Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DELANEY
When I pulled my little Audi into a spot on Weaver Street Monday morning, Marjorie had been chattering at me through my car’s speaker for five full minutes.
“And Amber dug up some really interesting background info, not on Harmon specifically but on his company?—”
“Sorry, Marjorie,” I interrupted as I shifted into park. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll read her email when I get home.”
“And when will that be?” she demanded. “Delaney, do you want to finish writing this story or not?”
“Did your research assistant find proof that Empire Ridge set up Anthony Harmon?” I demanded.
Marjorie was silent for a moment. “Well, no, but?—”
“Then, I can’t finish, can I?” I replied.
“Delaney—”
I grimaced. I could hear the frustration in her voice, and I knew whatever she said next would involve Costa Rica, my schedule, and something along the lines of “what the fuck is going on with you this week?”
I also knew—or was, like, ninety-five percent sure I knew—how I’d respond, but I wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation yet.
Especially not when my sister was waiting for me at the bakery down the street.
“Talk soon, Marjorie,” I said, and then I disconnected and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The truth was, very little had changed for me in the past week… at least on the surface. I still lived in my mostly renovated house on the shores of Copper Lake, was still trying to write my Empire Ridge article, was still talking to various Coppertians to learn as much as I could about E. Winters and her Jean. But below the surface, the tectonic plates of my life had rearranged themselves completely.
I’d gone to book club last Wednesday— me , voluntarily mingling with Coppertians!— and loved it. I’d petted Teeny twice without having heart palpitations. And I’d spent every night with Brewer—sometimes having deep discussions, often laughing while we ate pizza, and always curled up, cum-drunk and satisfied, when we finally fell asleep.
The night Brewer had run across my house to “catch” me jerking off, something had shifted. While we hadn’t had any kind of formal discussion about our… well, whatever you wanted to call it, neither one of us was trying to maintain any kind of professional distance anymore. And with every day that passed, with every stolen kiss and slow, eye-crinkling smile, it was harder to remember why the fuck I’d want to.
I’d started feeling something suspiciously, dangerously, like happiness… and I really, really hoped Brewer was feeling it, too.
If you’d told me two months ago—two weeks ago — that I could feel this way, I’d have called you a dirty liar. But it turned out when a person stopped clinging to the precipice of their old life and fully embraced the unknown, he discovered all sorts of things he’d been missing out on.
Take, for example, jam cupboards.
Heat swept through me so suddenly I nearly stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk as I remembered last night. One minute, I’d been standing in the kitchen peering into the jam cupboard, admiring the way Brewer had cleaned and oiled all the wooden shelves and added trim pieces around the opening. The next, Brewer’s big hands had yanked me into the cedar-scented space, and I’d found myself backed against the shelves with six-plus feet of very hot, very hard man caging me in.
“I’ve wanted to try something since we uncovered this spot,” he’d murmured.
“Oh?” I’d managed to ask, my voice already embarrassingly breathy. “What?”
“To see exactly how much you can fit in here.”
“Don’t you… don’t you need a measuring tape for that?” I’d stammered as his tongue and teeth worked their way up my neck.
“Nah. For a project like this, I prefer to measure in Delaneys.” Brewer had spread my arms wide like he was checking my wing span. He’d wrapped my left hand around the edge of a shelf and my right around the trim work he’d just installed.
“Perfect fit,” he’d growled.
Then his mouth on mine had been hot and demanding, and his hands—God, those hands—had made quick work of my belt, sliding my pants and underwear to my knees. Brewer had dropped to his knees, too, right there in the half-hidden cupboard, and used his tongue to draw a moan from me that might’ve startled the loons on Copper Lake.
He’d swallowed me down in one smooth motion, his hand cupping and rolling my balls in a way that had my eyes crossing. And then I’d felt his finger pressing, circling, teasing my rim, not quite pushing in but promising more.
I’d come embarrassingly fast, my body racked with shudders as Brewer swallowed every drop. Then he’d tucked me back in, kissed me softly with a mouth that tasted like me, set his perfect, perfect jaw, and gone right back to the trim work like he hadn’t just performed the hottest sex act of my life.
