Chapter Twenty-Six
Drew
The next day, the waiting room of Firebrook Valley’s only lawyer smelled like old books, lemon furniture polish, and winter coats that had been hung up wet and never quite dried.
The radiator hissed faintly in the corner, a low, irregular rhythm that fought the chill seeping through the single-paned windows.
Frost etched delicate patterns on the glass, blurring the view of Main Street where snowplows had left dirty ridges along the curb.
The air carried a faint metallic tang from the old baseboard heaters, mixing with the musty scent of paper.
My boot sole stuck slightly to the linoleum when I shifted, and the faint squeak reminded me how small this room really was, and how every sound carried.
The chairs were sturdy but visibly tired. A framed photo of a Little League team sat on a table beside a stack of law journals that looked untouched, while a dusty printer hummed as if it hated its job.
Some men would be intimidated by how Bella charged forward, confident in her decisions and her ideas, but I loved it.
It wasn’t because it meant she would always be right or that I would always agree; it was because her grit had been fired in the kiln of necessity, just as mine had been.
Bella was unapologetically bold, but she wasn’t careless.
She wasn’t chaos. She was someone who walked into a problem and emerged with a solution because that was who the people she loved needed her to be. And she was brilliant.
I’d seen it in the warehouse, the way she moved through each room like she could hear the mechanisms before she ever touched them.
I’d seen it in business over the years, not from the stories my father told at dinner parties—which were always colored by bitterness—but from the actual choices she made.
I admired the way she handled her brother’s mess, as well as Nora’s, without fanfare, and the way she didn’t look for gratitude for protecting those around her.
She was a fixer; I was a battering ram. It wasn’t a bad combination.
I could still picture her in Vermont, the way her breath had fogged in the cold air when she laughed—real laughter, unguarded for once.
Here, in this stale room, the memory felt sharper, like the bite of pine sap on my fingertips after splitting wood as a kid.
She didn’t need me to save her; she never had.
But the thought of standing beside her, letting her lead when she wanted and stepping in when the weight got too heavy, felt like something worth fighting for.
Not with fists or lawyers, but with a patience I hadn’t known I possessed.
She’d set up rules for our “fake” relationship because that gave her a sense of control.
What I intended to show her was that she didn’t always need to hold the reins.
She had someone she could lean on. I would not only fight beside her, but I would celebrate when she triumphed on her own.
Believing we could be that to each other would take time, but for now, it was enough that she trusted me and brought me into her plan. Life with her would never be boring.
My fingers traced the worn seam of the chair arm, the fabric rough under my nails like old saddle leather.
The waiting room clock ticked unevenly overhead and each second stretched, giving me too much time to think about how Bella’s hand had felt in mine at Mabel’s: steady, warm, and a quiet anchor in the middle of chaos.
Trust like that didn’t come cheap, and I wasn’t about to waste it.
My father sat in the office with both feet firmly planted on the floor, scanning the room as if he were wondering if I’d lost my mind. “This is absurd,” he said. “We have attorneys. A full legal department. If you want to discuss anything remotely binding, I could have any of them flown out here.”
“We’re not signing anything,” I said.
My father’s jaw tightened. “That’s exactly my point. We’re sitting in a small-town law office waiting for a man who usually handles fence disputes and wills on the side, and for what?”
“Dad, this isn’t you. You’ve never talked that way.”
He glared at me. “You know what I mean. Why am I here?”
“For me,” I said.
His eyes flicked to mine, and I saw that I finally had his attention.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed, a short flicker that made the shadows jump across his face.
His cologne—the same sharp, expensive scent he’d worn since I was a kid—cut through the room’s mustiness, a reminder of boardrooms and power lunches far from this linoleum floor.
But his eyes, when they met mine, held something softer.
It was the same look he’d given me the night Mom died, when words failed and we just sat in silence.
He might rage at the world, but he still showed up. That hadn’t changed.
Because no matter what we disagreed on over the years, he still showed up when I needed him. He could be impossible, but I didn’t doubt that he loved me.
“You in trouble too, Drew? Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I’m not in trouble, and I appreciate your support,” I said quietly.
His expression eased, just a fraction. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice, slipping into the role he understood best: strategy. “Whatever Phil asks, you don’t volunteer information. You listen. You say yes or no. And if there’s any hint of liability—any—then you say nothing at all.”
