Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Ledger
My childhood home looms in front of me as I cut the engine, its towering gables and wide stone porch unchanged since I was a child. But the stillness is different. There’s no faint melody of Mom’s favorite jazz spilling out of the windows, no warm, buttery glow from the kitchen where she’d be baking on a whim just because it was the weekend. There’s nothing but silence now, a shell of what it used to be.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles pale as memories crash into me. The calls I ignored. The texts I left unread. Her voicemails, pleading in that soft, patient tone of hers.
“Ledger, sweetheart, we need to talk. It’s important. You and your brothers should come soon.”
Important.
But that’s the thing about Mom, everything seemed important to her. The gossip in town, our father’s last wishes, her new haircut. When she said important I just assumed . . . that it’d be like everything else.
Just another failed reunion to get her boys in one room and hope they can be brothers the way she always wished. The thing is that none of us wanted to be a family. Not then and not now.
“I need you, son,” she said the last time she tried.
Those four words slice through me now, sharp and jagged, because I didn’t listen. I wasn’t here when it mattered. By the time we all made it back, she was already in hospice care, her voice frail, her laughter gone, and her face barely a memory of the strong-willed, passionate woman who raised us. The day after we had arrived, she was gone.
Gone.
I exhale slowly and climb out of the SUV, my boots crunching against the gravel driveway. The cool air bites at my skin, but it’s the sight of the house that twists something in my chest. Inside, the faint smell of lemon cleaner greets me, mingled with the softer scent of something floral lingering like a ghost in the corners. It’s like Mom is still around, yet she’s gone forever.
I drop my bag in the foyer, the sound reverberating through the hollow space. My gaze sweeps the room, catching the little things that haven’t changed: her throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch, the cookbook still open on the counter, probably some recipe she wanted to prepare but no one was here to eat her food anymore.
This is so fucking depressing. What the fuck am I even doing here?
Mom’s gone. My career is dead in the water. My arm will never be the same. And now, as if life hasn’t pissed on me enough, I’ve somehow managed to crash into the most infuriating woman on the planet—who, as luck would have it, is the same woman who ghosted me in Italy.
Galeana Monroe.
Her name feels strange on my tongue, too formal, like it doesn’t belong to the memory I have of her: wet skin, flushed cheeks, and the kind of mouth that made me forget every fucking coherent thought.
And now she’s here. In my town. Hating me.
What the hell did I even do?
The sound of tires crunching on the driveway snaps me out of my thoughts. A car door slams, and a moment later, the front door swings open. Malerick strides in, radiating that authoritarian-annoying energy I hate so much. My oldest brother is so much like our father—zero patience for anything and always convinced we’re a bunch of fucking idiots—Dad’s words—destined to screw everything up.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Just who I wanted to see.”
He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair, his gaze landing on me with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “So,” he starts, his voice flat, “how long did it take you to fuck up this time?”
I glare at him. “Nice to see you too, Malerick.”
He arches a brow, his expression dripping with disapproval. “You’ve been in town for what, three minutes? And already you’re the talk of Main Street. Rear-ending the new girl in town? Bold move, little brother. But I’m not surprised, you’ve always been such a fuck-up.”
See, just like our father. Passing judgment without knowing the full story, never missing an opportunity to knock me down, and always acting like he’s some untouchable paragon of virtue.
“It was a fender bender,” I snap, sinking onto the couch. “Barely a scratch. And she’s the one who hit me.”
“Uh-huh.” Mal crosses his arms, leaning against the doorway. “And the part where half the town saw you flirting with her in the middle of the street? Was that part of the plan, or were you just feeling reckless?”
“I wasn’t flirting,” I say, though even I don’t believe it.
Mal smirks, that infuriating twitch of his lips that used to piss me off when we were kids. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Ledger.”
I let out a sharp breath, running a hand through my hair. “It wasn’t like that. She hit my car, and I?—”
“And you decided to be a dick about it?” Mal interrupts, shaking his head. “She’s the new girl in town, and you’re already sniffing around. You’ll never change.”
“She’s the one who rear-ended me,” I insist. “And if she’s new, maybe she should learn how to fucking drive.”
Mal snorts. “Yeah, because that’s the mature response.”
“Why do you even care?” I snap, standing. “What’s it to you if I piss off the new girl? Which I didn’t do. It’s like she saw me and decided to hate me.”
I of course won’t tell him that I already know her. That we had a very heated one night truth or dare chat . . . and she fucking ditched me.