Jam cupboards were the best thing ever .
In fact, I was pretty sure— ninety-five percent sure, as I said—that I never wanted to be without a jam cupboard again.
But it was ridiculous to consider changing your life for a jam cupboard.
Irresponsible, really.
Wasn’t it?
I was still considering that question when I stepped into the warm, fragrant interior of Fanaille and spotted Tam at a corner table, a steaming mug in front of her and a croissant already half-demolished.
“Finally,” she said, pushing a second mug toward me as I sat down. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
“Sorry,” I said automatically, though my mind was still half back at the house. “Traffic.”
She snorted. “In O’Leary? You mean three cars at the four-way stop?”
I took a sip of coffee and refocused on my sister. She looked good—her caramel-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her cheeks had a healthy glow, and for the first time in weeks, the purple shadows under her eyes had faded.
“No Li’l T?” I asked.
Tam grinned. “Nope. She’s with her daddy. Lucas and I figured out this amazing system where I get two hours a day, three times a week, to be by myself. Just Tam. Which makes it so much more fun when I get to go home and be Mama again.” She sighed happily.
“Good,” I said sincerely. “Because I like ‘just Tam.’”
“That’s also why I’m joining book club,” she went on, taking another bite of croissant. “Oh, speaking of! I’ve been reading the kraken book, and oh my God . It’s like War and Peace but with tentacles and love!”
I nodded absently, but my thoughts had already drifted back to Brewer.
To the way his voice dipped low when he said my name
“Delaney?” Tam waved a hand in front of my face. “Hey. You were a million miles away. Oooh! Were you thinking about tentacles?”
“What? No! Jesus. If you must know, I was thinking about…” I thrust out my chin. “Jam cupboards.”
I told myself this wasn’t a lie.
“Jam cupboards,” she repeated slowly, her brow furrowing. “What about them?”
“Well…” I felt my cheeks heat. “How they’re awesome? And special? And I’ve never had one before, but now that I do, I…” I swallowed, feeling ridiculously vulnerable. “I really love—I mean, like it. A lot. And I might want to, um…. keep it?”
Tam’s eyes lit with understanding and excitement. “Oh, Delaney! You and Brew? That’s…”
I darted a glance around the half-full bakery and gave her a warning look.
She cleared her throat and pressed her lips together. “I mean, yes. I can definitely see the appeal of a… jam cupboard. They’re sweet, and helpful, and… so broad .”
Remembering Tam’s comment about Brewer’s shoulders the other day, I narrowed my eyes.
“That’s kind of the problem, though. Every time I look at… my jam cupboard… I feel safe and comfortable and happy. But…” I blew out a breath. “How do I know if I’m even a jam cupboard person when I’ve lived my whole life without knowing a jam cupboard like this one existed? What if I renovate my whole life because I want to… to keep this jam cupboard and then regret it?”
“Aw, Laney?—”
“You know me, Tam. I’ve had bad luck with… cupboards in general.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“So how do I know that my feelings for my jam cupboard won’t wear off? How does someone know if they want to have a jam cupboard permanently?”
“I mean, first things first, talk to the jam cupboard—” Tam broke off, shaking her head. “What the fuck am I even saying right now?”
“Tam, please?”
“Fine, fine.” She waved a hand. “You picked this metaphor, let’s roll with it. Get on the same page as your jam cupboard, step one. And then, stop thinking so hard about what you thought your… kitchen?… would look like. Could you imagine choosing a jam-cupboard-less life? Would you be happy knowing your jam cupboard was right there , but you never tore down the wall to find it?”
“I…” I tore my croissant into small pieces. “I’m thinking of telling Marjorie I don’t want to go to Costa Rica,” I admitted. “That maybe I don’t want to travel at all for a little while.”
Tam received this shocking revelation with a quiet nod.
“Did you hear me?” I demanded. “I said I might stop traveling.”
“I heard.” She shrugged. “When you moved here and bought a house, I figured it meant you were ready to slow down for a season.”
I blinked. “No. I hadn’t even considered that.”
