Chapter 9 #3
“Oh, really? Then how do you explain it?” Brookman crosses his arms. “My snowmen were on my roof last night. This morning they’re gone, and you’ve got th-this spectacle up there!”
“How was I supposed to take down your damn display anyway?” Dad throws his hands up. “I’m a plumber, not a cat burglar! You think I climbed onto your roof in the middle of the night and hauled down those giant snowmen?”
“You can say whatever you like. I know it was you.” Brookman’s eyes narrow. “And I’m going to file a complaint with the police.”
He pauses, and I watch his expression shift—calculation sliding over anger like oil over water. His voice drops, becomes almost conversational. “But I could be encouraged not to. If you agree to give me that Santa display of yours. Fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”
Dad’s entire body goes rigid. The color drains from his face, then floods back twice as red. “My son-in-law got me that display, and I’ll be damned if I let you steal it, too!”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “He’s not your son-in-law—”
But Dad’s not listening. He’s too busy jabbing his finger back at Brookman. “You’ve got some nerve, Danny! Coming over here, making accusations, trying to steal from me again!”
“Again?” Brookman sputters, but his face flushes a guilty crimson that spreads from his neck up to his receding hairline. “I never—”
“My snowmen! Three years ago! Don’t think I forgot!” Dad’s voice rises. “They disappeared from my garage and showed up on your roof two days later!”
Brookman’s jaw works, his face getting redder by the second. “You can’t prove—I’ll see what the police have to say about this.” Brookman tries to recover, straightening his bathrobe like he’s adjusting a power suit. “I’m calling them right now.”
“I hope you have the receipt to back up your claim.”
Alexander’s voice cuts through the chaos like a knife through butter. I spin around to find him standing in the doorway, fully dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, looking completely composed despite the fact that ten minutes ago I was straddling him in bed.
Don’t think about that. Do not think about that.
“Who the fuck are you?” Brookman demands.
Dad puffs up instantly, pride radiating from every pore. “My son-in-law.”
“He’s not your son-in-law, Dad,” I moan quietly, desperately, but it’s useless. Dad’s on a roll.
Alexander steps onto the porch with that measured, powerful stride I’ve seen him use in boardrooms. “Because if you don’t have a receipt proving ownership, my lawyers would love to know how you can claim someone else’s property.”
Brookman goes still. “What?”
“You heard me.” Alexander stops beside Dad, crossing his arms. “Do you have proof of purchase for the display you claim was stolen?”
“Of course I do!” But Brookman’s eyes shift, darting to the side. “I just—I’ll have to look for it. But everyone knows it’s my display. Nobody will believe you.”
“Really?” Alexander’s smile is sharp. “Because I have a receipt proving the custom snowman display was purchased for and delivered to Bob Hartley three years ago. Completely legal. Completely traceable. I called the company, and they still have Bob’s name on file.
They were more than happy to send me a copy of the receipt.
” He pauses, his voice dropping to something deadly quiet.
“So, please. Call the police. I’ll wait right here while you explain to them how you’re accusing someone of theft when you can’t prove ownership of the allegedly stolen property. ”
Brookman stammers. “Y-you’re lying.”
“Am I?” Alexander’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s steel in his voice.
“Go ahead. Make the call. I’m sure the authorities would be fascinated by your claims. Especially when I provide documentation of legitimate purchase while you fumble for a receipt that doesn’t exist.” The color drains from Brookman’s face.
“That’s enough, Danny!” A woman’s voice cuts through the tension. Mrs. Brookman storms across the lawn in her own fuzzy robe—pink with snowflakes—and grabs her husband by the ear. Literally grabs him by the ear, like he’s a misbehaving child.
“Ow! Linda!”
“I told you back then not to do it!” She starts dragging him backward. “But you never listen to me, do you?”
“Linda, let go—”
“March!” She doesn’t release him, pulling him across the lawn like he weighs nothing.
“This isn’t over, Bob!” Brookman shouts over his shoulder, his face scrunched in pain.
“Hmph.” Dad crosses his arms, glaring after them with satisfaction.
The moment they’re out of earshot, Dad turns and looks up at the display again. His expression shifts from triumph to something softer, almost childlike in its wonder. “Son,” he says quietly to Alexander, his voice thick with emotion. “You did this for me?”
I wait for Alexander to correct the ‘son’ thing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods. “Seemed like you needed an upgrade.”
Dad’s eyes glisten. “It’s perfect. It’s—” His voice cracks. “Thank you.”
Alexander claps him on the shoulder, and I watch something pass between them—some masculine understanding I don’t fully grasp but can feel the weight of.
Then Dad turns and pulls me into a crushing hug. “Your boy’s a keeper, Livie-girl.” Over his shoulder, I meet Alexander’s gaze. He’s watching me with that intensity that makes my stomach flip, that same heat from upstairs still simmering in his eyes.
‘A keeper.’ If only Dad knew this was all pretend.
If only my racing heart would get the memo.