Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
R eagan grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge in the garage, smiling to herself as she leaned into the familiar appliance. Ike had kept this fridge stocked, not only with beer but also with confections he’d picked up at the bakery. Cheesecake, birthday cake, donuts…the man had a sweet tooth, and she had taken over lecturing him about it after Grandma Betty died.
Alberto had stopped using the chainsaw some time ago. When she stepped into the house from the side door, Brody was paying him using an app on his phone. Which reminded her that she’d forgotten to transfer her credit card payments into her bank account this week. Dustin had lectured her about setting up an automatic transfer, but she’d been too busy to look into it. She made a mental note to finally scratch that off her list.
Once Alberto left, Brody nodded at the beers in her hand. “You’re supposed to let me serve you, not the other way around.”
“You were busy.” She handed over one of the uncapped bottles.
“Glass?”
She tipped the bottle to her lips and drank down an ice-cold sip. It tasted absolutely delicious. “No, thanks.”
His smile did that sideways tip thing it’d done earlier. The same one that had warmed her cheeks and caused parts of her to tingle. She turned for the front door to escape the assault of his…well, everything . “We should sit outside.”
“Not too cool for you?”
“The sun’s out. I’d hate to miss a second of that.” Especially during the normally gray spring.
He gestured to the front door. “After you.”
She set her bottle on top of the cast iron patio table and lowered herself onto one of the uncomfortable matching chairs. They were outfitted with the same sad excuses for cushions that neither Reagan nor her grandfather had bothered swapping out for softer ones. Her grandfather said he would have taken the patio set to the new condo if they hadn’t weighed “as much as my old Buick.”
“Is the news that bad?” Brody asked as he sat on his own deflated cushion.
“What do you mean?”
“Your eyebrows.” He twirled a fingertip in her general direction. “They are communicating dismay.”
She offered a bashful smile. “I was thinking of the things I’ve neglected to do and wondering if I’m growing senile at twenty-nine.”
“Forgetfulness is a common trait in creatives.”
“You talk like a writer.” She picked up her beer bottle. His gaze zeroed in on her once again. He didn’t look at her in a lecherous way, more studied her in a curious way. She wondered what he would write about her if asked.
“Did Jean Google me? Or did you?” He sent a glance over to the house across the street. There was a reflection on the windows but beyond them, Reagan thought she saw the ghostly visage of an old lady who couldn’t mind her own business.
“Neither. My best friend Kelly did. She says the Cranes are like Chicago’s Kardashians.”
“Are you keeping up with us?”
“I don’t keep up with much of anything, save my work.” She heard the heaviness of her tone, and he must’ve too. A shadow of seriousness crossed his handsome face. She refused to feel sorry for herself. The situation she found herself in was her own doing. “Kelly showed me a website with your book cover on it. I may have noticed the words New York Times Bestseller. ”
“Yeah. First book too. I never was sure if I earned that title or if it was thanks to the marketing machine that promoted me.” He sucked in a deep breath. It sounded like there was more to come, but when he spoke next, he changed the subject. “Okay, let’s hear the damage. What’s it going to cost me, either in time or money, to make this place livable?”
It was already livable , but a billionaire likely had higher expectations than she had when she’d lived here. Looking through the house with him earlier, she’d spotted glaringly obvious fixes she’d been overlooking for years. Peeling paint, chipped door frames. The thermostat was badly in need of updating. When she’d lived here, she’d prioritized her customers’ houses over taking the time to update this one. She felt sort of bad about it now, like she’d neglected the home Betty had kept pristine in her living years.
Shaking off the sad thought, she opened an app on her phone and pecked in an invoice. As she listed the numerous items that needed attention, she was aware of two things: the sucking sound of Brody pulling beer past his pursed lips, and the fact that he watched her with heightened interest usually reserved for guys who were checking her out.
But that couldn’t be right. She’d seen for herself the beautiful dark-haired woman staying with him. No way would he be flirting with Reagan.