“No?” She chewed her croissant. “You just moved to a small town two hours from the closest airport and bought a property that requires maintenance? You don’t think maybe you knew, subconsciously, that you needed a change?”
I frowned.
“You know, I never thought I’d be as happy as I am here,” she went on. “I made fun of Lucas for years when he suggested moving closer to his family. But from the day I arrived, this place felt right. And that wasn’t just because I love Lucas, even though he was the catalyst that made me move here. It was that… I could breathe here. That my thoughts could stretch out.” She made a gesture with her hands. “That probably makes no sense.”
I considered this for a moment. “The first few months I lived here, I felt like I’d found myself on the edge of a cliff, and I was clinging on for dear life. But then, suddenly…” I shrugged.
“You needed something to help you let go, long enough for your head to catch up to your heart,” she finished. Her eyes took on a teasing glint. “A good jam cupboard will do that for you.”
“Oh my God,” I groaned. “I changed my mind. Call him Brewer.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” She nudged my foot under the table. “Though it’s nice to see you admitting that you’re falling head over heels for the guy. It’s been obvious since the camper fire incident, you know.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said like the little kid I sometimes became around my siblings. “We didn’t even like each other then. We fought all the time. He thought I was ridiculous and stubborn, and I thought he was bossy and arrogant?—”
“And incredibly gorgeous, with really good shoulders?” Tam suggested slyly.
“Enough with his shoulders!” I protested. Then I sighed. “Yeah, essentially.”
We finished our coffee, Tam gleefully extracting details about my relationship—shit, was it a relationship? It felt like I needed Brewer’s buy-in before I could call it that.
By the time we got up to leave, I felt lighter than I had in days.
“Thanks for listening to me ramble,” I told her as we pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool morning air.
“That’s what siblings are for,” she said, adjusting her purse strap. “That, and occasional free babysitting once my baby sleeps through the night.”
“You’re a mercenary woman, Tamsen Marie.”
“Facts are facts, Delaney Patrick. See you at book club? I’m calling it right now—Commander Xorleth’s mating bite makes his human grow tentacles.”
I snorted. “I’ll be there,” I promised. And realizing that I actually would be able to be there, not just occasionally, at least for the next little while, brought a rush of relief.
Tam shook her head and waved, heading toward her car while I turned to walk back to mine.
“Delaney!”
I jolted as Janice Plum suddenly appeared from behind a decorative tree. I was starting to think she lived there.
“Janice,” I said, recovering my composure. “Love the hoop skirt.”
And she was, indeed, wearing a voluminous blue-and-cream hoop skirt that clashed completely with the produce-aisle cornucopia atop her head.
“You like it?” She twirled, the skirt swishing around her.
“You’re a vision,” I assured her.
“Aw. You’re nearly as sweet as Brewer,” she said, ducking her head. “Oh, speaking of! You two should come to the Historical Happenings candle-dipping event Sunday! I’m calling it ‘Dip Your Wick with Janice.’ Catchy, right? Just like you told me.” She beamed. “I’ve already had five people sign up!”
Dear God.
I opened my mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. “I… will not be there,” I said firmly. “But I hope it all goes well. See you at book club?”
I made it back to my car, feeling strangely at peace despite the prospect of facing Marjorie again. But when I turned the key in the ignition, my phone rang once more.
“Delaney,” Marjorie began before I could say hello . “You didn’t call me back.”
“Because I’m not home yet. I’ll read the email, I promise. This story is important to me.”
There was a beat of silence.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Delaney,” she began slowly, reasonably. “You know there comes a certain point where we maybe have to admit that we haven’t found a smoking gun because there isn’t one. Right? While she was doing research on Harmon’s company, Amber talked to quite a few of his former associates. None of them wanted to go on the record with a character reference. The opposite, in fact. He’s known as being very ambitious and a bit… ruthless.”
I frowned. “So?”
“So… maybe it’s okay to walk back our goal from full redemption. Or maybe it’s time to put a pin in this story and move on. The Costa Rica story?—”
“Marjorie.” I took a deep breath, considered for a moment, and realized I had no doubts. “I’m not taking the Costa Rica story.”
