Restored By You (Montgomery Brothers of Montana #4)

One.

Shea

“Michelle and I have eloped,” my father says from across his office as if we’re discussing the weather.

I blink, lifting my gaze from my phone to stare at him. He hasn’t bothered to even shift his eyes away from his computer screen while dropping yet another bombshell.

Typical Daniel Winton. If a conversation seems even the slightest bit difficult, he avoids, avoids, avoids. It’s a wonder he’s gotten this far in life.

“Congratulations,” I say flatly. This is my father’s…

fourth marriage, I believe, since my mother passed nineteen years ago.

At first, he took a page out of my best friend’s father’s book and focused on me, his only daughter.

Only child. Until that got to be too much and his attention strayed toward my nannies. Yes, plural.

I shouldn’t be surprised at how he’s announcing marriage number four so casually, but I am a tiny bit hurt for a few reasons. One, I wasn’t invited. And two, I have yet to meet this woman.

“Thank you,” he replies, gruff with an uncomfortable shift in his seat.

His dark complexion catches the beaming California sun from the floor to ceiling windows and highlights the tick in his jaw, telling me there’s more.

“I would have liked for you to meet her sooner, but she’s quite busy, as are you. ”

I hum, dismissing his boast that this woman could possibly be anything more than another young gold digger jumping on the gravy train. Not that I blame her in today’s economy. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

Dad checks his watch, a blinding gold Rolex—his prized possession and the first purchase he made when he officially netted over a million dollars from his famous ski resorts currently spread across America.

It should be noted that my father is an awful skier.

“She should be here shortly,” he announces, standing from his chair and striding around his massive mahogany desk. “There is, however, something else I’d like to speak with you about.”

Called it.

“Same,” I tell him, beaming with excitement over my news. It’s last minute, a bit of a long shot, and a little crazy on my part, but I haven’t felt this called to do something since grade school when I started making Halloween costumes for myself and all my friends.

We won first place for most creative.

Dad lifts a single black brow. It’s rare I come to him with life events, or favors, but…today is proving full of surprises. “Oh? And what’s that?”

I take a breath and stand to mirror his posture. “I’m pitching a television show.”

Dad’s brow furrows slightly. “What kind of show?”

“Home restoration. Not flipping, but restoration. Bringing back the original character of vintage homes instead of gutting them.” The words tumble out faster as my excitement builds.

“All these mid-century and Victorian styles are having a renaissance. People want authenticity again, not another grey and white farmhouse.”

He leans against his desk, arms crossed. “And you’d be hosting this?”

“Hosting and directing. I already have connections in fashion who are moving into lifestyle content, and my design background gives me credibility.”

“Have you written a treatment? Developed a budget? Identified your target demographic?” His questions fire like bullets, each one making me feel smaller.

Breathe, Shea. You got this.

“I’m working on all of that, but Dad, you always said you need proof of concept first.” I straighten my shoulders, trying to reclaim my confidence. “So I bought a house.”

His dark eyes widen. “You bought a house?”

“In Whitetail. It’s a 1920s craftsman that needs complete restoration. I’ll document the entire process, create a pilot episode—”

“You bought property, sight unseen, for a television show that doesn’t exist yet.” His voice is flat, that familiar tone that makes my stomach clench.

“I know how it sounds…”

“It sounds reckless.” He moves to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “What’s your timeline? Your budget for these renovations? Do you even know what you’re walking into with this house?”

Heat flushes my cheeks. “I’ve budgeted for three months of work, and I have contractors lined up.”

“Local contractors? Do you know their reputation? Their availability?”

Each question feels like a tiny blow, deflating the excitement I walked in here with. What was I thinking bringing this up at our weekly luncheon? I knew I should’ve sent an email.

“Dad, I’ve thought this through.”

“Have you?” He turns to face me, and for a moment I see something softer in his expression. “Because if you have, if you’ve really done your homework…” He pauses, seeming to consider. “The concept isn’t terrible. Restoration over renovation—there might be a market for that.”

My heart lifts slightly. “Really?”

“The Whitetail location is smart. Proximity to the resort could provide good B-roll footage.” He’s talking more to himself now, that calculating look I know so well. “And your fashion background does give you a unique angle.”

I hold my breath, hardly daring to hope.

“If you’re aiming to pitch this to the network I’ve invested in, then I’ll need to see your full business plan, of course. And the property would need to be—”

The office door swings open without a knock.

“Daniel, I’m so sorry we’re early—” A woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and laugh lines around her green eyes stops mid-sentence when she sees me.

She’s beautiful in that effortless way, wearing jeans and a cream sweater that probably cost less than my shoes but looks infinitely more comfortable.

Behind her, a lanky teenager with dark hair and pale skin slouches through the doorway, earbuds in, completely absorbed in his phone. He barely glances up.

“Michelle,” Dad says smoothly, as if he hadn’t just been caught mid-conversation. “Perfect timing. I’d like you to meet my daughter, Shea.”

My brain stutters. This woman is nothing like the parade of twenty-something blondes who’ve cycled through my father’s life. She has to be at least fifty, with genuine warmth radiating from her smile and not a single piece of designer anything visible.

“Shea!” Michelle’s face lights up like I’m the best surprise she’s had all week. “Oh, my goodness, you’re even more beautiful than your pictures. I’ve been dying to meet you.”

I stand automatically, my mind still trying to catch up. “It’s…nice to meet you, too.”

The teenager finally looks up from his phone, giving me a once-over that screams I’d rather be anywhere else.

