Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
T he next morning, Reagan braced herself for the drive into her old neighborhood. Force of habit. There was no telling what kinds of destruction had befallen Maplebrook Drive in the last month-plus.
For the last two years, she and Ike had watched as many of the surrounding houses were bought up and knocked down. Gargantuan new builds were their replacements. Modern monstrosities that were an ode to quick construction and “curb appeal.” While the upgrade to the neighborhood had increased the values of the homes—her grandfather had sold his house for a mint, which had allowed him to retire in his dream condo on the golf course—watching those sturdy brick homes being decimated had left an irreparable hole in her heart.
Maybe more than one.
She was answering a repair call today from Jean, her former neighbor across the street, who was having an issue with her thermostat. Reagan had implemented an annual membership for many of her elderly clients last year. She felt better popping in to solve a four-minute problem with fussy appliances or a clogged dryer vent without charging them for a full hour. Especially since the newfangled refrigerators, washing machines, and microwaves had more buttons than a spaceship.
She pulled alongside the curb and parked in front of Jean’s house, taking a moment to admire the warm, orange-and-red brick home on the other side of the street. There was a stately maple towering over a long, narrow backyard, a pine tree that had outgrown its corner at the front of the lot but provided excellent shade for the front window, and a driveway that led past the house to a one-car garage and attached workshop.
Before she’d moved out, solar panels had been added to conserve energy. She’d been excited about the upgrade, and Ike, who indulged her every whim, had scheduled to have them installed almost instantly.
Now, the McMansion next door cast a shadow over the roof of her former home, making the solar panels all but useless. Its second story towered, seeming to boast about its whitewashed brick and modern charcoal gray roof. The house that used to stand on the lot next door had been a squatty brick home like the one next to it, and in Reagan’s opinion, cozier than its successor. Who the hell wanted to clean seven bedrooms anyway?
She climbed out of her Ram and spotted a car in the driveway of her grandfather’s former home. A shiny black Mercedes SUV sat outside the closed garage. It had temporary plates, meaning it was either brand new or new to the owner, and absolutely gleamed in the sunshine. She was instantly curious about the new person (or persons) inhabiting her former home but turned toward Jean’s house instead.
Before she could knock on the door, it swung inward. Jean, her short gray hair neatly brushed, her clothing modern and stylish, greeted her with a hug. “Ray!”
“Hi, Jean.” She patted the older woman’s back and then stepped inside. The house was too warm for the sunny but cool day. “Whew, you’re right. It’s stifling in here. Your thermostat must be on the fritz.”
“Nah. I was cold earlier and forgot to turn it back down.” Jean sped across her living room, agile thanks to her daily walks around the block, and pressed a button. The heat clicked off in response. “I called because I wanted to talk to you about the man who moved into Ike’s house.”
She whispered “Ike’s house” as if she were referring to a holy shrine.
“You called me out here to talk about the new owner?” Reagan had stayed with her grandfather last night, so she hadn’t gone out of her way to come over. She hadn’t been inconvenienced but was peeved at having been lured here under false pretenses.
Rather, she should be peeved. In truth, she was eager to hear any news about the new neighbor she’d been wondering about.
“Ya gotta see him to believe him, sweetheart. I made an apple pie and fresh coffee for you. Your time won’t be wasted.” Jean zipped into the kitchen.
Reagan stole another look at the house across the street. She didn’t see any movement inside, though a light was on. She met Jean in the kitchen. “I always make time for pie.”
Jean, plates in hand, instructed Reagan to carry the mugs back into the living room.
“Now we can watch to see what he does next.” She forked a bite of pie into her mouth, her wrinkled smile full of secrets.
Reagan took a bite of her pie as well, the spicy-sweet flavor of cinnamon and apples bursting on her tongue. And homemade crust? Heaven on a plate. “This is the best pie you’ve ever made.”
“I doubt that. It’s been a long time since you’ve stopped by to have a slice, so the memory’s not fresh. When were you last in the neighborhood?”