This time, the silence lasted longer than a moment. “I don’t understand,” she finally said.
I ran my thumbnail over the logo on my steering wheel. “Look, I’m not saying I never want to travel again, but for the next little while, I’d like to stick close to home. To Copper County.”
“But… but why ?” she demanded. “I feel like there’s a story here, Delaney Monroe.”
“You could say that. My story.” I laughed and counted out a twenty-word recap on my fingers. “I finally feel like I’m who I should be and where I should be, so I’m staying.” I grinned, though she couldn’t see me. “And Brewer’s hot.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to need the full story.”
“And you’ll get it,” I promised. “Along with a proposal for a new story about hidden artwork and true love. But for now, I’m going to focus on Empire Ridge. I’ll read through Amber’s email and give you an assessment by the end of the week.”
“Fine,” she said, resigned. “If you change your mind about Costa Rica?—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Driving up to my house that afternoon, I found myself smiling at the very sight of it. The midafternoon sunlight glinted off the snow in the front yard, and the renovated porch looked sturdy and welcoming. Tam had been onto something with her visualization exercise. Just seeing the house made me feel settled in a way that surprised me. This house, this town, this life… it had all snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking.
I rushed inside, eager for Brewer to be the first person I told about my revelations.
“I’m home!” I called excitedly.
“Delaney, come see this!” Brewer called back.
I found him in the kitchen, tightening the hinges on a cabinet he’d been installing—an upper cabinet with a glass-fronted door that made the kitchen feel larger and brighter. Through the glass panel, I spotted a familiar cup.
“What do you think?” he asked. He followed my gaze and explained, “Oh. Just using that to check the height of the shelves. Wanted to make sure your stuff fit comfortably.”
Something about seeing that teacup— his teacup—sitting in my cabinet made a lump rise in my throat. It looked right there. Like it belonged. Like I wanted to make Brewer’s dishes my dishes…
Which was a thought so sappy and ridiculous I found myself blushing.
“Looks perfect,” I said, my voice coming out rough. “Perfect.”
“Yeah.” Brewer gave me a tip-tilted smile. “So, how was your morning?”
“Eventful.” I took a deep breath. “I almost don’t know where to begin. I had a convo with Marjorie, and I met Tam for coffee—she’s doing amazing, and I talked to Janice.” I briefly recounted Janice’s historical hoop skirt ensemble. “We were invited to dip our wicks with Janice this Sunday, by the way?—”
Brewer’s eyes widened, and I burst out laughing.
“I told her I was busy,” I said saucily. “But obviously, you’ll need to make your own decisions.”
I expected a smart-assed reply, but instead, Brewer’s face softened. He reached out a hand to brush my hair back—a little motion he’d been doing compulsively and which I really loved. “I like seeing you like this,” he said.
I shook my head. “Like I’ve been mildly traumatized by a woman in a hoop skirt?”
“Excited.” His voice was warm and affectionate. “Happy. No sledgehammer required.”
“Not today,” I agreed. I leaned back against the wall, and Brewer moved with me. “But possibly tomorrow. I contain multitudes, Brewer.”
“I’m discovering that,” he murmured, bracing a hand on the wall beside my head. “You’re like a million hidden jam cupboards, aren’t you, Delaney Monroe?”
Brewer had no idea my stupid metaphor was a thing, but my heart did some complicated gymnastics anyway.
“I changed my mind,” I whispered. “ That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
When Brewer kissed me, I could taste his smile, and it felt like coming home. The kiss was slow, thorough. A leisurely exploration rather than a desperate rush. His hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek in a gesture so tender it made my chest ache.
I sank into the kiss, my hands finding the solid warmth of his waist and slipping under his T-shirt to touch bare skin. He made a soft sound of approval against my mouth, pressing closer until I was pinned between his body and the wall.
We were both breathing hard when we finally broke apart, but Brewer didn’t move away. Instead, he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“You know the art appraiser will be here soon,” I reminded him, though I made no move to push him away.
