Chapter 4
MILES
“Jude, hang on. I can’t hear for shit out here.” I pull open the door to my truck. When I shut it behind me and the buzz of traffic muffles to comparative quiet, I yank off my hard hat. “Okay, what?”
“You got a girlfriend now?”
“Uh…”
“Thought you weren’t dating.”
“I’m not.” Frowning, I switch my phone to the opposite ear, shoving my empty lunch bag and gear onto the passenger seat. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Olena sent me this link Nat saw. Some political gossip blog thing. She came across it through her government job, I think.”
“Wait. Gossip blog? The fuck?” My phone chimes against my ear and I switch to speakerphone, my mind already scrambling to make sense of what I’m hearing.
Dating? Girlfriend?
I can’t even think of any women I’ve been around lately.
“Uh, it’s called The Wash,” Jude says as I open the link. “It says: Airing the dirty laundry of Washington state elite.” His sigh whooshes static through the phone. “Who reads this shit, man?”
Jude’s one to talk; he reads landscaping blogs.
The site finally loads and my stomach drops when I see the photo of me outside the gym yesterday. With Caroline.
“Who the fuck took this?” I wonder out loud, zooming in. More importantly, why?
I quickly zoom out and scroll down, my eyes tripping a scattered path through the article.
Caroline Brennan, daughter of… Pete Brennan? Jesus. Engagement called off…
What the fuck is going on?
My mind races to make sense of this. The thought of a paparazzo type lurking around town is laughable. Nothing ever happens in Lennox. Definitely nothing that would qualify as celebrity gossip. That’s part of the reason I moved home. It’s slow here. I need slow.
“Alright, out with it,” Jude says.
I roll my eyes.
My older brother has a bad case of BDE: Big Dad Energy. Though I guess he comes by it honestly, having basically stepped into the role after our parents died eleven years ago. “What’s the deal?”
“Okay, look, I met her at the gym. There was this asshole talking to her and— Y’know what?
It doesn’t matter.” I balance my phone on my thigh and start the truck, too hungry to go down this particular rabbit hole right now.
“Anyway, I walked her outside and helped her with her bag. That’s it.
Haven’t seen her since. Some creep obviously snapped a photo of us. ”
“Miles, how the hell do you, of all people, get tied up in a scandal with the daughter of some blowhard politician?”
“Scandal?” I echo through a skeptical chuckle. “Fuck off.”
But also… shit. So much for trying to keep my head down here. I pull out into the street and head for home. “It was, like, a five-minute conversation. And I had no idea her dad was a senator.”
Pete Brennan. Of all fucking people.
It does explain the rich-girl vibe I got at the gym, though.
She probably is rich. Elite, like the blog title said.
In other words, nothing at all like me. I exhale, already kicking myself for the way the thought deflates me.
Disappointment is pointless; she might be way out of my league, but I’m not even playing ball.
“It says she was engaged or something?”
“I guess? Maybe?” I catch my shoulders creeping up to my ears and consciously lower them, shifting in my seat. “I don’t know anything about her.”
“She’s pretty!” Olena calls out in the background, audibly enjoying the whole situation. “Did you get her number?”
“No,” I say, but I can’t help but admit it: she’s not wrong.
Caroline is gorgeous. Those long, toned legs…
those perfect tits—on the small side, the way I like them.
There’s a reason I couldn’t stop staring at her Tuesday morning—why I skipped showering before work so I could spend every last second with her.
“Still not dating anyone. Not until I get my one-year chip, at least. Tell Olena to cool it.”
“Alright,” Jude says with an amused-sounding sigh. “I think I’ll find some way to distract her.”
Olena lets out a delighted shriek and I grimace. Ever since they got engaged, they’re all over each other.
“Gross. Can you two please save your weird sex stuff for after you hang up?”
“Fucking relax, would you? I don’t want you on the phone for that, either.” There’s a shuffling sound like he’s sitting down on the couch. “Hey, I was gonna ask if you wanted to plan anything for your one year.”
“Aw, c’mon, man. Don’t jinx it. It’s like two months away.”
“Not trying to jinx it, Miles. You’re getting there, though. It’s an idea, anyway. Sober for a whole year is a huge milestone. So we should, y’know… celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” I frown, turning onto my street. Jude suggesting a party is not exactly his style. “Did Olena put you up to this? Or Nat?”
