by Skye Jordan
“Okay, now this is getting interesting.” Trace wandered toward a table, dragged out a chair, and plopped down, then kicked his feet up on another. Trace and Ethan knew each other growing up through Ethan’s mother and Trace’s grandmother. Then as adults through their work, before and after Trace’s prison sentence. “What in the hell is going on here, girl?”
She growled in answer.
God damn him.
“What’s going on is I’m trying to make a decision on whether to risk renovating this place, hoping I don’t drown in a financial black hole or throw away every penny I’ve saved over the last decade by demolishing it. And it pisses . . . me . . . off”—she punctuated the words by stamping the chair against the hardwood—“that everyone is trying to make that decision for me.”
“Ooooo-wee.” Trace laughed. “You’ve still got a temper that matches your hair.”
Actually, she didn’t. Normally she was very level-headed. Normally she was flexible and easygoing and cooperative and nice. But there was nothing normal about this situation.
“Yeah,” he said, scratching his jaw. “Ethan gave me a totally different picture.”
Ethan’s casual little visit the other night had obviously been more about checking up on her and less about getting to know her. After all these years and all she’d been through, how could she have believed he’d sincerely cared? God, she was so stupid.
With no other outlet for her rage, she strangled the back of the chair while she tried to calm down enough to think.
“Are you going this alone?” Trace asked. “’Cause you’re talking at least two or three times the amount to renovate as it costs to tear it down.”
“Phoebe’s offered to help, but I’m not thrilled with the idea of using her money. It’s one thing to risk my own money, but it’s another to risk hers when she’s done nothing but give to us her whole life. And there’s a lot more than money churning up trouble in this place.”
“I’m sure there is. When Ethan called and talked demolition, I didn’t think anything of it, but this . . .” He gazed at the floor and rubbed his jaw, then shook his head. “He really ought to find a way to bow out of this. I don’t see how he could be objective.”
“Thank you.” A burst of gratification straightened her spine. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“What with everything he gave up after Ian died, he’s got to want to see this place plowed into the ground more than just about anyone.”
“I’m so glad someone else—” Delaney suddenly realized she and Trace weren’t talking about the same thing. “Wait. What? What did Ethan give up after Ian died?”
Trace’s distant gaze refocused on Delaney. “Ah, that’s right. You left town as soon as you were cleared by the cops. But Ethan didn’t. Ian’s death put Ellen into a tailspin. I mean, she was a little”—he made small air-circles at his temple—“to begin with, but she took a serious nosedive. And you know Beth and Ellen are so close. It hit Ethan’s mom pretty hard, too. She made herself sick with worry over Ellen. And when Ellen tried to commit suicide—”
“What?” Horror swamped Delaney. She slapped a hand against a sudden pain in her chest. “Ellen what? When?”
“Gosh, must have been . . .” He clasped his hands behind his head. “I don’t remember exactly, but within the first few months after Ian died.”
“Ian’s death changed everything. And not just for me.”
“Oh my God.” Ethan’s angry words to her repeated in her head, and Delaney’s stomach dropped. She closed her eyes and combed her fingers into her hair. Collecting herself, she said, “Go on.”
“Well, Ethan—poor guy. I mean, Ian getting killed was tragic, but then his aunt trying to commit suicide? The guy was swallowed in guilt. He dropped out of Berkeley and stayed home to piece his family back together.” He shrugged. “Guess he did a pretty good job—they seem tight. But who ever really knows what’s happening on the inside?”
Delaney wasn’t processing anything past the word guilt. Her mind was spinning and spinning but going nowhere, a hamster on a wheel. “Hold on. Back up. Why did Ethan feel guilty?”
Traced huffed a sound that didn’t quite reach a laugh. “In the big picture, it seems so . . . I don’t know, insignificant, but I guess if I were in his shoes, maybe I’d feel the same way.
“Wayne and Ellen asked Ethan—the straight-A, varsity-letterman-four-years-in-a-row, class-president, exemplary child to go out with Ian and his friends for Ian’s twenty-first party because, as we all know, Ian was everything Ethan wasn’t. Ethan, I guess, tried like hell to get out of it, but you know how those families are tied by blood and money, so Jack and Beth insisted Ethan go.
“And Ethan, being the stellar kid he was, went. And he kept them out of trouble. And, crap, that could not have been an easy job. I’d take a handful of Folsom inmates over Ian and his buddies any day.”
“Amen,” Delaney muttered, rubbing her eyes to clear the horrible memories flashing to the surface.
“Well, I guess by the time they reached this place, it was the only bar still open, so you have to know how smashed they were.”
“I was here. I had to dodge their goddamned hands and ignore their disgusting mouths.”
Trace nodded. “But somewhere in between the last bar they’d hit and here, the diamond-encrusted golden child and Ian had an argument about coming here. When Ian said he was going with or without Ethan, Ethan went home.”
And Ian was killed.
The unsaid words hung in the air.
And Delaney’s insides crumbled.
“Oh, Christ . . .” She breathed the words, barely able to sustain the burden, the pressure, the wicked guilt this information wrought.
Her mind jumbled the past and the present. Pain swelled from her belly to her chest. Her chest to her throat. Ian—dead. Ellen—suicidal. Ethan . . . Christ, his whole future had been ruined.
“How’d you end up here, doing this? Did you decide you hated science or get someone pregnant or something?”
She’d known something wasn’t right about him in the position of building inspector. And now she knew why.
“Hey. You okay?”
