Chapter 2 #2
Yaya still had plenty of years left in her, but she wasn’t exactly young. Which meant not only would his father make a commission on the sale of the beach house property, but that any money Yaya made in the supposed deal would go right back to Aidan in the form of a will.
“Give me a chance to fix it first,” Brock pleaded.
He didn’t want to lose the beach house to his father, but he also didn’t want to see an influx of tourists destroy Mystic Cove either.
If he could find another way to make it profitable for Yaya, to make it worth her while to keep it, then he’d be able to tell his father and this potential buyer to back off.
“The house is in disrepair, Brockton.” Aidan shuffled his papers back together and slipped them into the folder, barely looking up. “It’s falling apart.”
“Because you let it.” Brock’s words held a bite, a layer of venom. “If you’d ever bothered to hang around for longer than a day or two, you could have helped Pop fix it.”
Aidan’s features turned to stone, and he snapped his briefcase shut. “I did what I had to do.”
“You did what you had to do for you.” Brock shook his head and set down his cup of half-finished coffee.
It was too early for this bullshit. Unexpectedly being forced to talk to his father had already soured his mood for the rest of the day.
“I’m sorry, Yaya. Can we talk about this later?
I have a job site to get to this morning. ”
His father flicked his wrist, and his absurdly expensive Rolex glittered. “I heard you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself.”
A retort was on the tip of Brock’s tongue, but he swallowed it down. One look at Yaya told him he’d already taken it too far. Her eyes pleaded with him, a silent petition to let it go. Just because Aidan Gallagher was a crappy father didn’t mean he was a crappy son.
Brock would give her that. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. I have.”
He refused to look at the man who quit on him. Instead, he faced the woman who raised him as her own. “Yaya, don’t sell. I’ll figure something out, I promise. We’ll find a way to save the beach house.”
Of course, there was always the slim chance she actually wanted to sell.
Maybe she didn’t want to keep the beach house anymore.
It could be that it held too many memories, or maybe the work required to update it was too overwhelming for her.
But in his gut, he knew she loved that house just as much as he did, or else she wouldn’t have held onto it for so long.
“I’ve had my will drawn up for a while now.” Yaya addressed both of them, but her eyes were on Brock.
“Yaya. Stop.” Brock shook his head. “You’re in perfect health.”
“He’s right,” Aidan added with a charming grin. “You look amazing for a woman of thirty-nine.”
“Ha, ha.” Yaya waved off their flattery with the faintest blush. “But I’m serious. My will is drawn and finalized. And I think the two of you need to understand something about that old beach house.”
She sighed a bit and settled herself into a chair at the kitchen table.
Tapping her fingernails softly against her cup of tea, she leveled them with a solemn look.
“You two have sixty days to get along after I leave this life. And if not, the beach house is going to the city of Mystic Cove. Then they can do what they want.”
“What?” Aidan’s mouth fell open. He looked like a fish caught on a hook.
“Yaya, that’s impossible,” Brock countered smoothly.
No one in their right mind would want to get sucked into their family drama.
Not even the executor of her will. Besides, he was certain whoever she chose as the deciding authority over whether or not he and his father were getting along likely knew absolutely nothing about them.
“Ma, let’s be serious.” Aidan used his powerful wolfish smile. “Just sell the property to me. It has so much potential, and the growth would be good for the town.”
“No.” She lifted one slim hand. “I’ve already made up my mind. If the two of you can’t figure out how to love each other like a father and son ought to, then the beach house won’t go to either of you.”
“But—” Brock fumbled.
“You can’t—” Aidan tried to counter.
“I can and I did.” She folded her hands in her lap. Neatly and with finality. The conversation was over. “Now, more coffee?”
Brock could handle the renovation of the beach house, he was certain of it.
That wouldn’t be the problem. But getting along with his father?
Finding a way to overlook years of neglect?
Of disappointment? That would prove far more difficult.
He told himself it didn’t matter, he’d figure out how to make amends with his father another time.
For now, he just needed to give the beach house a new purpose, then he’d be able to prove it was worth keeping.
He needed to breathe life into that old house, make it a place worthy of holding more memories.
Dead-end ideas and overdone concepts continued to plague him as he pulled up to his first job of the day.
He parked his truck, climbed out into the bitter cold, and looked up at Mystic Florals.
Gigi Laurent had given the sign of the flower shop a fresh coat of paint before the winter set in, but it would need another come spring.
Even now it swung precariously as each gust of biting wind sent it creaking back and forth as though it would fly off at any moment.
Maybe he would suggest something a bit sturdier.
Like affixing it to the brick front exterior.
Brock dipped his chin into his coat and slipped inside the flower shop. A little bell tinkled overhead, announcing his arrival.
The fresh scent of florals greeted him, and Gigi looked up from her position behind the register.
“Ah, Brockton.” She came out from behind the counter and greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. “So good to see you again. How is your Yaya?”
“She’s doing great. Thanks for asking.”
“Bien.”
He never tired of her delicate accent. In all the years he’d known her, and it had been many, she always remained exquisitely French.
From her style, to her cooking, to her distaste toward people in general, which she often tried to disguise as indifference.
If anything, Gigi was one of a kind, and so were each of her daughters.
Easy on the eyes and hard on the heart. All five of them.
The twins, Adrienne and Vivianne, had stayed local, and both of them worked for their mother in some capacity.
The youngest, Anne-Sophie, moved out a while back and seemed to be doing quite well for herself, though no one really knew what exactly it was she was doing.
Gabrielle, the oldest, up and married a Marine.
Last he checked, they were living out in California.
And Juliette…well, he stopped asking about Jules a while ago.
Brock pulled out some blueprints from his back pocket. Usually he did all of his work digitally, on his iPad, but Gigi would have none of it. She required paper, pencils, and red pens, and he was happy to oblige.