“Will your girlfriend want to look over the list as well?” she asked not-so-smoothly.
His voice lilted with amusement. “Girlfriend?”
He didn’t seem the marrying type, but nonetheless she asked, “Wife? I noticed a woman over here the last time I was at Jean’s. I just assumed.”
“Rings, dark hair, drapey, flowy clothing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Jaylyn Crane. My sister.”
“Ohhh.” She gave herself a moment to absorb that information before turning back to her phone. A strange sense of relief came with the revelation that Brody Crane was single. “So, no girlfriend.”
“Not at the moment. Jaylyn is staying with me for a few weeks because she delights in inserting herself into her brothers’ lives. My oldest brother, Zander, moved here a few months back and she showed up on his doorstep to keep him in line. Now it’s my turn.”
“Is she older than you?”
“Younger. By a significant amount, but she’s the only girl, so she takes her mothering seriously.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Four. Zander, me, my younger brother Dante, and J.”
“You are like the Kardashians. What about the hotelier Cranes?”
“Reese, Tag, and Eli are my cousins. Their dad, Alex ‘Big’ Crane, is my uncle.”
“Your father’s brother?”
“You writing a book too?”
“No, but I was right about guessing you were a long-lost cousin. Jean thought you might be in witness protection.”
He sent a glance over at Jean’s house. “She seems…”
“Crazy?”
“I was going to say nice. She brought me a pie.”
“She bakes a great pie.”
“That she does.” They held each other’s gaze for a beat longer than appropriate. Parts other than her face grew warm this time. He broke the silence with, “I assume your next question is going to be if I’m a billionaire.” He didn’t sound arrogant about it, merely factual.
“I wasn’t sure since you didn’t tear down this house to build”—she jerked her head toward the house next door—“ that .”
He leaned forward to see beyond the awning. “Pass. You didn’t assume that I wanted to live in this house as-is?”
“Well…if the Italian leather loafer fits.” Her eyes went to his shoes. Sturdy, tied work boots. Damn near spotless though.
“Loafers don’t fit my narrative.” A distracting smirk played on the corner of his mouth before he continued explaining. “My first book was about traveling the country and not living off my wealth. This book is about learning to live like the others live.”
“The others ?” She bristled.
“I’ve lived in New York City, London, Madrid, and LA. Never lived outside of Chicago in a small neighborhood with an overgrown maple tree in the backyard. Curious what I’ll learn while trying on this life.”
She made a sound in the back of her throat.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She continued typing her list.
“Tell me. I want to know what you think.”
“Why?” She faced him and their eyes locked. She didn’t look away but neither did he. A lick of heat curled around her belly and then spread across her chest. She shut her eyes and reminded herself that he was just a man. No matter how much wealth, fame, and power he had, he still left his towel on the floor after he showered. But then that introduced the image of him naked, which served to muddle her mind more.
“The idea of you trying on a lifestyle like a pair of pants is offensive. I live this life for real. I’m not playing house.” She straightened her shoulders, doubling down on portraying how offended she was instead of admitting that he was turning her on by merely sitting next to her.
“Playing house? I’m not playing anything. I came here to immerse myself in this environment. Living here might not seem like climbing Mount Everest to you?—”
“Have you done that?” she interrupted.
“Not yet.” His smile was contained but contagious. “All I’m saying is I’m well outside of my comfort zone. I don’t take this experience lightly.”
He didn’t appear outside of his comfort zone, even while leaning back in the uncomfortable iron chair. He looked more like a lazy house cat. A really muscular lazy house cat. With biceps that tested the sleeves of his shirt and pecs that filled out the front…
“I’m sorry.” She gave her head a quick shake and reminded herself to stop objectifying him. “I have no right to judge you.”
She realized she’d made him responsible for the dull ache in her heart. After all, if Brody wasn’t living here, she would be. Then again, Dustin was to blame more than Brody, wasn’t he? But, she amended, censoring her thoughts, everything happened for a reason. Her mother leaving, her grandparents adopting her, Dustin moving to Missouri. It wasn’t fair to hold Brody Crane personally accountable for her problems.
