Chapter 6
SIX
MEREDITH
No.
No.
I glare at the black Escalade blocking part of the driveway.
He’s staying here? Can’t he get a room?
The motel, primarily used by hunters, always has openings, as long as it’s not deer-hunting season—bow or rifle—mule deer or pronghorn season, goose or duck-hunting season, pheasant or turkey season, and the main fishing tournaments at the dam on the opposite end of town haven’t begun yet.
Can’t a heartless guy like Calder Cross sleep in a cave during the day?
A faint light glows from the living room. He’d better not have taken my room. I have the room upstairs that used to be his. It’s bigger than the others, and closer to the bathroom. He probably has opinions about a grown woman in her thirties living at home, but I’m all out of fucks.
I park in the garage, my heart wrenching when I pass Ransom’s Chevy pickup as I enter the stall, stopping next to Holly’s white Equinox. I gather my lunch bag and my purse before stumbling into the mudroom at the back of the kitchen, where I look up, right into a pair of glittering dark eyes.
Calder’s sitting in Ransom’s usual spot at the head of the table, two laptops open in front of him.
The way he’s leaning on the table, with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, is sheer temptation.
His top two buttons are undone, and his shirt gapes open to reveal the muscle at the base of his throat.
Hussy.
Even worse, his hair is tousled as if he’s run a hand through it several times, and the stubble along his jaw is darker than it was this afternoon.
“It’s 2 a.m.,” I say. Why is he still awake?
A dark brow cocks up. “Is there a curfew now?”
Smart-ass.
A yawn forces its way through my jaw, and the damn thing quivers as I struggle to stifle it. My sleep has been crap, and I have an early meeting at the funeral home tomorrow. My stomach growls. I still need to eat.
“Which bedroom are you taking?”
He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Apparently, there’s nothing about this man my eyes won’t track. “The spare room by Dad’s.”
It wasn’t just his dad’s room, but I won’t argue the point.
“There’s only a futon in there.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
It’s my turn to cock a brow. “Sure, slick.”
“Did you forget how I grew up?”
“Did you?”
He reclines, his gaze once again raking down my body to my running shoes. Tingles spread across my skin, and my fatigue makes it difficult to ignore the faint thrum between my thighs.
Not this man. I can not be attracted to him.
“Do you think you’ll get the house?” he asks, his tone infuriatingly calm.
Any rogue desire is effectively doused. “I’m not getting into it tonight.” I drop my purse down at the base of the stairs behind the pantry and take my lunch bag to the sink.
He watches me as I walk past him.
I open the fridge to grab a calzone, only to find an empty shelf. My gut wants to weep.
“Did you eat the last calzone?”
“Was that yours?” he asks like he knew it was.
I slam the fridge shut. I haven’t bought groceries since before the accident.
Holly and I used to shop on Mondays, when the brewery was closed, after her morning drive with Ransom.
There’s little more than crumbs in the fridge and the pantry.
I’d have to cook something else. Yet I’m not going to abort my mission and give him the satisfaction.
I dig out the bread and toss a couple of slices in the toaster.
He doesn’t turn to watch me, so I lean against the counter and glower at the back of his head. Except that warmth returns, curling through my veins and pooling low in my belly. Every twitch and flex of his muscles is visible through the fabric of his dress shirt. He even sits sexy.
“When are you leaving?” I snap.
He stiffens but doesn’t turn around. “After we sell everything.”
The world crumples around me like a Coke can. “You’re selling?”
“We’re selling. Me and my brothers. We’re selling the ranch, this house with it, and the brewery.”
My heart rate tracks upward. That’s not sexy. Not at all. “You can’t.”
“And why not?” His scrutiny intensifies with his silky question.
“Because I want to keep working twelve hours and watch my retirement continue to build in tiny increments,” I throw at him. My caustic tone wipes out his suspicion. Yeah, asshole. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.
Holly moved out here with nothing, yet she took everything that belonged to Julia Cross, including her husband. She didn’t have ill intentions, but still. Her retirement nest egg was to marry her best friend’s widower. She had more of a plan than I do.
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you?” Why am I trying to appeal to a block of granite with a heavy shadow covering his scruff? “Your family built this legacy.”
His lips thin, but for once, his anger isn’t directed at me. “Yeah, well, my brothers and I had to go make our own, and we did. Now we’re in charge of our own destinies.”
“I guess I learned a different lesson from your dad.”