She.
Fucking.
Ditched.
Me.
And now she’s the one offended. How does that make sense?
Mal’s jaw tightens, his expression shifting to something darker. “Because, Ledger, the last thing we need is you making enemies right now. Somehow people still don’t like the Timberbridge brothers. We fucked up, you know that? By not coming back when the town’s sweetheart—Mom—needed us. Did you know she died because of us? That we killed her?”
His words hit like a gut punch. I stagger under their weight, my fists clenching at my sides.
“We didn’t fucking kill her,” I growl, the words snapping out of me, but they don’t feel as strong as I want them to. My voice cracks, betraying the tightness clawing its way up my throat.
“She died because of fucking cancer. Stage four pancreatic cancer. By the time she found out it was already too late. It was everywhere, Mal. And the stubborn woman refused to tell us until we—all of us—were in the same room.” I stop, unable to force out the rest. The image of her frail body, her tired eyes, and her too-thin hands gripping mine is burned into my mind.
I’m aware that her death wasn’t my fault and yet I still blame myself.
Every what if screams at me in the silence: What if I’d answered her calls? What if I’d come home? What if I’d made time instead of assuming I had more? Instead of deciding it was some nonsense plot to make us a fucking family. The family she could never have because she . . . let it go, Ledger. She’s at peace and there’s nothing you can do.
I take a shaky breath, but it doesn’t help.
“I know. Don’t you think I fucking know that?” His pain mirrors my own, raw and exposed, but he buries it quickly, his jaw ticking. “It doesn’t matter what we know, Ledger. We didn’t show up when it counted, and now we’re the bad guys. That’s what people see. That’s what they’ll always see unless we show them differently.”
I look away, the ache in my chest spreading like wildfire. Mal presses on, his voice dropping lower. “I need you to remind the town why they loved Mom. Why they loved her family. We owe her that much.”
I scoff, bitter laughter escaping before I can stop it. “We’re still the Timberbridge boys, Mal. They hated Dad, and they sure as hell hated us for being his sons.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mal says firmly, his tone unyielding. “Mom wasn’t Dad. The town adored her, and that’s the only reason they won’t run us out. Focus on what I’m about to tell you.”
“Which is?”
“You can’t just fuck the new girl,” Mal says bluntly, pinning me with a hard stare.
I blink, narrowing my eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He exhales, and for the first time, there’s something vulnerable in his expression, like the next words physically hurt him. “She’s not just some random new girl, Ledger. She’s Dante Doherty’s long-lost granddaughter.”
That stops me cold. The name feels like a bomb dropping into the room.
“Galeana Monroe is his granddaughter?” I repeat, disbelief heavy in my voice. “Weren’t they looking for the runaway daughter six months ago?”
“They were,” Mal confirms. “They found out she died and spent months tracking down her kid. Galeana’s the heir.”
“So, what, you’re the sheriff and town gossip now?” I ask, not bothering to hide the bite in my tone.
“No,” he says evenly. “I . . . I just need you to keep an eye on her. Stay away, but make sure no one fucks with her or the inheritance.”
I laugh, the sound hollow. “You’re kidding. I came here to deal with Old Birchwood Timber, not babysit some out-of-towner with a chip on her shoulder.”
“She’s not just any out-of-towner,” Mal says, his tone sharp with warning. “She’s about to inherit Maple Haven. Sure, I need you to figure out how to save Old Birchwood Timber—it’s Mom’s legacy—but do me a favor and keep an eye on Galeana.”
I let out a dry laugh, the sound hollow and biting. “How about this: I sell the fucking company and ditch this town forever.” I step closer, my voice dropping as I jab a finger at him. “Just like you did when you turned eighteen. You fucking ditched us.”
Mal’s jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow. “As I recall, you left too—at sixteen.”
I scoff. Seriously, he thinks it’s the same? I was the last one. He had been gone for years when I left. But instead of saying that, I say, “It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Hockey was my life, Mal. At least when people hit me, it was for a reason—a puck. Not because our father was a drunk piece of shit who thought we made good punching bags.”
Mal flinches, but he hides it well, his face unreadable. “I had to leave before . . .” He trails off, his gaze dropping, and for a second, there’s something raw there, something he doesn’t want me to see.
“Before you couldn’t become some fancy FBI agent?” I finish for him, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “How did that turn out, by the way? Oh, wait. You did it—you became one. And yet, here you are, back in this shithole, playing small-town cop with a power trip.”