“It’s okay,” he said easily.
“Um. Your quote.” The reason why you’re here. “The top-line items—sketchy wiring for the bedroom ceiling fan and a missing kitchen sink—are the most dire. The rest you can tinker with whenever you have a bout of writer’s block.” She’d meant it in jest, but Brody visibly paled.
“There’s no such thing.” He sat up straight, suddenly alert. “If you put your fingers on the keyboard, words come out. Simple as that.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“Sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Touchy subject.”
A cool breeze infiltrated her leather jacket. She repressed a shiver as she stood. “I’m going to head out unless you have any questions. I can email you the list.”
He stood with her. “How about you text it to me and let me know what I owe you for the walkthrough?”
“One beer.” She took a final sip. “Paid in full.”
“Not quite. You didn’t finish it.”
“Okay, half a beer.” She set aside the amber bottle.
He unpocketed his phone and rattled off his phone number. She texted him the invoice.
“I promise not to call after-hours with any kitchen-sink emergencies. When do you clock off?”
Was he…flirting with her? It’d been a while since she’d been flirted with, but this qualified from what she could recall. “Depends. Usually around seven.”
“Seven.” He dipped his head into a nod as if mentally logging the information. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good luck. With everything.” She tucked her phone into her back pocket. “In there.”
He buried his hands into his front pockets and followed her down the porch steps. For every one of her backward steps, he took one forward. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Reagan. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“I appreciate you keeping the tree.” She tripped on her next backward step but was saved by her truck. When her butt bounced off the door, she yelped.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Totally fine.” She needed to get out of there before she did or said something more awkward. She fumbled with her key fob until her truck unlocked. “Thanks again. For the beer.”
“Half a beer,” he corrected from beneath that fantastic mustache.
“Right.” She let out an overzealous laugh.
“I’ll call you if I need anything.”
She shut herself into the truck and gave him a double thumbs-up. Apparently hoping to escape before being more awkward had been too much to ask.
“Thanks a lot, universe,” she grumbled as she sped down the road.
“Why did you buy a fixer-upper, anyway?” Jaylyn rested the burned end of the bundle of sage onto the abalone shell she’d brought with her.
Yes , he’d had her smudge the house again. She’d rolled her eyes but had done as he’d requested.
“Didn’t mean to. But now that I own it, I figure a fixer-upper will make for a more interesting story than if I moved into one of those massive new builds.”
“That makes sense. More people will want to read about a Crane roughing it than one living in luxury.”
The term “roughing it” rankled him after Reagan’s reaction when she’d accused him of “playing house.”
“It’s not that rough.”
Jaylyn gave him a slow blink. “I’m well-traveled. I have met people from all tax brackets. You’ve leaped out of an airplane, Brody. You can handle a house with a backyard.”
“I know.” He’d successfully attempted lots of things, but this was the first time he felt as if his surroundings were defeating him. He’d written one book, for Christ’s sake, so why couldn’t he write another one? “This book has to work.”
“It will.” His sister patted his shoulder like he was a lost cause. “I think it’s nice that you bought yourself a house. You’ve bought one for everyone else.”
“Not everyone,” he grumbled.
“Your mom. Lindy. ” She screwed her mouth to one side. “I guess that’s not everyone. But that’s a lot of houses to buy when you’ve never owned one yourself.”
“Lindy doesn’t count.” She was his first serious girlfriend back when he thought he knew what love was. He’d bought the brownstone because she loved it, and then moved into it with her before promptly moving out. “I lived there.”
“Yeah, for like, a month .”
Six weeks, but arguing that point seemed petulant. “I was twenty-two. Too young to be neck-deep in commitment.” Lindy had started talking marriage the moment the bed had been delivered. He’d stood opposite the naked mattress from her while she painted a picture of a future that’d made his head spin. A destination wedding, maybe, she’d said. And the baby’s room in there. Do you think Jaylyn will be my bridesmaid, or will she want to stand on your side of the aisle? Will my parents have enough room to sleep over when they fly in to visit for the holidays?
