Chapter 3 #2
“Fair and right?” Brewer quoted me with a little smile.
A startled laugh escaped me. “Yeah, that. But sometimes people feel like they don’t have a voice. I like to think I give them one.”
“That’s a pretty idealistic goal.” Brewer looked thoughtful for a moment. “Because justice is subjective, isn’t it? Every villain is the hero of his own tale.”
“Well… yes.” The unexpected depth of his response caught me off guard. “That’s… that’s true. But it’s not up to me to decide. I put the facts out there because everyone deserves to have their story told, especially the little guy.”
Brewer cast off his serious expression and forced a smile. “Well, good luck with that, I guess. I’ll call Hen about your vanity first thing. Maybe he can spare Theo Ross to help me, if Theo doesn’t have art class.”
I struggled to switch gears. “Oh. Yeah. Okay. And if you and Theo need to hire a couple other guys, too, that’s fine. Please feel empowered to do that.”
Brewer’s eyes danced. “I will. Thank you, boss. But we’re moving a vanity, not an armored car. It should be a two-man job at most, unless your vanity’s made out of concrete or something.” He chuckled lightly.
I bit my lip.
Brewer shut his eyes. “Delaney, tell me it’s not made of concrete.”
“It’s not,” I assured him. “Not… entirely. It’s a custom concrete top on a metal base, and it’s going to look amazing . It’s industrial but rustic at the same time, and?—”
“Please tell me you measured the space?—”
“Brewer.” I held up a hand. “I don’t want to fight with you, but I would like to remind you once again that this is my house and that I’m not incompetent.”
“I never said?—”
“I’ve learned my lesson about trying to move electrical outlets or refinish doors, but I’m perfectly capable of reading the measurements you provided and ordering a vanity that fits. I understand inches and feet.”
“It’s not that simple,” Brewer insisted. “That space is tricky. And because of the unexpected repairs to the living room and dining room?—”
My neck heated at this unnecessary reminder of my fuckups.
“—and the cost of those metal cabinets I assume you still want for the kitchen?—”
“I do.” I lifted my chin. “In fact, I’d like you to reorder them today.”
Brewer’s nostrils flared. “—we can’t do any reframing or move any of the plumbing if you want to stay on budget, so the vanity needs to fit perfectly?—”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Since I’m the person who created the budget, I am very aware, which is why I made sure this vanity is exactly as long as the little alcove where the current vanity is. Pop that one out, pop this one in.”
Brewer huffed out a breath. “Sure thing, boss ,” he said before draining his coffee, rinsing out his cup, and heading for the door.
Needless to say, nothing about the peace-offering croissants actually got us back on track. I spent the next few hours alternating between staring at the notes for my article and replaying our interaction, thinking of a million better ways I could have handled it. There’d been a moment in there where Brewer and I had actually had a conversation that wasn’t ruined by my weird one-sided lust or his insistence that I didn’t know how to manage my own house renovation, and I’d liked it.
At precisely ten o’clock, my laptop chimed with an incoming FaceTime call from my editor, and I accepted, smoothing my expression into something professional.
“Marjorie, thank fuck,” I said. “Tell me about complex journalistic ethics and give me a deadline. I need normal right now.”
Marjorie Levine laughed, the sound warm and gravelly from decades of forbidden cigarettes she still indulged in “only at Christmas and on deadline days”—which meant at least once a week. Her home office backdrop featured the same chaotic bookshelf I’d seen in our calls for years, manuscript pages tacked to a corkboard visible behind her head.
“Well, hello to you, too, sunshine,” she said. “Oooh, loving the shelves behind you.”
I turned to look at the dark wood shelves that gleamed in the winter sunshine and scowled. “Hmph. They would’ve been nicer painted white.”
Marjorie wrinkled her nose. “You really think that would’ve been better?”
The truth was, I didn’t know what I thought. The shelves looked good, I had to admit, but I’d wanted them white. I’d asked for them to be white. And Brewer had insisted white wouldn’t work.
“Okay,” Marjorie said when I didn’t respond. “What’s got your boxers in a twist?”
“Nothing.” I sighed. “Everything.”
“Oh, goody. How about you give it to me in twenty words or less,” she teased, her brown-gray curls dancing.
I snorted. Marjorie was famous for saying if you couldn’t pitch her a story in twenty words, she didn’t want the rest.
I held up a hand and counted off on my fingers. “I accidentally burned down my contractor’s camper, and now he and his dog are living with me.” I pondered for a moment, then added, “And he’s hot.”
Marjorie’s jaw dropped. “Sold. And I’m going to need a few more words, babe.”
I shook my head. “I don’t wanna get into it, really. Suffice it to say, things here are…” I waved toward the bookshelves. “…complicated. Let’s talk about Empire Ridge instead.”
“Tell me what you got.” She sat back in her seat. “It goes without saying we need this one wrapped asap, houseguest or not.”