His right eye twitches, and I take that morsel of unsettlement and forge ahead. He’s not made of all stone.
“I guess you won’t know for sure what you can do until the will reading.”
His nostrils flare, and the sparks in his eyes are exactly why he’s done so well in business. “Guess not. But I’m staying here until then. In my family home.”
“Knock yourself out. Maybe you can get some answers about the accident while you’re here.”
Confusion lines his brow. “What do you mean?”
I rub the pad of my index finger between my eyes. “Nothing. Maybe everything. It’s so senseless.”
He doesn’t respond, and a sense of dread builds inside me, tightening the muscles in my back.
Ransom always told me I’d be taken care of, that I was critical to Jules Creek, but I should’ve secured more of a future for myself.
The problem is, I love what I do, and that’s one reason why I stayed, and a big factor in why I came back. And I’m not leaving until I have to.
He clicks on his keypad. I lean over and glance past his broad shoulder to see what he’s doing. Spreadsheets fill both screens. His work information, or did he get a hold of Jules Creek’s data? He half-turns his head, and I spin away just as my toast pops.
My heartburn can’t handle peanut butter this late at night, so I spread some of Holly’s juneberry jam over my bread. Tears poke the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. I lift my plate, and my gaze lands on the table with the infuriating intruder.
This house may be as much his as it is mine. It could even be more his than mine. Until we know for sure, it’s my home, and I’m not letting him interfere with my schedule. I refuse to eat over the sink.
I carry my food to the table, snag a napkin, and sit in my spot adjacent to his. Heat flushes through my body as his dark gaze settles on me. The back of one of his laptops is right by my plate, but I ignore him.
“This is my normal spot,” I say and take a bite of toast.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“I won’t,” I murmur, my mouth full. As I swallow, I notice the white-and-gold can of Honey Creek, the brewery’s light-bodied ale made with local honey. I tip my head toward it. “What do you think?”
He stops typing and frowns at me before glancing at the ale. “It was decent,” he says flatly, as if adding inflection might pain him.
“It’s one of our more popular lines.” I should ignore him like he so badly seems to want to forget I exist, but beer is my weakness. Honey Creek is my favorite, which is why I keep it stocked at home.
I leave the table and grab two cans from the fridge. I set one next to the laptop for him—a small peace offering, even though he’s been helping himself anyway. My taste buds are still craving my four-cheese calzone.
I crack open my can and take a long pull. The beer is kept in the coldest part of the fridge, even colder than the brewery. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the burn of the bubbles on my tongue and savor the malted honey flavor.
“Mmm.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and open my eyes to find him staring at me, an unidentifiable emotion filling his gaze. His hands hover over the keyboard of the nicer laptop, and the air between us crackles.
“It’s more than decent.” I shove another piece of toast in my mouth.
He grunts, the spell broken, and pops the tab on his can. Slowly, he lifts the beer to his mouth without dropping my gaze. This time, I’m the one gawking as his throat works with his swallow.
He smacks his lips when he’s finished and inspects the back of the can. “‘Perfection, twenty-five years in the making.’”
“I refined the recipe when I returned to Scandal.”
Curiosity fills his gaze, but he doesn’t ask a follow-up question. Good. The few years in my mid-twenties when I tried to make my own way in Williston didn’t include building my own multimillion-dollar company.
“I found your mom’s original notes in the office.”
His expression goes flat, and he sets the can down with a thump.
“She really knew what she was doing,” I say softly.
“Yeah. She did.”
It’s not like we’re making progress right now, but I don’t want to antagonize him further. I risk doing just that with more explanation.
“Ransom would’ve worked on it earlier, but it was in a folder in one of the cabinets.
She had a lot of notes jotted down about what she wanted to try.
I’ve developed a few from them, since we can’t use other recipes.
” Jules Creek comes from Julia’s brews, Ransom used to chant whenever I brought him ideas.
Then he’d tell me how everyone close to her called her Jules, and that was why she wanted that as part of the name.
“Honey Creek, and our stout, Angus Creek.”
“Mama didn’t like stouts.”
“She respected them. I’m not a stout-lover either, but I will create the best one possible.”
He arches another brow, and the arrogant tilt to his lips grows more pronounced. “Indeed?”
I don’t get pure smugness from him, though. He’s interested.
“I know we have our issues, but I respected your mom, and the brewery is… It means a lot.”