He huffed a laugh. “Always so responsible.”
“Me?” I snorted. “Uh, no. That’s definitely your role in this… this partnership , Mr. Promises-Kept.”
Brewer’s blue eyes opened, warm and amused. “Then why am I seriously considering taking you upstairs and making us both very, very late for that appointment?”
Heat pooled in my stomach at his words. “Tempting,” I admitted. “But I really want to know what he thinks of the paintings. Maybe later we could…” My heart pounded, too fast and off-kilter. “Talk and stuff.”
Brewer sighed dramatically, then pressed one more quick kiss to my lips before stepping back. “Yeah. Art first, debauchery later.”
“Deal.”
Dr. Richard Chen arrived precisely on time, his enthusiasm evident from the moment he laid eyes on the paintings spread out in the living room.
“Elizabeth Winters,” he confirmed immediately, his eyes lighting up behind wire-rimmed glasses. “This is extraordinary.”
I looked at Brewer, who’d followed me to the living room, and we shared a smile. Though I had zero reason to doubt Samuel, the validation was kind of a thrill.
Dr. Chen carefully examined the first painting without touching it. “Elizabeth Winters was quite prolific in her urban era, but I’ve always been a fan of her later work. The so-called ‘Lake Period.’ As far as I know, there are only about a dozen pieces from that time. She seemed to have become somewhat less productive.”
Remembering what Samuel had told me, I offered, “Or perhaps she simply gave the paintings away.”
Dr. Chen seemed startled. “I hadn’t considered… possibly, yes. Either way, this is a significant discovery you’ve made, Mr. Monroe. I can’t wait to tell my colleagues about it.”
“And Mr. Barnum.” I caught Brewer’s arm and dragged him forward. “It was his discovery, too.”
Brewer shook his head. “Not really.”
“I assure you,” I told him, “I wouldn’t have broken down walls without you.”
“You might, though,” Brewer said under his breath as Dr. Chen went back to his examination. “Next time you decided to move an outlet.”
I was surprised to find myself laughing at his teasing. But with Brewer, I didn’t feel judged for what I wasn’t good at but liked for what I was.
“What do you think we should do with them?” I asked later, when Dr. Chen finished.
“Well,” Dr. Chen said, “these paintings should be cleaned and properly preserved, certainly. I’d be happy to connect you with a conservation specialist. After that… I suppose you’ll have to decide what you want to do next.”
I nodded.
“For insurance purposes, I’d conservatively appraise this collection at between $800,000 and $950,000. The museum-quality pieces alone—” He gestured to some of the larger canvases. “—might each command $60,000 to $75,000 at auction. But I must emphasize the historical and cultural significance of the complete collection far exceeds its monetary value. These works document not only an artist’s private vision but, from everything you’ve told me, a hidden chapter of LGBTQ+ history. As a complete narrative collection, they could potentially fetch well over a million dollars if sold to the right institution or collector.”
Beside me, Brewer’s jaw dropped, and I knew mine did the same.
After Dr. Chen left, promising to email a formal appraisal, Brewer and I stood in the living room, staring at the paintings.
“A million dollars.” I grinned up at him. “Guess you can get a fancy camper now, huh? What would you do with half a million?”
Something flickered across Brewer’s face—discomfort, maybe, or surprise—and his smile tightened at the corners. “I wouldn’t. I like a pretty simple life, Delaney. No need to split your imaginary money with me.”
I frowned, confused by his reaction. “That’s not?—”
“I think the paintings should go to a museum,” Brewer interrupted, taking a small step back. “I mean, if you wanted my input, I think that’s where they belong. People should see them.”
“Actually…” I smiled. “That’s a great idea. I want everyone to be able to see them, too.”
But the easy mood from earlier had suddenly evaporated.
“The Copper County Historical Society would be a good option. Or a bigger museum in the city.” Brewer rubbed the back of his neck, still looking uncomfortable. Then, as if catching himself, he relaxed his shoulders and moved back toward me. “But there’s no rush to decide. There’s, uh… time.” He slipped his arm around my waist, though the gesture felt slightly forced.