A tremendous crash echoed down the hall, followed by a loud curse.
“What the hell was that?” Marjorie demanded, leaning closer to her screen like she might be able to peek around the corner of mine.
“My new bathroom vanity, pretty sure.” I rubbed at my neck. “I should go see what’s happening. I hate to do this, but could we reschedule?—?”
“No, wait! I want to know about your investigation. Did your whistleblower send over the financial stuff? Was it the smoking gun he claimed it was?” Her eyes practically sparkled with editorial excitement.
Meanwhile, more cursing and a burst of raucous laughter filtered down the hall.
“He did, and it looks promising… at least in terms of implicating Empire Ridge. It doesn’t do much to clear Harmon’s name, unfortunately. But I’ll keep looking,” I assured her. “This story matters.”
“That’s my star reporter.” She beamed. “The editor at Counterpoints practically salivated when I pitched this, by the by. ‘Whistleblower reveals corporate conspiracy to frame his family business’? It’s everything their readers love. A redemption story for the little guy. Making the bad guys pay. And who better to uncover it all than a reporter who moved to a town just a couple of hours away?”
“No pressure or anything,” I deadpanned.
She grinned. “You get those documents, write it up in trademark Monroe style, and… mwah. ” She kissed her fingers exuberantly. “I can see the Avery Decker Award nomination now.”
I laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“It will be nice,” she corrected. “And…” She wiggled her eyebrows. “If you need another dangling carrot to motivate you, I’ve also got two more leads for your next big story. Door number one, tech billionaire buys previously uninhabited island near the Philippines to build eco-utopia but ends up destroying coral reefs and displacing fishermen. Or door number two, unexplained tourist deaths at an exclusive resort in Costa Rica. I’m guessing you’ll go for the second one since you speak Spanish.”
“I… I guess,” I said. The truth was, neither of those stories gave me the usual rush of excitement I got at the prospect of uncovering some hidden truth, finding justice for the deserving, or giving people a voice. All I could think was hot, humid, crowded. “You know me, Marjorie. One story at a time, right?”
“I know, I know.” She waved a hand. “But can you at least tell me?—”
“Ow!” someone yelled from the hallway. “Watch the hand, asshole!”
“ Shit . Gotta go, Marjorie!” I said, already rushing out of the office… and into a scene pulled from a home renovation disaster show.
Theo stood in the hallway while Brewer was crowded into the small opening of the bathroom. Between them stood my beautiful vanity, wedged into the doorway at an odd angle.
“Hey, Delaney,” Theo said cheerfully, his blue eyes lighting when he spotted me.
Brewer’s head snapped up, his eyes locked with mine, and electricity arced between us. His expression was carefully blank, but I could see the tension in his jaw.
Always that damn jaw.
“Hey, boss,” he said, his forced pleasantness doing nothing to mask the I-told-you-so lurking beneath. “Having a slight issue with the install.”
“Are you?” I crossed my arms, trying to project confidence rather than the sinking feeling of dread in my stomach. “I couldn’t tell.”
“Quick question. When you were ordering a vanity long enough to fit the space, did you also take into account the width of the opening and the depth of the vanity?” he asked.
“Yes. Pfft. Obviously. The width of the door is thirty inches, and the vanity is thirty inches?—”
“Uh-huh. Was that with or without the custom cement counter that’s been welded in place?” he shot back.
“With…” I began.
Brewer shook his head once.
“…out,” I finished meekly. “ Fuck .”
Brewer nodded. “That about sums it up. This thing is fucking enormous?—”
“Hey! Don’t shame the vanity for being girthy, Brew.” Theo patted the countertop like its feelings might be hurt. “Some folks like ’em big. Right, Delaney?”
I narrowed my eyes, but Theo merely smiled back innocently.
“Girthy or not, can’t you guys, like, maneuver it?” I asked Brewer.
He folded his arms over his chest, copying my stance. “Maneuver a thirty-four-inch vanity into a thirty-inch opening?”
“I mean, finesse it and guide it and move it around.” I made a twisting motion with my hands to demonstrate. “Sometimes you can fit a big thing in a tight space if you find the right angle.”
Theo coughed lightly. Brewer’s cheeks reddened, and so did mine.
I tried glaring at Theo again, but he seemed to be inspecting the ceiling.
“We’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Besides, the issue isn’t just getting it in the… in the opening.” Brewer glared angrily at Theo, though Theo hadn’t said a word. “It’s that the space isn’t deep enough to accommodate it, even once we get it in.”
“Actually, Brew,” Theo began. “If properly motivated and with the right thrusting?—”
“ Theo ,” Brewer and I said in unison, and Theo grinned.
“The vanity sticks out from the wall about six inches too far,” Brewer said impatiently, “and?—
Theo opened his mouth.
“Theo Ross, if you say one word about six inches, I will call your mother!” After a pause, Brewer added, “Or Bennett.”
