Chapter 2
brEWER
Some days called for Hamilton . Others for Rent . Today was definitely a Wicked day.
As I flipped the burgers on my little grill under the awning I’d strung up between my camper and a tent pole I’d hammered into the ground, I hummed along with the soundtrack playing in my ears.
Then, as I gazed out over the acres of pastureland I’d bought a couple of years ago—my first half step toward permanence after five years spent drifting from job to job, learning how to improve my trade from anyone who’d teach me—I went ahead and belted out the chorus of “Defying Gravity” because I could.
Because there was no one around to hear me.
Sunday afternoons on my property were sacred—no interruptions, no phone calls, no clients freaking out at me because I refused to paint the gorgeous, original woodwork of their 1932 Arts-and-Crafts bungalow a cheap, overdone, wrong matte white.
This one day of the week was for relaxing. For grilling half-naked in the freezing cold after a workout, if I wanted to, since no one was around to judge except the lazy dog inside keeping my couch warm.
I knew the fine people of Copper County had been surprised I hadn’t bought a place closer to Copper Lake or to the shops and restaurants of neighboring O’Leary. They’d come up with some wild explanations for my strange behavior, and thanks to my cousin Hayes, who’d lived in town less than a year but had already plugged himself firmly into the gossip matrix, I’d heard them all.
The guys who knew me best assumed this land was an investment and that I liked living in my turquoise-and-white camper… which was accurate.
Some folks thought I’d given away all of my possessions like a modern-day Thoreau, trying to “live deliberately”… which, as Hayes teased, just went to show those folks had never seen my teacup collection.
Others thought I lived out here in consideration of my neighbors so they wouldn’t hear the banging as I renovated the trailer with my own two hands… which made me sound more altruistic than I deserved.
And at least one person—I had to imagine it was Janice Plum since no one else could’ve said it with a straight face—had suggested I might be a time-traveling philanthropist who gave away all my money to support various causes and did historically accurate renovations as an homage to my “actual timeline”… which kinda made me wonder what was in those novels Janice was always reading and whether I needed to check them out myself. You know, for research.
The truth, though, wasn’t that deep: I simply liked being alone.
I liked that I didn’t have to explain or justify myself here.
I liked that my home wasn’t my father’s sprawling, hollow mansion and that every inch of it, however few there were, was mine.
My grandfather used to say that the spaces we inhabit shape us as much as we shape them, and I believed that. So until I was ready to claim a house as my own again—and to have that house claim me—my trailer in the middle of nowhere was the ideal situation.
My phone rang, cutting off my soundtrack and catapulting me out of my peaceful haze. Hayes , the screen said, and I sighed as I let it go to voicemail.
Sunday afternoons were sacred, even from the cousin I loved like a brother. Especially when that cousin had started mentioning my father every time we talked.
Last time, it had been, “Uncle Tony’s been trying to get in touch with you.” The time before that, “My mom says your dad wants to explain about all the business stuff. He didn’t do what they say he did. Can’t you just listen to him?”
Hayes didn’t have all the facts—partly because my dad was a master at playing the victim, partly because Hayes was too young to remember the actual events—but he knew my problems with my dad were about more than his shady business practices. Hayes was trying to play peacemaker, as usual.
But that part of my life was over, and I’d moved on.
An icy breeze blew across the field, sending goose bumps shivering over my bare chest, but fuck it. If I wanted to freeze, it was nobody’s business but mine.
“ Something has changed within me ,” I sang, flipping another burger with a spatula flick.
But before I could recapture the peace of my musical interlude, I recognized the sound of feet crunching on gravel. I turned to find that a silver Audi had, at some point, parked itself at an odd angle next to my truck, and a man was marching toward me, looking like a specter of doom. And not just any man, of course, but the man guaranteed to disrupt my peace like no one else on Earth.
Delaney Monroe.
My current client, the permanent pain in my ass… and the star of thoughts I should not be having about someone paying me to renovate their house, though my brain refused to get that memo.
His hands were clenched into fists as he stalked toward me like his feet were spring-loaded. His face was flushed, blue eyes crackling with anger behind those hot glasses he sometimes wore, and his long coat flapped around him in the breeze. His entire five-foot-eight frame vibrated with indignation.
Despite myself, I enjoyed the show. Delaney was never more gorgeous than when he was righteously pissed off. Fortunately (which was to say, really fucking un fortunately) for me, he seemed to be perpetually pissed off when we were together.
He didn’t slow, and as he got closer, every nerve in my body went on alert—a physical reaction I’d come to associate exclusively with Delaney. It was like my body recognized a coming storm long before it broke—that electric feeling in the air that made the hairs on your arms stand up—only this particular storm was wrapped in a cashmere-blend coat that hugged surprisingly fit shoulders and had a mouth that seemed permanently set in a displeased line I couldn’t stop thinking about softening.
“Brewer,” he called, voice sharp enough to cut through whatever remained of my peaceful afternoon.
I pulled my earbuds free, pocketing them as I responded, “Delaney. Hey. What’s?—?”