“Around six weeks ago, maybe?” The next bite of pie went down slower thanks to the lump in her throat. No maybe about it, she’d been avoiding her former home since Ike had called to tell her it sold. The buyer had made a full-price offer without a walkthrough before signing on the dotted line. She’d been suspicious-slash-curious about him ever since.
“He’s single. I think. He’s been puttering around in that house for a week now and I haven’t seen a missus.”
“Only a week?”
“Yep. It sat empty save a moving company and a few delivery trucks. I thought the guy there to sign for ’em was the owner, but he was a young kid, twenty or so. The real deal showed up this week, and the next time the kid came by, the owner of the house handed him an envelope and the kid left. Money for a job well done, I assume. Unless they’re undercover cops or in the witness protection program.”
Reagan laughed, but Jean didn’t join her. “Have you seen any other evidence that he’s hiding something?”
“None, but that doesn’t mean he’s not.” The older woman leaned back on her floral sofa and waved a hand as if she hadn’t trotted out a conspiracy theory seconds ago. “He’s been carrying in bags from Lowe’s and Home Depot and then carrying them back out again.”
“That’s not suspicious. I do it all the time.” How many times had she purchased the wrong-sized screw or furnace filter? Too many to count.
The front door of her old home opened, and a man appeared. Well, he half -appeared. Most of him was blocked by a sizable kitchen sink. Sunlight glanced off the shiny stainless steel, blinding Reagan for a second. She abandoned her pie to walk to the wide picture window for a better look.
The man had broad shoulders, thick brown hair, and a mustache hiding what she suspected was a frown. Biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of a tight cotton T-shirt a moment before he tossed the sink onto the yard at his feet.
“Oh my,” Jean, who was suddenly standing next to her, said. “Well, this is new.”
“I assume that’s him.” He was younger than she’d expected.
“That’s him, all right.”
Hands propped on his hips, he surveyed the sink on the ground. Reagan didn’t know what she’d expected him to do next, but when he turned and walked back into the house, she knew that hadn’t been it.
He reappeared a moment later, a bottle of beer in hand. After taking a long swig, his free hand on his hip, he assessed his options. He didn’t swear, yell, or kick the stainless steel bowl but stood over it in quiet contemplation.
“Has he been doing his own repairs?” Reagan asked, but when Jean answered she didn’t listen. She was too busy appreciating the width of those shoulders. The sturdy set of his tall frame. The way his perfectly shaggy hair complemented the thick mustache and heavily stubbled facial hair. A drove of goosebumps cropped up on her forearms—the first hint of attraction to a man other than Dustin in three years.
“…or as far as I can tell, anyway,” Jean was saying. “He’s a looker though, isn’t he?”
Reagan blinked before shaking her head. “I, uh, didn’t notice.”
Jean let out a loud guffaw before returning to her coffee and pie. “I’m old, not blind. He’s a fine specimen. Even I can see that. Want to hear something else?”
“Sure.” She reluctantly joined Jean on the couch, but her eyes stayed on the window. She watched as he tipped his beer bottle again but was too far away to watch his throat work as he swallowed.
Bummer.
“He’s a Crane,” Jean said.
“A what?”
“A Crane. As in the family that founded Crane Hotels. Alex ‘Big’ Crane. Reese Crane. You know, the Cranes.”
Reagan knew Crane Hotels, but so did anyone who’d seen one of their towering glass buildings on the city skyline. They had to be the largest luxury hotel chain in the country. At least in the top five. But knowing a building wasn’t the same as knowing the family of billionaires the hotels were named after. It wasn’t like they had their own reality show or anything.
“The gossip paper used to mention them all the time,” Jean said. “It’s been quiet since each of the boys married and settled down.”
Reagan reassessed the man standing in her former front yard. “So, he’s a billionaire hotelier?”
“Hard to say, but I know his name. Furniture delivery guy came by my house by mistake and said he had a delivery for a Brody Crane.”
Brody Crane. “Never heard of him.”
“Maybe he is one of Big Crane’s love children.” Jean’s eyes rounded, clearly enjoying the prospect of a fresh scandal.
