she’s less than, I can show you what a man raised in the city can do.”
“I didn’t. But a man like you, using money as his bargaining chip doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t what? Love?”
Dean recovers enough to speak, his voice rough. “We’ve seen you online, a different woman on your arm at every function. What’s Livvy to you?”
“Everything,” I counter.
“Any other questions in your arsenal? Net worth? Number of properties I own? … No?”
Silence.
“Good. I got the Amato’s to relieve you of Ronnie. He won’t be in charge of your inn anymore. You are. Outright.”
Jaws drop. It’s so silent I can hear the roar of the wind outside the kitchen window.
I continue, meeting John’s gaze. “I want to repair and renovate the inn. I know winter construction’s tough, expensive, slow, but I’ll eat the cost to get it done. She deserves to know her family has everything whole.”
Chase huffs. “You planning to send a fancy city crew out here to gut it?”
“No. Local.”
He raises a brow. “Good. Because I’m local. I own my own company. You want it done right, it goes through me.”
I consider him. “I get to recruit more men. We finish faster.”
Chase narrows his eyes. “But I’m foreman.”
“Fine, but with a head contractor of my choice and I’ll triple your men’s salary.”
A beat. Then Chase nods.
“Good,” I say. “Then we’ve struck our first deal. Renovations start Monday. The men will stay. But if Olivia will have me; we’re leaving Friday.”
Chase’s smirk wavers. “And if she doesn’t?”
My heartbeat stutters, but I push through it. My voice stays steady. “If she doesn’t, I have a plan set for that too.”
I look back at John. “Do I have your blessing to proceed?”
John frowns, gaze narrowing. “The inn is ours?”
I nod once. “As it should be. Paperwork’s in my bag.”
The men go stock still exchanging glances before John chuckles, hearty, his shoulders shaking as he does.
He claps me hard on the back and looks at his sons. “Son of a gun we’re free!”
A palpable weight lifts from the kitchen, Dean leans back in his chair. Chase shakes his head Logan’s shoulders drop.
They all start to laugh.
“If she’ll have you, you have my blessing,” John says extending his hand. I take it.
And then I feel her.
I turn toward the kitchen entryway, and there she is.
Pink sweater. Hair twisted up in a rush.
Jeans hugging her perfect hips. Freckles dusted across her nose, just like I remember.
My Olivia.
She looks the same.
And yet, nothing like the woman who left me behind.
God, I missed her. So much it makes my vision blur for a second.
Her eyes meet mine.
Those gorgeous eyes are bright; burning with spark of something. Recognition. Maybe even relief.
But then they harden.
And she turns without a word.
Just like that, she’s gone.
My chest hollows, a quiet implosion.
I stay seated, controlled. Always controlled.
Inside, I’m already chasing her.