Chapter 1 #2
Janice stared at me, mouth open and face blank, like I’d whacked her with a stick.
See, this was what happened when I engaged. No matter how helpful my suggestions, people here just looked at me like I was speaking an alien language.
“You have a good day now,” I said, smiling a little harder. Then I bleeped the locks on my car and headed for O’Leary Hardware.
“Sir! Excuse us, sir!” Some adorable little girls in scout uniforms stopped me outside the store and shook a coffee can in my direction. The few coins inside jingled. “Would you like to donate to the Shoemaker Day Career Fair our troop is organizing?”
I glanced from the girls to their chaperone, a dad holding a coffee cup in one hand and a phone playing sports commentary in the other.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if I’d heard right—Shoemaker Day? Were we encouraging shoemaking as a career choice in this economy?—but I heard Tam’s voice in my head and kept my mouth shut
Small towns are all about helping each other out, but you don’t have to be Dictator Delaney about it. Your opinions aren’t always helpful.
I pictured my newborn niece standing here one day, her own plea for… Jesus, shoemaking funds?… and eagerly awaiting a response. Would I want her to get a clipped “No, thanks,” or would I want the man to have a little consideration for her feelings?
“Sure. I’ll donate,” I said, realizing my smile wasn’t quite so forced as I pulled out my phone. “What’s your Venmo?”
“Oh, um.” The girls looked from me to the dad and back. “We don’t have that.”
I tried to stifle my irritation, but how was I supposed to hold back from giving an opinion when I encountered such a grievous lack of good leadership, I ask you?
“You don’t take Venmo? Or any cash app?” I addressed this to the man, who’d finally glanced up from his phone. “Did you know a recent study by the Federal Reserve found that fifty-four percent of people don’t carry cash on them? You could be getting twice as many donations if you took them electronically.”
The guy blinked.
With a sigh, I pulled out the emergency $20 I kept tucked into my phone case and stuffed it in the coffee can. “Here,” I told the girls. “Good luck with your… shoes or whatever.”
The inside of the hardware store was boiling hot and crowded—two of my least favorite things—and the big display under the “Snow Shovels!” sign was incomprehensibly empty. Was I too late? Had they sold out?
The answer came when I decided the most expedient way to ask was to get in the checkout line—a line that was moving slower than a taxi in Midtown at rush hour since Hen, the white-haired proprietor, felt the need to chat with every single customer while he rang up their purchases.
“No snow this week,” I heard him say with confidence. He did a little jig behind the counter like one of those puppets that flail when you pull its string. “See that? M’bad leg always feels achy when there’s a storm coming, but spry means dry! Gonna be cold, though. My feet are itching like nobody’s business.”
Several people nodded seriously.
I glanced at my phone, confirming that, indeed, the National Weather Service was still warning about significant snowfall. But apparently, even when trained meteorologists were predicting a big storm, the local populace took their weather cues from an octogenarian with foot rot.
Am I the only one who finds this beyond bizarre? Really? Just me?
Sweat prickled on the back of my neck, and I unbuttoned my jacket.
I hadn’t realized just how… Copper County… this town was when I’d come here on visits. I’d been seduced by the scenery, charmed by the slower pace, pleasantly surprised by the diversity. I’d thought it was just another town, and I could be as happy here as I was anywhere else. It wasn’t until after I’d signed on the dotted line that I learned how wrong I’d been.
And, if I was being honest, that hadn’t been my only fuckup in recent memory.
Against my will, I remembered the autumn day I’d walked into the little bakery across the street for my first meeting with the contractor Tam and all her friends recommended.
I’d been armed with inspiration photos, a firm renovation budget, and a take-charge attitude—a requirement when you were a person of slightly below statistically average height dealing with a power-tool bro so you could make it clear you weren’t the sort of person to be trifled with.
But then Brewer had stood up (and up, and up) to greet me with a smile and a “Delaney, right?”