“I’ve got the renovations for the upstairs apartment all drawn up and ready for you.
” He glanced around the shop. Adrienne was photographing a handful of their latest bundles of flowers near the display window.
Meeting his gaze, she lifted her hand in a small wave, but there was a flash of something in her eyes before she looked away.
Something he couldn’t quite place. Like a shadow of caution.
Brock nodded in greeting, then spread the blueprints out on the counter for Gigi.
“Here’s the total renovation of the bathroom, with space for a claw-foot tub and more storage.
We’re going to take down this wall, so long as it isn’t load-bearing, then this will really open up the living area. And over here is your new kitchen.”
“Oui. Yes.” She peered down at the blueprint, then glanced up at him from over the rim of her glasses, her eyes piercing him. “New cabinets? And fixtures?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pointed to the design. “If you want, I can hire a local designer to choose some color boards to present to you. That way you have some options.”
She waved his suggestion away with one slender hand. “That will not be necessary. I already have someone.”
He blinked. “You do?”
“Mm.” She pursed her lips, and her gaze shifted to the apartment overhead.
That’s when he saw her come down the stairs.
She was wearing black leggings with those ridiculous fuzzy boots and an oversized red sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder.
Her long dark hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, and she looked as though she’d just rolled right out of bed.
No makeup, not like she ever needed it. Time had been good to her.
Thirteen years and Juliette was as beautiful as ever, even with her brows drawn into a scowl.
He knew the exact moment she caught sight of him.
To anyone else, it was hardly noticeable, but he saw the hesitation in her step.
The way her shoulders bunched. The way her chest rose far too quickly on that sharp inhale.
Thirteen years, and he was still entirely too aware of everything about her.
“Ah, Juliette. You are awake and just in time.” She motioned for her daughter to come over. “Our contractor is here to begin work on the apartment. I’m sure you remember Monsieur Gallagher?”
Brock dared another look at her. He wasn’t sure if Juliette Laurent would even remember him. But those wintry blue eyes framed with black lashes narrowed to slits, and her pink mouth pulled into a hard line. She folded her arms over her chest and cocked one hip to the side.
Oh yeah, she definitely remembered him.
Gigi continued on as though no ounce of tension had permeated the air of the shop. But he could feel another set of eyes on him, and he knew for a fact Adrienne was watching their exchange with keen interest.
“Juliette, I want you to go with him to choose new flooring, cabinets, and countertops for the kitchen remodel. And Brockton, if you have any other design questions, then Juliette will be the one to decide. Yes?”
He nodded quickly. “Sure. Of course.”
“After all, I am a very busy woman, which I am sure you understand.”
“Absolutely.”
“And Juliette’s design aesthetic is perfectly adequate.”
He swallowed. Hard. Adequate was hardly the word he would use to describe Juliette in any sense. Wonderful? Absolutely. Gorgeous? Beyond words. Adequate? Not a chance in hell.
Juliette stood frozen on the stairs. She grabbed the railing to balance herself, her knuckles whitening.
“Mama.” There was a hint of desperation in her voice. “You can’t be serious.”
“He’s the best in town, and your history together has nothing to do with this project.
Besides, you’re both adults now. I am certain you can figure out how to work together without acting like teenagers, yes?
” Another dismissive wave. “Now, take him upstairs so he can get started. I have a bride coming in for an appointment.”
Her mouth fell open in protest. “But, Mama.”
With her black-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, Gigi cut her daughter down with one severe look.
“Of course, Mama,” Juliette said through an expertly clenched jaw. Then she offered him a saccharine smile. “Follow me please, Monsieur Gallagher.”
Brock muttered a swear.
Here we go.
He followed her up the stairs, doing everything within his power not to stare at the way those black leggings hugged the curve of her ass.
In a sense, he was glad to see at least some things never changed.
However, this was going to be the longest renovation of his life if they weren’t able to come to an agreement of sorts.
They weren’t exactly on good terms, and it was only a matter of time before the past and all of its unwanted heartache caught up to them.
Brock cleared his throat, forcing his gaze to the swath of lightly tanned skin of her shoulder peeking out above her red sweatshirt. “Look, Jules—”
She whirled on him so quickly, he almost careened backwards down the staircase. The frosty blue of her eyes flashed with anger, and she kept her voice deathly low. She leaned close so he caught a whiff of her scent—she smelled like florals, the salt of the sea, and unchecked boundaries.
“No. You don’t get to call me Jules.” Her glare sharpened, but it was tainted with sorrow. “You lost that privilege thirteen years ago, after you…”
Her chest heaved and she lifted her chin, jaw clenched. “After you…”
After he left her. After he joined the Marine Corps and never came back.
“I will do whatever my mother asks of me because she’s putting me up for the time being.” She lifted one finger, her gaze narrowing. “But don’t think for one minute that just because we’re working together means we’re friends. Because it doesn’t. Not now. Not ever.”
He nodded sharply, hating the way her words stabbed him like a knife. “Understood.”
She stormed up the rest of the stairs to the loft, and he followed behind her at a much safer distance.
Brock had no idea why Juliette was back in town or how long she was staying, but he couldn’t ignore the tiny flicker of unwanted emotion that sparked to life inside his cold chest. Her arrival was unexpected, and even though she was being forced to work alongside him, he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Juliette was the first—and quite possibly the only—girl Brock ever loved, and seeing her again today sent a rush of angsty teenage memories slamming into him.
Her laughter, her smile, her scent, her taste were ingrained in his mind.
So no, he wouldn’t mind spending the next few weeks with her.
It might be pure torture, but he’d gladly endure it.
Unfortunately, Juliette still hated him, and Brock wasn’t sure if an apology would be enough to heal the wounds he left behind on her heart.