That, or my brother really does think this is a pretty big deal. And… fair enough. He’s probably the one who deserves a party—for keeping me alive for over a decade while I put us both through hell with my drinking.
“Uh, there might have been a nudge,” Jude admits. “But they’re right. We gotta do something.”
“I mean, I guess? I dunno, man.”
“Ooh, I can bake a cake!” Olena calls out.
“Look, I’ll think about it, but later. I’m fucking starving.” I park outside my building and kill the engine.
“Alright, alright. Go eat before you get pissy. Just wanted to put the bug in your ear. And don’t worry, I won’t let Olena bake anything.”
I tilt my head. Food isn’t exactly her forté.
After we say our goodbyes and hang up, I grab my bag and head for the front door of my apartment building.
I lunge past one of my neighbors on her way out, catching the lobby door with my boot before it shuts.
Trying to reassure the frowning older woman, I wave my keys in the universal sign of don’t worry, I live here and make for the elevator.
Since I leave so early for the gym each morning, I’m sure half my neighbors have barely laid eyes on me over the last ten months.
The clunking whir of the old elevator barely registers as I ride up to the fourth floor; I’m too engrossed in staring at that picture of me and Caroline to notice much else.
The timing of the photo—the placement of my hand, how I’d stepped in close to fix her bag—made it look like there was more between us.
Though there had been something there. An intangible draw.
Attraction, I guess. I shake my head, remembering how I’d fallen all over myself to help her out.
I’d tied her shoe, for fuck’s sake, like I was goddamn hypnotized.
I push inside my apartment and chuck my things onto the chair near the door, then duck into the tiny galley kitchen to throw a container of leftover pad thai in the microwave, like I can sense this new development in my life is gonna require brain fuel.
But my willpower doesn’t last long, because I’m only halfway through unlacing one steel-toed boot before I’m dropping into the nearest kitchen chair and flicking open my laptop with my free hand.
I’m still typing her name in the search bar when my phone pings, pulling my eyes from one screen to the other.
Gus
Never thought you of all people would be anyone’s “mystery beau”
Pretty fucking fancy, buddy
Me
Fucking hell. How’d you see this shit already?
Gus
My mom sent it to me.
This fucking town. I find the blog post right away and open the article.
Gus
Gotta say, calling your ass “elite” is fucking hilarious
Girl in the photo though… damn. *whistles*
Me
Ok well laugh it up. It’s all just a stupid misunderstanding.
Gus
Tell that to the way she’s looking at you
I zoom in on the photo again.
He’s right. There’s something in her eyes. I’d seen it—felt it—that morning. And I know I wasn’t imagining things. Call it an ADHD sixth sense, but I’ve always been able to read people well.
I try to let it go. It doesn’t matter if there’d been a fleeting attraction between us. Or if some gossip blogger thinks we’re together after one misleading picture. I couldn’t give two shits about what some local rag says, anyway. The rumor will probably be a distant memory by tomorrow.
By late morning, it’s become clear I can’t shake this rumor thing.
Despite my best efforts to brush it off, that photo of me and Caroline kept me up last night, and something about it was still humming away in the back of my head when I woke up.
Working out hadn’t shifted it, and my distraction level on the job site this morning was becoming a liability.
I fumbled my hammer at least twice and praised the inventor of steel-toed boots when I nearly bit it tripping over a pile of rebar.
Thankfully, Dave didn’t witness any of this, but some of the guys gave me shit.
I played it off like I missed my morning coffee, but, the truth is, my brain has been MIA all morning.
When I’d found her profile on the gallery’s website last night and I realized she worked across the street from me, it felt like the universe was handing me a big, blinking invitation to go talk to her. I figured this weird rumor warranted a conversation, at the very least.
But I’d also paused. Sure, it’d be easy to pop by, but how would it look? Like I was just another asshole invading her space? With no other way to get in touch, though, I decided to risk it.
I have to take a huge step backward to avoid getting hit by the gallery door when a stylish older couple suddenly pushes outside. Pulling up short, they quickly swerve around me, throwing me a pair of cautious side-eyes.
They’re not the only ones wondering what I’m doing here.
Stepping inside the bright, open space makes me strangely nervous.
I probably shouldn’t have come on my lunch break.
I’m definitely not dressed to be in a place like this, in my dusty jeans and hi-vis.
Nearly every surface in here is spotless and white, with one weathered brick wall at the back.
A quick glance at the price tag next to the nearest painting confirms my suspicion: this little art gallery is bougie as fuck.