“He could be a long-lost cousin.” Reagan doubted the truth was as dramatic as Jean made it sound—most things in life weren’t.
The older woman’s mouth turned down, displeased by that less sordid explanation. “Hm. I suppose that could be possible. As you can see, he’s not much of a handyman, though you gotta give him credit for trying.”
“So the sink isn’t the first thing he’s thrown into the yard?”
“That’s new behavior, but he’s been hauling things of the Mister Fix-It variety in and out all week.” Jean elbowed Reagan’s arm, and she nearly wore her next drink of coffee. “You should offer to help him. He needs you! You can install a sink.”
Of course she could, but— “Help the man who is gutting my childhood home? No, thanks.”
“Aw, I know that’s tough, honey.” Jean gave her shoulder a hard pat, but thankfully Reagan’s coffee mug was empty. “At least he’s not knocking it down.”
That was a fair point. If he were knocking it down, would he be attempting to install a new sink?
“I have to go. Thanks for the pie and coffee.” Reagan stood. “Are you sure you don’t need me to fix something while I’m here?”
“No, I’m good.” Jean walked her to the door. “But he might.”
Next, Reagan was practically shoved onto the front porch. Jean raised her voice to shout, “Thanks again for stopping by, Reagan!”
No way the neighbor didn’t hear that .
Brody looked up when he heard shouting. Not directed at him, apparently. A tall woman in jeans, a T-shirt, and a brown leather jacket was standing on the porch across the street. On long legs, she walked from the porch to a huge white truck. At the curb, she paused to glance over at him. He caught a flash of blond hair and bright lipstick on full lips.
Wow. Gorgeous.
She lifted her hand into an awkward wave, and he saluted her with his longneck. Her pink lips flinched into a smile before she climbed behind the wheel.
He would have to ask the neighbor lady about her in the future. He’d been here all week and hadn’t once seen a leggy blonde or that truck. He wondered how often she visited.
“Like you need a woman in your life,” he muttered as she drove away. He needed a woman like…well, like he needed a fixer-upper of a house on a street that was on the rise. Rebuilds, like the massive house next to his, dwarfed his quaint three-bedroom, two-bath with unfinished basement. Even at nearly 2,500 square feet of living space, Brody’s house seemed like a miniature.
He’d always been a bit of a leap-before-he-looked kind of a guy. He’d barely peeked at photos of the house online before buying it. He’d been running out of time to set the stage for writing his book and had needed to act fast. Chicago had been a natural choice given his brother Zander had already moved there from London.
The clock was ticking on his deadline, which meant that Brody needed to stop attempting to fix things (which he apparently sucked at) and start writing. Although the “Great Man vs. Sink War” wasn’t the best idea for an opening chapter.
A car pulled into the driveway, distracting him from his thoughts.
Shit. He’d forgotten.
His cousin, Tag, unfolded from the interior, a wide grin beneath his beard. His hair was on his shoulders, his bulky arms outlined by a royal blue henley shirt. At six and a half feet tall, he was a hard man to overlook.
“What’s up, Bro?” Tag asked, using a shortened form of Brody’s name. He waggled his thumb and pinky fingers in a surfer hello. Then he dipped his bearded chin to the sink. “You planning on doing dishes on the lawn?”
Brody smiled and offered a “Fuck off, cuz.”
Tag laughed on cue.
Brody had reconnected with his Chicago cousins last weekend, making it a point to touch base at least once before he was buried in his writing-slash-house project. The youngest of his cousins, Tag was closest to Brody’s age. He and his beautiful wife Rachel had recently welcomed a baby girl into the world—the reason for this drop-in.
Tag opened the back door to reveal a car seat, and Brody’s stomach clenched in anticipation…and in a bit of discomfort. He wasn’t scared of babies, more what they represented: responsibility and a shitload of it.
His cousin emerged with a blanketed bundle in his arms. A gurgle sounded from beneath the blanket, the baby safely ensconced by Tag’s bulky muscles.
“I gotta work out more,” Brody said, approaching gingerly.