His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he exhales slowly, his hands on his hips like he’s trying to keep his cool. “You think this is easy for me? Coming back here? Living in this town with all those fucked up memories. Seeing Mom’s things everywhere, knowing we all failed her?”
I feel my throat tighten, but I shove it down, crossing my arms tighter. “We didn’t fail her, Mal. She was stubborn about everything and if you recall, she fucking failed us first. Sure, I regret not coming when she called but . . . she never came to us when we begged for mercy. Keir, Hopper . . . she abandoned us first. ”
That lands between us like a grenade, the silence after almost deafening. For a second, I swear I see something flicker in his eyes—guilt, regret, maybe both—but then it’s gone, replaced by the same stoic mask he always wears.
“Regardless,” he says once he recovers, “I need you to stay in line while you’re here. No distractions. No fucking around. Especially not with Galeana Monroe.”
I raise an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. “You’re really hung up on her, huh? What’s the deal? She your new favorite charity case? You want to fuck her?”
I hope not because I’d have to kill him.
“As I said, she’s Dante Doherty’s granddaughter,” he snaps, his tone sharp. “And she’s inheriting Maple Haven. Which means she’s about to be one of the most important people in this town, whether she likes it or not.”
I let out a low whistle, shaking my head. “Well, that’s just fucking perfect. The ghost of Christmas past crashes into me—literally—and now I’m supposed to play babysitter?”
He nods. “At least until she claims her inheritance and we know she’s safe.” Mal glares at me, his patience clearly running thin.
“And when is that?”
He blinks a couple of times and shakes his head. “When is what?”
“When will she become our new queen,” I say in a mocking tone.
“Oh that . . .” He shrugs. “I’m trying to figure that out. Need more information, hence why I’m still sticking around.”
“What do you mean, sticking around? Aren’t you the fucking sheriff?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I’ve got more duties than just driving around town,” Mal replies, his tone clipped. He’s clearly over this conversation, but I’m just getting started.
“If you want, I can try to figure that out,” I offer, surprising even myself. Why the hell am I volunteering for anything? I’m not here to play nice or solve Birchwood’s problems. I’m here to check on the company, see if it’s worth keeping or . . . selling.
Not that Mal’s going to let that happen. The almighty sheriff’s dead set against selling it, and me? Well, I’m not exactly here to save the day either. Truth is, part of me just wants to fuck with the fifth element of our fucked-up family: Atlas.
Dad’s bastard. Or as I always call him our bastard little brother.
I don’t even know why Mom left him a piece of Old Birchwood Timber. Maybe she was trying to keep the peace, or maybe she was just too damn kind for her own good. Either way, we’ve already fought the will, and it didn’t change a damn thing. Atlas has his share, and he’s made it clear what he wants: cash.
He wants the money from the sale, plain and simple.
And me?
I want to bury him.
Not literally—though I wouldn’t lose sleep over it—but figuratively? Hell yeah. He fucked with our family by just existing, and now he wants to cash out like he’s entitled to something more than a middle finger.
“Yes, figure out what’s stopping her from getting the company. Convince her that it’s for the best that she takes over—family and all that shit matters.” Mal shakes his head, his expression a mix of exhaustion and exasperation. “You’ve always been good at convincing people to do shit. Can you use your powers for good?”
I smirk, crossing my arms. “I can try to persuade her . . . But don’t worry, Sheriff. I’ll play nice. For now.”
He doesn’t respond, just gives me a long, hard look before turning and heading toward the door.
And as I watch him go, a small, twisted smile tugs at my lips. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s turning something bad into something creative.
Miss New in Town has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. She can glare at me all she wants, spit fire, and pretend she doesn’t remember Italy, but I know better. That spark? That heat? It’s still there.
This time, I’m not letting her slip away.
I’ll start slow—get her to lower her guard, play the long game. Convince her that I’m just here to help, to smooth things over. But when the time’s right, I’m going to have her right where I want her—under me, writhing, begging for more.
I’ll bury my face between those thighs, taste her until she’s shaking, and then do it again just to hear her scream my name. I’ll suck on that nipple she teased me with in Italy, make her arch into me while I bite down just enough to make her gasp.
And then I’ll take my time. Slide into her slow, let her feel every inch of me until she’s clawing at my back, desperate for more.
She wants to play like she’s forgotten me? Fine. I’ll make sure I’m unforgettable this time.
By the time I’m done, she won’t just remember Italy—she’ll never forget me.