“And this,” Dad continues, his voice carrying just a hint of something I can’t identify, “is Tyler. Michelle’s son.”

Son.

The word hits me like ice water.

My father married a woman with a child. A teenage child. This goes against everything I know about Daniel Winton’s carefully curated bachelor lifestyle.

“Tyler,” Michelle says gently, pulling out one of his earbuds. “This is Shea, Daniel’s daughter I was telling you about.”

Tyler gives me another dismissive glance and mumbles, “Hey,” before immediately reinserting the earbud.

“He’s fifteen,” his mother says with an apologetic smile, as if that explains his couldn’t-care-less attitude. Which, honestly, it kind of does.

I manage a weak smile back, my mind spinning. “Fifteen. Wow.”

Dad clears his throat. “Michelle, Tyler, please, sit.” He gestures to the leather chairs across from his desk. “We were just discussing—”

“Actually,” Michelle interrupts, settling into a chair while her son plops himself into the other like he’s boneless, “we should probably talk about the arrangement we discussed.”

My stomach drops. Arrangement?

Dad’s jaw ticks again. “Right. Yes.” He turns his attention to me, and for the first time in years, my father looks genuinely uncomfortable. “Michelle and I are taking an extended honeymoon. Six weeks in Europe.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say with an easy breath. He won’t be around to harass me about this big project I’m undertaking. I’ll be free to make decisions without him hounding me constantly over progress, progress, progress.

“The thing is,” Michelle chimes in, her tone bright. “Tyler can’t miss that much school, even if it is online, and I don’t believe in nannies. Family should always be there for family, you know?”

Oh, no.

“And since you two are family now,” she continues, oblivious to the panic crawling up my spine, “we thought it would be the perfect opportunity for you two to bond and get to know each other.”

I shift my gaze to Dad, willing him to tell me this isn’t going where I think it is.

He has the decency to look somewhat apologetic. “We were hoping you could stay with Tyler at the house in Malibu.”

“It’s only six weeks,” Michelle says quickly. “And Tyler is very independent, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Tyler doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Sure.”

“Six weeks,” I repeat, my voice hollow. My mind is racing with my carefully made plans: the house in Whitetail, the renovation timeline, the pitch I need to put together, the entire reason I came here today.

“Dad, I just told you I bought a house in Montana. I’m leaving on Friday to meet with the contractors and start the pilot reno.

I’ll be gone for two months, maybe three.

” I turn to my new stepmother, mentally shuddering at the thought.

“I’m sorry, but this is very last minute, and my plans—”

“Are perfect!” Michelle lights up like I’ve solved her problem instead of created one. “Tyler can go with you. Montana sounds amazing, doesn’t it, Ty?”

Tyler’s thumb stops scrolling. He looks up, making eye contact for the first time. “Wait, what?”

Finally. An ally in my confusion.

“Michelle, perhaps…” Dad starts.

“No, really, this could work beautifully.” She’s fully animated now, hands gesturing wildly in front of her. “Fresh air, small town living, away from all his friends who are honestly terrible influences.” She pats her son’s arm. “No offense, honey.”

“Offense taken,” he mutters, glaring at me as if I’m the root cause of all of this.

“Shea will be working on her big fancy house project. Ty won’t be cooped up in Malibu, bored out of his mind.” Michelle is glowing, peering between Dad and me like she’s just orchestrated world peace. “He could help with the renovation! It’ll be educational.”

“I don’t want to,” Tyler says flatly.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Michelle, darling, perhaps we should discuss—”

“Oh, Daniel, it’s perfect and you know it.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand.

Something about the gesture—so casual, so intimate—makes my chest tighten. This isn’t like his other marriages. She’s not performing for him.

“Shea gets to work on her show, Tyler gets a change of scenery, maybe make some new friends, and they actually get to know each other as family. Win-win-win.”

I open my mouth to argue all the reasons this is insane, but Dad speaks first.

“It would help us out considerably, Shea.” His dark eyes meet mine, and there it is—that rare glimpse of him asking me for something instead of dictating.

“I know it’s last minute and you have your own plans, but Michelle is right.

” He glances at his new stepson, who’s returned to his phone.

“Tyler needs his family. And that’s what we are now: family. ”

“I’m right here,” Tyler says, shaking his head without looking up.

“What about his school?” I ask, grasping at the most logical straw I can find. “It’s almost October. He can’t just swap schools for two months of his freshman year.”

“Sophomore,” Tyler corrects, still scrolling.

Michelle waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, we’ve already arranged everything with his school. They’re setting him up with online coursework and a local tutor. I’m sure we could find one in—what’s the town called again?”

“Whitetail,” Dad supplies.

“Right, Whitetail. Such a charming name,” Michelle beams. “The school counselor said it’s actually quite common these days, lots of students do hybrid learning.”

I shift my focus to Tyler, slumped in the leather chair. The only sign of his agitation being his jumping knee and flushed cheeks. He’s clearly as uncomfortable as I am, and yet, he’s not protesting any of this. “Are you okay with this?”

He shrugs without glancing up.

“See?” His mother smiles. “He’s on board.”

I wouldn’t exactly call one-word responses and shoulder shrugs on board, but clearly, I’m outnumbered here. I look back at my father, searching for any escape route, but his expression is set—not demanding, but expectant. He knows I’m going to say yes because that’s what I do.

I’m a people pleaser. I show up. I handle things.

Even when those things are a teenage stepbrother I met thirty seconds ago.

“Okay,” I sigh.

This ought to be fun.