His eyes had crinkled at the corners when he smiled—a genuine smile that reached all the way to those eyes, making the room feel suddenly warmer—and when he’d stretched out one ginormous paw, I’d been mesmerized by his calloused fingers and broad palm. I’d had the mortifying thought that I wanted those fingers to touch more than just my hand.
I’d managed to mumble out something about “inspired by industrial spaces” and “clean lines,” but I couldn’t have told you what else I said. My brain had short-circuited the moment he’d said my name in that deep, woodsmoke voice, and my very last coherent thought had taken a sabbatical when he’d accidentally brushed his knee against mine under the table.
Brewer had spent the next hour patiently going through my plans, asking questions and offering suggestions in that low rumble that felt like velvet sliding across my skin. Meanwhile, I’d fixated on how the afternoon light caught the golden-brown highlights in his hair and how his forearms flexed when he reached for his mug of coffee—which he took with cream and sugar, no fucks given, like he’d never heard of calories or was too enlightened and real to care about bullshit like that.
A voice in my head had sighed, Tam and everyone were right! You can trust this guy, Delaney. And I’d listened.
Pro tip, friends: Never sign legally binding contracts while lust-drunk on a man who looks like he could bench-press your car with one hand while making you a soufflé with the other. It won’t end well.
It wasn’t until our first real meeting at the house a week later that I realized the voice in my “head” actually belonged to my penis. My dick was a notoriously bad judge of character (see also: every one of my exes), and since Brewer was out-of-my-league gorgeous and probably straight, he was exactly the kind of guy it would point me toward… especially since I’d been in the middle—or, as it turned out, closer to the beginning —of a months-long dry spell.
That day, Brewer had shown up to my house in a stupidly tight henley that accentuated his stupidly firm muscles and a tool belt that accentuated his stupidly trim hips, examined my bathroom plans, and suggested—no, announced —several changes.
That was when I’d discovered two things: one, my initial dick-straction had blinded me to the fact that Brewer Barnum was the most infuriatingly stubborn, arrogant, my-way-or-the-highway builder in North America… and two, I’d signed a contract giving him far more “design approval” authority than I ever should have agreed to.
Those crinkly smile-eyes? A tactical weapon.
The attentive listening? Just gathering ammunition.
The competent hands? Well… I had nothing to say about those since they were admittedly very competent… at building things and at driving me absolutely insane.
But since that fucking contract appeared to be legally binding, whether I liked it or not—and I didn’t —I was still very much…
“Brewer’s client, right?” a voice said.
I turned my head and found an older gentleman in a plaid scarf smiling at me. In his arms, he held a tiny, trembling dog with puffy hair, bulging eyes, and a face that suggested it was just as appalled to see me as I was to see it.
Beneath the arm of my cashmere blend coat, four small, decades-old puncture marks throbbed, reminding me of their presence.
I leaned away. “Delaney,” I said stiffly. “And yes. Technically.”
The dog let out a sharp, high-pitched yip that made my blood curdle as he lunged toward me.
“Admiral Barkington,” the man admonished, tightening his grip. “Hush.” To me, he added, “Don’t be afraid. For the Admiral, barking’s a sign of friendship.”
Affronted, I lifted my chin. “I’m not afraid …”
A fear of dogs—especially small and harmless ones—would be foolish. Everyone knew that.
The creature was one-twentieth my size and had no opposable thumbs.
He hadn’t taken a dozen Intro to Krav Maga classes a few years ago and nailed not only the technique but also the hot instructor.
“…I’m justifiably cautious,” I concluded firmly. “There’s a difference.”
“Of course.” The man beamed. “The Admiral is a very discerning judge of character, too.”
The dog and I shared a dubious look.
“I expect he likes you because you smell like Brewer,” he went on. “The Admiral’s loved Brewer since their first meeting, you know.”
“Figures,” I muttered.
He scratched at the dog’s fluffy head fondly. “You’re Tam Monroe’s brother, aren’t you?” the man went on. “The one who doesn’t play hockey?”
His words were enough to distract me from the small demon he carried.
“The one who’s a journalist,” I corrected.