“Don’t Hey , Delaney me. You stole my cabinets.” He jabbed a finger into my chest.
I blinked, as stunned by the contact as I was by the accusation. Had Delaney ever touched me before? The way my skin lit up at the touch suggested he hadn’t. Sure as fuck not like this.
I let out an extremely eloquent “Huh?”
“Don’t play innocent.” Another jab landed against my bare chest, and the contact ricocheted through me. “I talked to Hen. I know you canceled my order.”
“Oh, right.” I couldn’t help the half smile that tugged at my mouth. “That.”
I’d known this conversation was coming; I just hadn’t expected it to happen here, on my day off, while I was half-dressed and covered in grill smoke, with Delaney’s hand—well, fingertip, but still—touching me.
“Yes, that ,” Delaney snapped. “The tiny matter of that multi-thousand-dollar purchase we discussed at length.” His voice sharpened further. “I sent you an email. I linked the exact cabinets I wanted—salvaged metal, ridiculously expensive shipping, worth every penny—and followed up the next day. Do you remember what you said?”
I tilted my head slightly—trying to remember the precise conversation wasn’t easy under the circumstances—but he barreled on before I could speak.
“I said, ‘Did you see the cabinets I picked, Brewer?’ And you nodded. And I said, ‘And?’ And you said”—he dropped his voice in what I assumed was an attempt to imitate my deeper tone—“‘That style won’t work in your house.’ Remember?”
I nodded once. That, I remembered. I’d spent three hours that night researching period-appropriate alternatives that would actually fit his kitchen’s dimensions without requiring us to move the gas line or strip the original plaster from the walls to square them up.
“And then I said,” Delaney continued, “‘I don’t care what you think about my design choices, Brewer. You’re a builder, not an interior designer. These cabinets are exactly what I want for my kitchen, and I’m going to order them today based on the dimensions in your plans.’ Do you remember that ?”
There was a beat of silence where the only sound was the rustle of the awning in the wind and the crackle of the fire in the grill. I looked down at where his finger was still pressed against my sternum, then back to his face. For one second, our eyes locked… and then he yanked his hand back like he’d been burned.
I found my gaze following his hand, noticing the way he flexed his fingers at his side, and wondered if he’d felt it, too—that strange charge that had sparked between us.
“I remember,” I said finally, managing to keep my voice even.
“But you canceled the order anyway. In direct defiance of my instructions.” He set his hands on his hips. “Admit it.”
“Do you remember what I said?”
He rolled his eyes with such melodramatic flair it was almost impressive. “You said, ‘Trust me, Delaney.’”
I nodded, watching his face carefully. Those three words seemed to be at the heart of our ongoing battle.
Trust was a funny word, I knew. Simple but not always easy. Some people, like my dad, expected it without doing a damn thing to earn it. But that was exactly why I’d spent years building a reputation where my word meant something, where clients could trust me to do right by their homes.
The fact that Delaney refused to, despite me giving my all to his renovation, felt personal. It hurt.
“And did you?” Annoyed as I was, I didn’t raise my voice or attempt to get in his face. I’d learned as a kid that when you’re bigger than average, it’s a dick move to make someone else feel small. “I know what I’m doing, Delaney.”
“Trust isn’t something people fling around like Mardi Gras beads in my world, Brewer. How can I trust you when you go rogue constantly and never communicate? When you undermine me at every turn?”
“Undermine you,” I scoffed. “I have never once?—”
“Need I remind you that you and your tile guys turned my clean-lined bathroom into a goddamn mosaic Alhambra?”
“Because the tile you picked was meant for a much larger space with a freestanding shower. I gave you choices that would work?—”
“Three different colors of the same tile is not choices . That’s like telling a toddler they can have broccoli or spinach.” He huffed, sounding exactly like that toddler.
I lifted an eyebrow, fighting wholly inappropriate amusement. “—and you admitted you liked it.”
“I…” He hesitated, and I caught a flash of something cross his face. “That’s not the point,” he managed, jabbing my chest again. “Not the point at all.”
“Isn’t it?” I demanded. “Isn’t that the entire point?”
I’d meant to sound firmer, more businesslike, not so damn breathless. But I found myself distracted by the warmth of his fingertip against my skin and the way his hair was slightly ruffled from what I assumed was his angry drive over. His cheeks were flushed pink with indignation, his blue eyes bright behind his glasses, and despite my growing irritation, I couldn’t help but notice how goddamn attractive he was.
His finger rested against me for a second too long as his gaze slid from my face down to my bare shoulders, lingering for a moment on my chest before darting away.
Heat blossomed under my skin that had nothing to do with anger.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, and I blinked, wondering for a second if he’d caught me checking him out.
“You do?”
“Yes. And don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says you know better than I do! The look I’ve seen on your face a billion times. You don’t know better than I do about my house, Brewer.” Delaney’s voice grew louder, more heated. “I might be… I might be resigned to the bathroom situation. Because the tiles and fixtures are objectively beautiful, even though they’re not what I asked for?—”
I rolled my eyes.