“I know.” I sighed. “And don’t call him Phil. Show him some respect, Dad.”
“I will,” he said grumpily. “But I don’t need his help. Our normal legal team would be a better idea than trusting this.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway.
I didn’t correct him. It wasn’t worth it. Outside of Bella’s plan, bringing our team here would have turned this situation into a war. No one wanted that—not Bella, not me, and certainly not the town.
My father tapped his fingers once on the arm of the chair, then stilled them with discipline. He didn’t do waiting. He did dominance, acquisition, and control. This—sitting in Firebrook Valley, waiting to be called into a room by a man who wasn’t impressed by wealth—was its own kind of humiliation.
A draft slipped under the door, carrying the faint scent of road salt and diesel from the street.
My father’s fingers drummed once more before he caught himself; it was an old habit, the same one that used to drive Mom crazy during tense dinners.
The room felt smaller with every passing minute, the walls pressing in like the mountains outside, reminding us both that money couldn’t buy distance from this place or its grudges.
It wasn’t easy for him, which meant it was also, in a strange way, perfect.
The door opened.
A man stepped out. He wasn’t young, perhaps mid-fifties, and he was tall enough to command a room without trying.
He looked a little rumpled in a way that suggested he’d been working since dawn and would keep working long after midnight.
He had gray at his temples, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loosened.
He held a folder in one hand. His gaze landed on my father, then on me, and his mouth curved into something close to amusement.
“Mr. Burke,” he said pleasantly.
My father stood immediately. Even irritated, Cody Burke didn’t stay seated when someone addressed him. “Counselor,” he replied, polite and controlled.
My shoulders relaxed slightly. Lately, my father and I had felt like we were pulling in opposite directions, and I’d wondered if there was any way of reaching him. But he’d just proven he was still listening.
The lawyer’s eyes flicked over Cody, unhurried and unimpressed. Then he looked at me. “Mr. Burke,” he repeated, as if making sure he had the right one.
“Yes,” I said.
“Ready?” It wasn’t a question that demanded an answer; it was a command disguised as courtesy.
My father’s jaw tightened again, but he nodded. “Absolutely.”
The lawyer stepped aside, gesturing down the hall. “This way.”
My father moved first. That was what he did—claimed space, led, and controlled the situation. The lawyer stopped at a door, opening it with the calm efficiency of a man who’d done this a thousand times.
“Go ahead,” he said.
My father entered, and I stepped in behind him. He stopped so abruptly that I almost walked into his back. The office was small—intimate rather than cramped. There was a desk, a pair of chairs, and a bookshelf lined with thick volumes.
And in the chair across from the desk sat my father’s greatest enemy. Bella’s father. Gabe Holliston.
He was dressed like old money always dressed: expensive without looking like he’d tried. Dark coat. Perfect collar. He had the kind of presence that filled a room on principle. His posture was controlled, his face carved into something polite enough to pass as calm, but his eyes were sharp.
Beside him stood Bella. Unflinching, elegant, and beautiful as hell.
Her posture was as straight as a blade, and the soft wool of her sweater caught the desk lamp’s glow.
Her eyes met mine for a fraction longer than necessary—steady and unreadable, except for that tiny spark of shared mischief.
My pulse kicked hard, the way it had in Vermont when she’d first let her guard slip.
My father’s attention snapped to Bella like she’d committed a crime, then to Gabe, and finally to me. “What is this?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Gabe rose slowly, his expression tightening as he saw my father. “This,” Gabe said with forced civility, “is not what I agreed to.”
Bella’s gaze landed on me. It was steady and controlled, with just the slightest glimmer of rebellion that sent my heart racing. We were on the same team, about to light a fuse to a fireworks show that promised to be one to remember.
I smiled and gave a subtle nod. Let’s do this.
The lawyer stood in the doorway, still holding his folder and wearing that faintly amused expression. Then, without a word, he quietly backed out and closed the door. The click of the latch was final.
The sound echoed in the small space like a gavel drop.
The radiator hissed again, almost in punctuation.
My father’s shoulders squared; Gabe’s jaw set.
The air between the four of us thickened, heavy with decades of unspoken history and the sharp, metallic taste of anticipation.
Two blustering adversaries stared at each other as if the room had suddenly shrunk to a battlefield.
Then both of them turned, in perfect unison, toward us.
“What,” my father said, each word clipped, “is going on?”