Anyone who’d come from a family like mine knew there was a difference between being a Monroe followed by an asterisk (the * not-a-hockey-player Monroe ) and being something you’d made yourself. Something you were proud of.
“Hey, Delaney!” Hen called, a tease in his voice. “Hurry up, kiddo. I can’t keep waitin’ on ya all day.”
I huffed and stepped around the Admiral in a wide circle with a nod of farewell to his owner.
Hen’s eyes twinkled merrily as I approached. “Bet I know why you’re here. You’re here because you need…”
“A snow shovel,” I said.
“Your vanity,” he finished. Then he cocked his head in dismay. “You don’t have a snow shovel?”
“No, I… wait.” I did a mental one-eighty, forgetting about snow shovels and impending storms, about meddling Coppertians in general and one very large one in particular. “Are you talking about the bathroom vanity I ordered? It came in early?”
Giddy excitement and relief flooded me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed a win today until Hen provided one.
“Yep. Truck dropped it off yesterday,” he confirmed. “I was gonna call Brewer tomorrow to come get it with a couple of those helpers of his. It’s a big ol’ thing.”
“And it arrived in one piece?” I asked. “The cement slab top? The metal bottom with the?—”
“Clunky feet?” He nodded. “Looks a little rusted, if you ask me, but?—”
I waved a hand. “That’s intentional. It’s industrial chic.”
“If you say so.”
“Do you know what this means, Hen?” I braced both hands on the counter and leaned toward him. “This means the downstairs bathroom can be finished soon! Maybe even this week. One more project done.”
One step closer to having the renovation over and Brewer out of my business forever.
I was ready to bust out a spry little jig of my own.
“You’re my new favorite person,” I gushed.
Hen laughed. “Glad to hear it. I was worried you’d still be sore over your kitchen cabinets, but?—”
My happy bubble wobbled and popped. “Hang on. What’s wrong with my kitchen cabinets?”
“Oh, I just meant how Brew had to put the kibosh on those fancy metal ones you originally wanted.” Hen’s mustache twitched like his lips were shrugging. “But you’re better off with the custom ones he’s gonna make you. I never heard of him doing custom cabinets for a client before.” He stroked his mustache. “You’re pretty lucky, huh?”
For a moment, I lost the ability to speak. The store around me and all the people in it disappeared into a white haze. A rushing sound, like the engine of a train heading right for me, filled my ears.
Whatever I was, it was far, far from lucky .
I swallowed. “Brewer canceled my cabinet order? The one I placed myself?”
“Well, yeah. He said he’d told you those cabinets wouldn’t work with your house, and he didn’t want you to waste your money. That’s just Brewer’s way.” Hen sounded nearly as besotted as Janice-with-the-flyers. “It’s why his clients love him so much, and… uh… Delaney? Kiddo, you look kinda… peaky.”
Yes, no doubt I was.
Peaky was a natural result of a man’s brain short-circuiting.
Brewer hadn’t just ignored my input this time. He hadn’t just tweaked things without consulting me. He’d canceled my damn cabinets. The ones I’d researched. I’d ordered. I’d paid for.
For months, I’d let him get away with his attitude—a purse of his lips at my fixture choices, a huff when I suggested a layout tweak—but somewhere along the way, my entire renovation had been hijacked by Brewer Barnum and his big hands, big shoulders, and bigger-than-life ego.
And it wasn’t just the house. The past few months had been a slow, relentless stream of reminders that what I liked—hell, who I was—just didn’t work around here. Despite Tam’s endless lectures, I was never going to be a wick-dipping enthusiast or a leg-pain-meteorology guy, and I refused to try to change myself just to win anyone’s approval.
That wasn’t adapting; that was losing .
And I refused to lose, especially to Brewer Barnum.
I exhaled slowly and forced a pleasant, deadly polite smile on my face. “Hen,” I said, voice tight, “would you excuse me? I need to have a little chat with my contractor.”
“Now, Delaney,” Hen called after me. “Don’t go off half-cocked?—”
But he was too late. I was already fully cocked, and both barrels were aimed at a very large man in a very snug tool belt.