“Just like, through sheer luck,” he went on, face bright red now, “I don’t despise the creamy color you used in my bedroom, though I will remind you that I specifically asked for sleek white. And yes, I agreed that the refinished floors in the living room look nice, though I still maintain that the vinyl planking I picked out would have looked equally good and been more durable! Me agreeing doesn’t mean you’re right; it means I’m an incredibly adaptable, easygoing person !”
I stifled a laugh at the idea of Delaney being “easygoing” and restrained myself to a nod. How could he manage to sound so wronged while still agreeing that he liked the end result?
The man was a fucking porcupine, all bristles and quills for no reason I could fathom. But—and this was the part that really got me—he was not the only prickly client I’d had over the years. So why the fuck did this one get under my skin so badly?
And when the fuck had I started thinking his quills were as hot as they were annoying?
This wasn’t like me. I was a calm, steady person. Truly easygoing, the way Delaney claimed to be. I generally wasn’t interested in confrontation, and I’d rather walk away from a situation than fight about it. If someone wasn’t on board with that, I didn’t let them get close enough to get under my skin. But something about this guy, this one particular guy, had burrowed in and stuck there. And it was driving me crazy.
I didn’t get him, I didn’t get my own reaction to him, and I didn’t like it.
I caught a few muttered words as Delaney turned slightly away—something about “power trip” and “ego the size of a planet.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
If he only knew how much time I spent worrying about his house, how many extra hours I put in to make sure everything was perfect. How I’d driven to four different salvage yards trying to find period-appropriate doorknobs only to come up empty. How I’d spent evenings sketching kitchen cabinet designs that would give him the industrial look he wanted without compromising the house’s character.
But Delaney had decided I was the enemy, and nothing I did seemed capable of changing that. And I shouldn’t care as much as I did.
“The customer is always right, Brewer,” he said, turning back to me. “That’s literally Contractor 101 . I hire you, you do what I tell you. Easy peasy. I shouldn’t have to explain this.”
“You really shouldn’t.” In fact, I wished he’d stop trying.
His eyes narrowed, and I could see something vulnerable flickering beneath the bluster. “I… I know what you’re thinking.”
“Again?” I lifted an eyebrow. “So weird how you think you can do that.”
“You’re thinking about that ridiculous contract I signed, aren’t you? The design approval clause, the contractor oversight clause. You’re thinking that means you’re in charge. Well, it doesn’t.” Delaney lifted his chin. “That contract wouldn’t hold up in court.”
I regarded him steadily. The contract was completely standard and definitely enforceable, and I was pretty sure he knew it.
But that didn’t stop him from continuing, “In fact, it should be voided completely since the work was supposed to be finished before I moved in, and it wasn’t. So…” He trailed off meaningfully.
I glanced down at his hand on my chest again, and once more, he snatched his hand away guiltily… but not before we both caught sight of the angry red scar running across his index finger—the result of his ill-advised attempt to move an electrical outlet on his own. An attempt that had flooded his living room when the frozen pipe burst after he’d knocked out power to the thermostat.
Coming after he’d nearly set the place on fire trying to sand a door that was coated in oil-based stain, it was a miracle he hadn’t seriously injured himself.
My jaw tightened at the memory of getting that panicked call in the middle of the night, of finding him standing in ankle-deep water, looking so defeated it had physically hurt to see.
“So,” I agreed, keeping my voice neutral despite the memory.
His chin jutted out. “There’s nothing in the contract that says I can’t work on my own home. I was helping you move things along faster?—”
“You were trying to get things done your way… even though I explained why it wouldn’t work,” I countered, my voice coming out gravelly since I was still caught in the memory of what might have happened. “You wouldn’t listen. You just had to try to do it yourself?—”
“Not because I wanted to,” he insisted. “I’m fully aware that I’m not a DIY guy. That working with tools is not one of my natural gifts. That I wasn’t… wasn’t built for that. There’s a reason I’m the only Monroe who can’t change his own oil.” He sniffed. “But you’ve driven me to DIY, Brewer. What else is a man supposed to do when his contractor can’t seem to understand basic instructions?”
I shook my head, feeling my calm exterior starting to crack. “It’s not about obedience! It’s not about a power struggle. It’s about safety. It’s about getting your house done right . It’s about… and please hear these words when I say them… about trusting the person you hired to do the job.” I was closer to losing my cool than I’d been in years, and I hated that feeling. I blew out a breath and finished calmly, “ I know what I’m doing, Delaney. Satisfaction guaranteed, remember?”
Delaney’s nostrils flared, and for a second, I thought maybe this time he’d heard me…
But no.
“Or you could simply do what I tell you,” he shot back. “In fact, I came here today to tell you exactly that. If you can’t accept that I’m in charge, Brewer, then I’ll need to find a contractor who can.”
Against my will, his words brought me back to a different time, a different conversation.
I didn’t ask for your opinion on the deal because I didn’t have to, son. If you can’t accept that I’m in charge, go be your own boss. See how easy it is when you’re the one making the tough calls.
I’d taken my father at his word that day. I’d walked out of his office and out of his life. And I was a better man for it.