22. Surface Rupture
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SURFACE RUPTURE
Ethan
I make the drive to the office on autopilot. No matter how hard I try to focus on the road, my thoughts keep circling back to the conversation I overheard yesterday while standing behind a stack of packed boxes as we cleaned up after the weekend's event.
“You are not going to believe what Arya Stevens told me. On her way to the bathroom last night, she heard… noises coming from the tack room. Sex noises, apparently. She said it sounded like they were right up against the door.” I hear Sloane say in a whisper.
She continues when neither Lucy nor Claire responds. “She said that when she came out of the bathroom, Brooke walked out of the tack room, tugging her dress back into place and smoothing her hair.”
“Gross, I’m going to have to sanitize that room,” Lucy says.
“I saw Reid watching her earlier,” Claire says slowly, like she’s working through it out loud. “At the bar. He kept looking over, you know? But he’s—” She makes a face when she glances around the room. “He’s probably close to her dad’s age, practically. That’d be gross.”
It’s a relief they suspect Reid, but the thought of them questioning him terrifies me. If Reid finds out—God, he’ll know. He’ll know it was me.
I force myself to focus on the road, rehearsing every possible explanation before reminding myself none of them matter unless someone starts asking questions. By the time I pull into the office parking lot, my shoulders ache from gripping the steering wheel.
The familiar smell of printer ink and basswood shavings does nothing to ground me. On my drafting table, a parking structure model sits half-finished, its precise angles and load-bearing walls a stark contrast to the chaos in my head.
Reid walks in balancing a set of drawing tubes tucked under one arm and two coffees in the other. “Morning.”
“You seem annoyingly cheerful for a Monday.”
“I have coffee.”
He hands a cup to me before dropping the plans onto my desk. “I also have something better.”
I glance down at the rolled drawings. “Please tell me that’s not another school renovation.”
He grins. “It’s better.”
He spreads the plans across my desk, and my attention sharpens.
The site plan covers fifty acres just outside Ironwood Flats.
Walking trails wind through preserved woodland areas, their paths delineated by delicate lines, and several low-profile buildings cluster around a central courtyard.
Green spaces and a vibrant wash of color on the page dominate the layout.
“What is it?”
“A sustainable mixed-use development.” My interest is genuinely piqued.
Instead of leveling the landscape, the design works around it, respecting every contour.
He points out the highlights: seventy percent tree canopy preservation, passive solar design angled to the winter sun, rain gardens to manage runoff.
It’s ambitious and elegant, a world of clean lines and thoughtful solutions.
For the first time all weekend, my mind zeroes in on something other than the mess I’ve made.
I trace the lines of a residential building, feeling a flicker of the professional passion I’d thought was buried under guilt.
“Funding?”
“Already secured. Mercer’s a billionaire in his own right.” Projects like this rarely come together so cleanly.
He points toward another page. “They also want net-zero energy certification for the community center.”
I whistle. “That’s difficult.”
“Exactly.” His grin widens. “But it would look pretty good in our portfolio.” That part is certainly true.
“It’s a development designed to work with the landscape rather than against it.”
“That’s what I told them.”
For the next forty minutes, my mind focuses on something other than Brooke. Unfortunately, the distraction doesn’t last, and the meeting eventually winds down.
He rolls up the drawings and stands, gathering the plans. “So.” The single word puts me on guard.
“So?”
“Enough serious conversation.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That statement never ends well.”
“Jensen wants to grab a beer after work.”
“No. I’m not in the mood to be ambushed by the two of you with unsolicited advice and overpriced appetizers.”
He looks offended. “Our advice is excellent.”
“Your advice usually involves making poor decisions.”
“That’s called living.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Probably.” He heads toward the door. “We’re meeting at The Fiddler’s Rest around six.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“I literally did.”
He taps my door frame. “See you at six.” Then he walks out before I can argue further.
By five-thirty, I’ve convinced myself I’m going home. By five-forty-five, Reid appears in my doorway carrying his keys. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Before I can protest, Jensen appears behind him. Unlike Reid, Jensen doesn’t bother pretending this is optional. “You need a beer.”