His sudden awkwardness sent an unexpected pang through me, especially after his strange reaction to the money talk.
I wanted that time. Badly. But it was occurring to me that, as much as I felt like I’d gotten to know Brewer through our late-night conversations, and as desperately as I wanted to know everything about him, there was a lot he wasn’t telling me.
Brewer must have noticed something in my expression because he frowned down at me. “What’s wrong? Did something happen with Marjorie? Is she changing the timeline for… for Costa Rica?”
“Sort of. Not exactly. I…”
My stomach fluttered with nerves. What would Brewer say if I told him I was planning to stop traveling? Would he immediately feel weird about it, like it was putting too much pressure on our quasi… whatever this was? The happy confidence I’d felt all morning seemed to have vanished without a trace, and I needed to find it again.
“Are you free for dinner?” I blurted. “Maybe we could go out, just the two of us. Get something to eat and talk.”
Brewer winced, and I realized exactly what I’d asked. For Brewer to be seen with me in public—something that wouldn’t be regarded as “professional” in the eyes of the town gossips.
Sure enough, he shook his head regretfully. “I can’t tonight. I promised Hayes I’d see him. It’s been almost two weeks, and… well, he moved to Copper County for me, so I try to catch up with him once a week or so.”
“He did?” I found myself genuinely interested, not just relieved by the change of subject. Every time Brewer shared something about himself—a small fact, a piece of his history—it felt like being given a rare gift. “You guys are really close, huh?”
“He’s like a little brother—in all the good and bad ways.” Brewer huffed out a laugh, his eyes soft. “I don’t have a lot of family, and when I went no-contact with my dad, I lost half of what I did have. Hayes stuck by me.” He made a face. “Even if he does keep trying to get me to reconsider that now.”
I felt a strange prickle at the back of my neck. The way Brewer talked about his father made me wonder just how deep that estrangement went—and what had caused it.
“Fuck that,” I said. “I mean, if Hayes knows how strongly you feel, and he believed what you did was right…”
“He knows. Mostly,” Brewer corrected, his jaw tightening. “He knows the facts. But I don’t talk about it much. There’s no reason to, really. Sometimes it’s okay to walk away and protect your peace.”
There was a story there—a bigger story than the brief outline he’d given me that night by the fire. But I didn’t push.
Instead, I asked, “But if you told Hayes that, if he understood how strongly you feel about it and why, he’d stop trying to get you to reconsider. Wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t it be better to have the conversation, to talk about it even if it’s hard, so that he could understand you better? And know what you want?” I attempted a smile. “Everyone deserves to have their story told, but that means you kinda have to tell it.”
Brewer looked at me for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You’re right. That’s smart advice, Delaney.”
“Ha. Well. I have my moments,” I joked, but a twist of uncertainty snaked its way through me. If Brewer was this guarded with his own cousin, how much was he keeping from me? How badly was I deluding myself, thinking we’d gotten closer over the past week?
He tilted his head and studied me. “You want to talk about your Marjorie situation? I can bang together a cabinet out of scrap lumber, and we can get the sledgehammer if you need it after all. Or I could get your personal Kitchen Courier to bring you some strawberry croissants. Somebody once told me they were medicinal .”
The smile that spread across my face was so big it practically hurt my cheeks. Despite my sudden unease, I couldn’t help responding to Brewer’s warmth. A wave of affection had me stepping into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and burying my head in that glorious chest.
“Hey, hey.” He wrapped his arms around me instantly. “It’s gonna be okay.” He tilted my chin up. “I believe that, Delaney, ’cause I believe in you . Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out, and I’ll help you if I can.”
I took a deep breath. That didn’t sound like the talk of a man who was totally against the idea of a relationship, did it?
“The thing with Marjorie—well, part of it, anyway—is that the article I’m writing isn’t going well, like I told you. Marjorie said I might need to accept that it never will. But I don’t know. Part of me worries I’m just being stubborn, and the other part of me feels like I need to keep going. I don’t want Empire Ridge to get away with their shit, and I want to get justice for the people they’ve hurt?—”
Brewer’s face went still for just a fraction of a second—so briefly, I might have imagined it—before he smiled.