“Nah, she’s not that heavy.”
“I’m talking about your arms. How many hours do you spend in the gym anyway?” Brody was no slouch, but lately he’d lifted more kitchen sinks than barbells.
Tag unveiled his baby girl. Sunshine highlighted blond eyelashes, and a drop of drool decorated her heart-shaped mouth. She blinked and then opened eyes as blue as her father’s.
“Damn.” Brody absently rubbed his hand over his heart. “She’s absolutely precious. I can’t believe she’s half you.”
“Neither can I.” Tag chuckled. He’d been the playboy of the family and was the very last person any of them had expected to marry, let alone settle down. Not that Brody had expected that from his other city-dwelling cousins. He’d met Eli’s baby boy, Aric, the other day when he’d stopped by Eli and Isa’s warehouse home and had been equally gobsmacked by the fact Eli was a father.
“I can’t stop looking at her,” Tag said of his daughter. “I had to go back to work this week and it damn near killed me. I thought I couldn’t be happier than I was when I married Rachel. I was wrong.”
The old adage about the bigger they were, the harder they fell trotted through Brody’s head. Tag had toppled like a redwood.
“You have somewhere to sit inside, or should we hang out next to your new yard sink?”
“I have furniture inside. And beer, too, if you want one.”
Inside, Tag laid his daughter, Emilia, on Brody’s leather sofa. Surrounded by pillows, she seemed content with her makeshift bed. Brody delivered a light beer and joked that Tag had to stay at least one hour before he drove.
“I might have to. Having a baby has made our household a practically dry county. She’s our new hobby.”
“Instead of sex?” Brody sat on his recliner—a chair that had come with the house courtesy of the older man who’d lived here. He’d been on the cusp of tossing it but decided he liked the aesthetic of cracked and worn leather.
“In addition to. You’ll see if you ever settle down.” Tag took a swallow of beer. “You seeing anyone?”
“No. The last woman I dated was…” Brody shook his head rather than going into it. “Not right for me.”
“Had a lot of those before Rachel. Maybe you’ll meet someone here.”
“In this neighborhood? The women who live in houses like this one are seventy years old, and the tall new builds are filled with thirty-something, hustle-culture power couples.”
Except for the tall blonde he’d seen today. She didn’t seem to fit either of those descriptors.
“I don’t mind thirty-something power couples, but hustling is against my religion.” Tag illustrated that point by lounging with one leg crossed ankle to knee. Laid-back Tag took life as it came and rarely let anyone see him sweat. Brody hadn’t hung around his cousin much growing up, but he’d had a lengthy visit in Chicago years ago, and it’d been Tag who he’d connected with most.
Brody in no way considered himself laid back. He was always itching to do something— anything . Sitting at home; staying in one place for too long made him antsy. Which made the idea of him writing a book about settling down his biggest challenge to date.
“You mentioned you were writing another book over Chow Main takeout at Eli and Isa’s warehouse.” Tag tilted his head. “But you didn’t say much about it.”
“There’s not much to tell. I haven’t written a single word. Usually after I figure out the first sentence, I can get rolling.”
“Might help to open your laptop.”
“Yeah, it might.” Brody glanced at the coffee table where his closed computer sat beneath a pile of mail. His books were nonfiction, memoir-style. He endeavored to pass on the life lessons he learned in real time. To encourage people to climb out of their day-to-day ruts and try new things. He’d had zero issues writing his first book while traveling the country. Must’ve been better fodder for writing than replacing kitchen sinks.
“Writer’s block?”
“That’s not real.” Brody pointed his beer bottle at Tag. He also reached down and knocked on the wooden lever that popped the footrest. Knocking on wood was superstitious as fuck, but he didn’t need any bad juju when it came to this deadline. Come to think of it, he should probably ask his sister, Jaylyn, to sage the house when she came to town.
“It is if you ain’t writin’,” Tag added unhelpfully.
Brody’s eyes again tracked to the laptop gathering dust. Maybe he would write that first sentence tonight to make triple sure Tag hadn’t just cursed him.