Marriage. Baby. In-laws. He could still feel the burn in his throat like he might be sick.
“You’re not too young for commitment now,” Jaylyn said. “What’s your excuse?”
“What’s yours?” Deflect. “And how do you remember any of this stuff? Weren’t you like, twelve years old?”
“Seventeen.” She arched an eyebrow, resembling a seventeen-year-old at the moment. Absently, she spun the skull ring on her index finger, its diamond eyes catching the light from the front window. It was a killer design—hers. He’d rarely seen her without it since she’d put it on her own finger. “I like that you bought a house with old bones. Fixing it up will help you feel accomplished. And feeling accomplished will give you confidence. You are a grown man now.”
“Am I,” he said flatly. Sometimes he felt old enough to have lived two lifetimes, each of them with their own jagged, meandering trajectory. Other times, like now when he was sitting in a house without a kitchen sink because of a half-baked idea to move to the suburbs and pen a second book, he felt like a kid who was shit at planning for the future. One who had grown up with the opposite of normal parents.
His father was a billionaire traveler who maintained healthy-bordering-on-crazy friendships with his four children’s mothers, and his mom was a soap opera starlet who’d slid in and out of relationships with equally famous men over the years.
“Anything else need smudging?” Jaylyn leaned on the doorframe separating kitchen from living room. She sent a look down his person like she was considering smoking him up next.
“Nah, we’re good.”
“Good. I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“ Out .” She made it a point to widen her eyes and meet his stare. “Your name is not Octavius.”
“Thank God for that.”
“And even if it was, Dad doesn’t pester me about where I go.”
She had him there. Still, he had a hard time not worrying about her. “Be safe.”
“I’d invite you to come with me, but you’d make a terrible wingman.”
“I would.” He wouldn’t allow a guy within fifty feet of her if it were up to him. She was his baby sister, and only twenty-five. Young enough to make bad decisions she could regret later. “Don’t go home with any weirdos.”
“Weirdos are the most fun.” She grinned, enjoying taunting him. “ You should do something fun. Call Zander. Maybe he’ll meet you for a beer.”
“I’m going to write.” He felt the weight of those four words like an anvil on his chest. He’d put it off all day, and here it was, nearly seven at night. He’d done little more than open the manuscript and type the title page, followed by “Chapter One,” followed by…nothing.
“You’re too hard on yourself. Start tomorrow when you’re fresh.”
“After the sage kicks in?” He looked around the room as if he could see evidence that it was working, but the house looked the same. Couch, recliner, coffee table. Big-ass TV wrapped in foam and plastic and not yet mounted on the wall.
“What’s this really about, Bro? Did someone else use the cursed phrase?” She regarded him like he was short some brain cells.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Handywoman took a look at the place today, after she asked me not to cut the tree down. She said they talk to each other.”
“I like her already.” Jaylyn grinned. “Can she fix the sink so we can live like normal people?”
“First of all, you don’t live here, and secondly, yes. She can.”
“What are you waiting for? Call her.”
“I feel like I should be able to do it myself.” He sent a withering glare in the direction of the kitchen, where a very big hole in the countertop mocked him.
“Don’t be so stubborn. I know you enjoy torturing yourself, but know when to say when. There are plenty of other things you can tinker with in this house.”
He thought of the list Reagan had texted him. “That’s true.”
“All right, I’m out of here.” His sister yanked open the front door. “Don’t wait up!”
“Be safe!” he repeated, unable to stop himself. He pulled out his phone and thumbed through his texts. A couple from Tag and Zander. Too many to count from his mom. And there, in the middle, Reagan’s.
“You should be writing,” he said to himself, finger hovering over the keyboard. “But you do need a functioning kitchen sink.”
He debated texting or calling for two seconds before he pressed Call. He put the cell on speakerphone and listened to it ring once, twice, three times…