“Well, I like how stubborn you are,” he said, his voice warm despite the flicker I’d noticed. “I mean, it drives me crazy when it’s in reference to the forty-seven bathroom vanities you keep saying aren’t perfect—” He grinned. “—but I respect it. You don’t compromise your principles. You do what you say you will. So if you feel like you want to let it go, then let it go. But if you want to get justice… stick to your guns, no matter what. Trust yourself.”
“Wow.” I studied him, wondering if the momentary tension in his face had been my imagination. “Thank you.” I leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “And regarding the rest of the Marjorie stuff, can we talk tomorrow?”
“Of course.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “Whatever you want.”
I felt my face flush. What did I want from Brewer, exactly? I was starting to think it was… everything.
He pressed a soft kiss to my temple, then went back to his cabinets, leaving me feeling both hopeful and increasingly unsettled.
The rest of the day passed in a kind of pleasant haze. Brewer grilled steaks for an early dinner—not shirtless, alas—then stood beside me in the kitchen afterward, watching Teeny play in the yard through the window, the snow glinting in the setting sun. Brewer’s arm was warm around my shoulders, and I found myself leaning into him automatically, like my body had already learned this was where it belonged.
He sighed. “Kinda wish I hadn’t promised Hayes I’d stop by, to be honest. Video games are so not my thing.”
I pulled back just far enough to give him a look. “Did you tell Hayes that? ” I asked. “Have you ever revealed your deep, dark love of musicals? Maybe he and Kel would watch Wicked with you.”
Brewer snorted. “Can you imagine?”
“Actually, yes,” I said seriously. “I can’t tell you how many things I ‘couldn’t imagine’ that have actually happened to me in the last few months. It’s this place, man. Weird shit happens in Copper County. Anything is possible. Just talk to him. About everything.”
He frowned, and I wondered if I’d overstepped. How much did I really know about his relationship with Hayes? About any part of his life before we met?
“No risk, no reward?” I asked softly, pushing up to press a kiss to that hard jaw I loved— liked —so much.
Brewer’s lips found mine in a kiss that was achingly tender. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark with promise, and I’d forgotten how breathing worked. “See you tonight? Might be late.”
“Come to my bed,” I whispered. “I’ll be the one with the kraken warlord.”
The way his eyes crinkled made me forget everything else. “Then maybe I should leave you to his watery depths,” he teased.
I shrugged. “Warlords are overrated. I’d rather be ravished by a man with a tool belt riding nice and low. Pretty sure ‘Sledgehammer My Heart’ is next month’s selection, now that I think of it. Contractor romance is an underserved niche.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I realized that I’d inadvertently used the words “heart” and “romance” as if… well, as if I had expectations of him.
I held my breath in fear I’d made things awkward again, but he snorted with laughter.
“You could do serious damage to someone’s heart with that thing, Monroe,” he said, snickering through a final kiss to my forehead.
I watched him walk away with a strange mix of emotions—relief, longing, hope… but also a growing sense that Brewer and I needed to have a talk. To get on the same page about our… whatever we were doing here.
After the door closed behind him, I headed to my office to tackle the emails from Marjorie’s assistant. I needed to find something to break this Empire Ridge story… or decide it wasn’t breakable and set it aside once and for all.
But when I opened my inbox for the first time all day, I found it overflowing with messages.
I sighed. Amber had dug up building permits, tax records, and zoning applications for days, sending me a separate email about every single detail, no matter how unimportant.
After scanning through some zoning applications that seemed to make no sense, I clicked into one labeled Property Sale. The first and only attachment was a deed of transfer, dated eight years ago last June.
“Between Anthony Harmon,” I read aloud. “As trustee of the Belles Pivoines Trust, in regards to a property at 19 Halifax Street in Southbourne, New York. And Empire Ridge Development Corporation… huh. ”
Anthony hadn’t mentioned that the land he’d sold to Empire Ridge had been in a trust, rather than outright owned by him or Harmon Construction. This wasn’t a big deal, necessarily—it was most likely a family trust—but something about it niggled at me.