Theo laughed. To me, he added, “Bennett’s my partner. He owns the observatory house we live in across the lake. You’d like him, Delaney. He lived in New York for a while, like you did, and he’s smart like you, too.”
“Oh?” I blinked. “That’s?—”
Theo’s smile turned a bit sly. “And he also likes ’em girthy.”
“Theo,” I said impatiently, “could you give us a minute to discuss this?”
“Sure.” Theo waved a hand. “I’ll just stand here. Feel free to?—”
“ Theo ,” Brewer snapped.
Theo gave us both a grin so full of mischief and good humor that I nearly smiled back. “Come to think of it, why don’t I step outside?” His boots clomped cheerily out the front door, and he closed it with a click .
I met Brewer’s gaze. “So, what would you suggest we do?”
“Me?” Brewer pressed one big hand to his big chest, and his eyes widened. “Oh, gosh, that’s above my pay grade, Delaney. I mean, I’m not paid to have an opinion, right? ’Cause you’re the boss?” He leaned against the wall. I tried not to notice the way sweat dampened a little curl of hair above his ear or the way his biceps muscles strained the fabric of his shirt.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine, then. What if you get rid of the door and put in a pocket door?”
For half a second, he almost looked impressed. Then he shrugged. “We could. Except reframing and moving the electrical would cost money, like I told you earlier.”
I rubbed at my forehead, where my nagging headache had become a full-blown throbbing nightmare. “What if you?—?”
Brewer’s face softened, and he leaned toward me, bracing his hands on the vanity. “Do you care about it that deeply, Delaney? Is this vanity really so important when there are a million vanities you might like just as much that would actually fit this space?”
Brewer’s reasonable, sympathetic tone was annoying. I didn’t want him to be gentle or understanding. I wanted him to be smug and insufferable so I could maintain my righteous indignation.
Objectively, I knew he was right. But admitting he was right meant admitting I was wrong .
And after everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, after the disappointing conversation with Marjorie about my story…
I just didn’t have it in me to be wrong again.
“What you’re saying is that I’m stuck with whatever you think is best for my house after all.” I sounded like a petulant child, and I hated that.
“No. What I’m saying is that you have options. Keep this—” Brewer kicked lightly at the vanity. “—and change the budget. Or keep the budget and change this. But Delaney… something’s gotta give.”
He was talking about the vanity, obviously, but when our eyes met and my breath caught, it felt like he was talking about something else. Something more.
I swallowed hard, watching how his chest rose and fell with each breath, how his pupils flared when our eyes locked. The room felt ten degrees hotter, my skin hypersensitive under his gaze.
For the first time, a startling thought crystallized in my mind: What if Brewer felt this too? What if that intensity in his eyes, the careful way he maintained his distance, wasn’t just annoyance or professional frustration but something else entirely? The possibility sent a jolt of heat straight to my core.
“Trust me,” he said softly.
I wanted to. Well, I almost wanted to. But I couldn’t.
I looked away first and toyed with the corner of my glasses. “Show me some vanity options,” I said imperiously. “ Real options. Not three color variations of the thing you’ve already decided I should get.”
Though I wasn’t looking directly at Brewer, I’d swear I caught his lips curving into that sideways-hook smile for an instant, there and then gone.
“Okay,” he said.
Before I could formulate a response, Theo poked his head back in.
“So, we returning Mr. Girthy?” His gaze darted between us. “Or do you two need more time alone?”
“No,” Brewer said, his voice suddenly brisk and professional. “Delaney’s decided to return the vanity, so let’s get it back on the truck.”
“Okey doke,” Theo said easily. “I figured that might be the case, so I called Hen while I was waiting and told him what was up. Delaney, he said to tell you not to worry about getting your money back ’cause a buddy of his works for the manufacturer and owes him a favor. He’ll make sure they take the vanity without any ridiculous restocking fees or whatever.”
I blinked. “Wait, really? Hen called in a favor for me? Please tell him thank you.”
Theo shrugged. “I will, but don’t sweat it. He’s got a million buddies who owe him a million favors—like, if there were a hardware mafia, he’d be the don of Western New York—and he likes you.”
He did ? I blinked again, this new information more surprising than the last, but before I could formulate a reply, Brewer said gruffly, “Vanity, Theo. Move it along,” and then he and Theo got busy.
It turned out that unwedging a stuck vanity was trickier than wedging it in there had been. The process took twenty long minutes and involved plenty of swearing (from Brewer), sweating on the sidelines (from me), and at least one lube joke (from Theo), but they finally got the truck loaded and headed back to town.
And that night as I lay in bed, listening to Brewer singing something softly to Teeny on the far side of the wall, I thought there might be a metaphor in there somewhere about being stuck and fitting… about trust and croissants and rightness … and about the way my stomach fluttered at the prospect of sharing breakfast with Brewer again, even though the man drove me crazy.
But I fell asleep before I could figure out what it was.