“I need peace.”
Jensen points toward the parking lot. “You can have peace tomorrow. Tonight we’re having some guy time,” he says with a smile.
I suppose a beer sounds better than an evening spent in my head, so I grab my jacket. “This is a terrible idea.”
Reid grins. “The best ideas usually are.”
The heavy hardwood door groans as we push open the door to the pub, revealing a warm, inviting glow.
The place is busy without being crowded.
A baseball game plays on several televisions with no sound.
A rich, comforting smell of burgers and fried food, mingled with the faint tang of stale beer, fills the air.
Maybe Reid knows what he is doing after all, dragging me here.
Judging by the look Jensen shares with him as we find a table, I suspect neither of them invited me here to talk about architecture. I’m guessing the beer will not be the most dangerous part of the evening.
Before anyone can speak, Jensen heads to the bar to order drinks. A few minutes later, the first round arrives, and he raises his glass to us. “To surviving the week.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Reid says. I tap my bottle against both of theirs, then take a long pull.
Jensen is halfway through a story about a man who wandered into the emergency department not wearing any pants when his attention shifts to the sidewalk outside the pub.
I turn toward the front, a warm draft sweeps in as the door opens. A tall, auburn-haired man in his mid-thirties, wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, stands at the entrance of the bar, holding open the door as he scans the interior.
He’s dressed casually in jeans and a dark button-down shirt. There’s something polished yet awkward about him that makes him stand out, like a freshly pressed shirt in a pile of laundry. The warm glow of the pub lights catches the subtle red in his hair.
When he enters, Jensen raises a hand, giving him a casual wave. “Evening, Doc.”
The gentleman glances around, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his glasses, before spotting Jensen. A smile spreads across his face, and he changes direction, his stride purposeful. “Jensen.”
He reaches the table and shakes Jensen’s hand with a firm, professional grip. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Jensen replies.
Jensen gestures toward the rest of them. “Dr. Tierney, this is my friend Reid and my brother-in-law Ethan.”
We all exchange greetings.
“Please call me Finn. Nice to meet you both,” he says.
“You too,” we say in unison.
I grin. “Sloane may have already mentioned you. She’s come up with some pretty... entertaining nicknames.”
His cheeks pink. “That doesn’t bode well.”
Jensen laughs, a booming sound that draws a few glances from nearby tables.
Finn shakes his head. The conversation flows easily for a few minutes. He appears relaxed and personable, nothing like the intimidating specialist I imagined when Lucy and Sloane first mentioned him months ago.
“Are you up for joining us?” Jensen asks eventually, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
He glances toward the dining area. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my brother.”
“Family dinner?”
“Something like that,” he replies.
“Offer stands if he bails,” Jensen tells him.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
After another round of handshakes, Finn excuses himself and heads toward a table near the far side of the room.
Reid watches him go, taking a thoughtful sip of his beer. “I can see why people trust him.”
“Yeah,” Jensen agrees, leaning back in his chair. “Good guy.”
The conversation drifts toward work. Reid ardently describes a detail of the sustainable development project Mercer Development proposed. Jensen listens intently, asking thoughtful questions. I’m only listening with half an ear.
A few minutes later, a deep rumble rolls through the windows, vibrating the glass and making the beer bottles on the table subtly tremble. The sound grows louder with each passing second. Several people glance toward the entrance, their conversations dying down.
“What—is—that?” Reid asks, his voice raised over the growing din.
Before anyone can answer, the unmistakable roar of what I assume are motorcycles come from the parking lot, vibrating through the floorboards. I cast a look toward the front windows, where the evening light, reflects off polished chrome.
“That’s an impressive line-up of Harleys,” Jensen says, his voice a little lost beneath the rumble.
The engines continue for several seconds, a guttural symphony of power, before shutting off one after another, leaving a sudden, almost jarring silence in their wake.
A gust of air sweeps in as the front door opens with a creak.
A man well over six and a half feet tall steps inside, his silhouette framed against the fading sun.
He’s broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with a shaved head and a presence that seems to absorb the room’s chatter.
Tattoos climb his neck from beneath a dark T-shirt.