I scrolled to the next page of the document. “Being a parcel of land with residential dwelling and improvements thereon,” I murmured. “Containing 4.75 acres, more or less.”
I was surprised to discover it was a residence. Anthony had made it sound like unimproved land, not a house. Had he inherited it from his father the same way he’d inherited Harmon Construction? Was it a family home or investment property? None of that mattered, necessarily… except somehow it did , for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
That same gut instinct kept me from picking up the phone to call or email Anthony to get easy answers to those questions. I needed more information first, at the very least a reason for caring one way or the other. It seemed to me selling a home someone might have lived in was an even more egregious result of Empire’s strong-arm tactics.
Googling the property yielded no further results, and a street view map gave me none of the information I wanted. I emailed Amber and asked her to get me whatever information she could find on the background of the property.
My phone vibrated on my desk, startling me, but warmth spread through me when I saw the message on the screen.
Brewer
Hayes says hi. Might crash here tonight. FYI, we’re watching Wicked and he loves it. Who knew?
Teeny will be fine until tomorrow after all that playing. Will you be okay on your own?
I was glad Brewer wasn’t there to see the goofy grin on my face because I was pretty sure if he saw it, he’d know…
I blew out a breath. He’d know I had feelings for him. Strong feelings. Feelings I couldn’t hold back. Feelings I hoped like hell he reciprocated.
I really needed to talk to my jam cupboard, as Tam had said.
I typed out a message. Hey, when you get home ? —
But before I could send it, another message from Brewer appeared.
Brewer
FYI, I’m taking your advice and talking to Hayes about other stuff too. You were right. Thank you, Delaney. xx
My chest melted into goo, looking at those little x’s, hearing Brewer sound so happy—like opening up to Hayes was as cathartic for him as sledgehammering had been for me.
I immediately deleted what I’d written.
I was the one who wanted answers, who wanted facts, who wanted to know in plain English how Brewer felt and where he thought this— us —might be heading.
But Brewer needed time with his cousin tonight, which meant I needed to chill. My feelings would keep until the morning.
I’ll be fine. Sleep well. We’ll talk tomorrow.
I closed my laptop and pushed away from my desk, suddenly exhausted. I stopped to check the lock on the front door, grab a glass of water, and shut out the lights in the dining area. It was funny how quickly I’d gotten used to having Brewer as part of my nighttime routine and how empty the house felt without him.
Then I walked into the living room, headed for the stairs, and saw a pair of giant eyes lurking in the shadows near the bookcase.
I paused with my hand on the banister.
“Fantine Barnum,” I scolded. “We are going to talk about this habit of yours, young lady. You can’t just come in here and accost me with those eyes whenever you want. There are rules, and without rules, there’s chaos.”
Teeny lowered her head to rest on her paws.
“You miss Brewer, huh?” I murmured.
Her tail thumped the floor.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I feel that.” After a brief hesitation, I surprised myself by waving a hand and saying, “Come on, then. Keep me company tonight.”
She followed me upstairs eagerly, nails clicking softly on the hardwood. When we reached my bedroom, I pointed to the rug next to my bed.
“You sleep there ,” I told her firmly. “My bed’s a hard limit.”
Teeny seemed to accept this. She kept those irresistible pleading eyes safely holstered, circled three times, then settled with a contented sigh in the spot I’d indicated.
I watched her for a moment before climbing into bed, surprisingly comforted by her presence. I was tired but also wired, thinking of all the things I wanted to tell Brewer.
For some reason, I felt nervous, which was unlike my usual fired-up, confrontational style.
I blew out a breath, reminding myself that Brewer and I had come a long way in a few short weeks, and the change had begun when I’d started being honest with him, even about the things that made me nervous.
So tomorrow, I’d tell Brewer how I felt about him and find out if he felt the same way.
Now that I’d admitted to myself I was all in on having a jam cupboard, it was time to get the jam cupboard on… board.
Because this house and the life I was building in it weren’t just another stop on my journey anymore. They were my home.
And so was Brewer.