Trace’s words cut into her misery. She pulled in a deliberate lungful of air and lifted her head, but she didn’t try to cover the distress swimming inside her. “I can’t believe I didn’t know. I can’t believe Avery or Chloe or at least Phoebe didn’t tell me.”
“Well, it was a long time ago. Seems everyone wants to put it behind them and forget it ever happened. Which is why I have to be honest, Delaney. It’s hard to imagine Jack Hayes or Wayne Ryan letting this renovation go through. But if you can get the go-ahead, I’m two hundred percent on board. I need the money, and I need to show everyone that I’m still together and I’m still dependable. I need people to know they can hire me and get the same quality work they did before my life went to shit.”
Delaney’s shock settled into a dull ache, and she forced her mind away from the tragedy to make sure this place didn’t ruin her. With Trace on her side, she even had a shot at coming out on top for once.
“Let’s not worry about that until it’s a reality.” She crossed her arms and looked around the room. If she’d been unenthusiastic about renovating this place before, now the thought sickened her. “I just want to get an estimate and line up my finances and budget to see if it’s even feasible. Can’t get blood out of a turnip, right?”
Trace stood, pulled a palm-size notebook and a pinkie-size pencil from his back pocket, and flipped it open to a blank page. He grinned at Delaney. “I’m ready.”
She returned his grin, wishing she felt even a fraction as confident.
“The question is”—a deep, authoritarian male voice pulled both their gazes around to the bar’s main entrance—“ready for what?”
The man was a cop. He was about Trace’s height with closely cropped dark hair. With the sun behind him, Delaney couldn’t see his face well, but she still smiled for Trace’s bro
ther, Zane.
“Coming around to check up on your big brother?” Delaney’s last word was barely out of her mouth when the light hit the newcomer’s face, and she realized she wasn’t talking to Zane. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were—”
She stopped midsentence when she glanced at Trace. His expression had turned to stone. Flat, hard, granite. Delaney’s smile fell. Her chest chilled. “Tra—”
“What do you want, Austin?”
Austin?
Her gaze swung back to the man approaching with an arrogant swagger and a superior grin. And the chill in her chest twisted before frosting over. Austin Hayes had his father’s dark eyes and plastic veneer. Like Ethan, Austin had matured into an incredibly handsome man; unlike Ethan, Austin’s every breath screamed of compensation for some invisible shortcoming.
“No need to start off all hostile,” Austin told Trace. “Heard you were in town. Then I heard you were here with her.” He looked directly at Delaney, his smile nothing but a sneer now. “And I knew someone better check up on Wildwood’s two most notorious troublemakers. Now I’m glad I did, because this”—he wagged his index finger between them—“the druggie hanging out with the dealer—uh-uh. Not a good idea.”
Belligerence flared inside her like gas-fed flames. All the bad habits she’d wielded as a teen rushed forward and pushed to get out—the fight, the fury, the foul language, her love of confrontation.
Every muscle in her body tightened as she took one giant step toward Austin, mouth open, ready to tell him exactly what he could do with his accusations and his bullshit. But Trace stepped between them and halted her by the shoulder.
“Thanks for your opinion,” Trace told him without an ounce of gratitude. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re in the middle of a conversation.”
“I heard all about that, too.” Austin tucked his thumbs in his duty belt and never took his gaze off Delaney’s, but she caught sight of movement out front. “I’m just here to tell you not to waste your time planning anything other than a demolition, because nothing else will be happening here. Too many powerful people want to see this dump plowed under for you to think you’ll be seeing any Hail Mary resurrection—”
“I don’t know about that.” Another new voice joined the conversation, and Delaney’s heart jumped. Her gaze skidded toward the front door and rested on another cop. What in the hell? “If you can manage to pull rabbits out of your ass every goddamned day to save yourself, why can’t Delaney?”
This time when the man came into view, she recognized him as Trace’s younger brother, and Delaney breathed a little easier.
Austin twisted just enough to shoot Zane a bored look. “Hutton, why are you always such a pain in my ass?”
“Because you’re always just one step away from crossing the line, and if I can help you out by giving you a push, well then . . .” Zane grinned. “I’m here to serve.”
Austin huffed a dry laugh as if Zane were a ridiculous waste of time.
A rough, monotone female voice came over their radios, and both men went silent. Delaney still didn’t catch much of the scratchy transmission.
When the radio crackled into silence, Zane told Austin, “They’re playing your tune, bro.”
Austin muttered something into the radio on his shoulder and walked backward toward the door, pointing at Delaney, then Trace. “Trouble’s around every corner. Watch yourselves.”
When Austin’s cruiser sped out of the lot, Delaney heaved a breath, but she couldn’t unclench her teeth or uncurl her fists.
“He’s an asshole. What are you gonna do?” Zane said with a shrug, then saluted Delaney. “Good to see you. Say hi to Avery and Chloe for me. I’ll keep an ear open for Hayes’s location when I’m on duty, but just call if he comes back.”
Delaney smiled. “Thanks, Zane.”
“Yeah,” Trace said. “Thanks.”
He nodded once more and headed out the door.
Trace shook his head and met Delaney’s eyes. “It’s like a fucking stain. No one ever looks at you like a normal person again, do they?”
“What? The reputation?” Delaney looked out the door to the parking lot, where only Trace’s truck and her Jeep sat now. “I don’t know, but it sure seems like the past sticks hard. Unfortunately, both the truth and the lies seem to stick equally well.”
“Amen.”
Delaney thought of Ethan. Of his blind faith in her. Of his compassion and attraction, despite her reputation. She added, “But the good people will see through it. Your real friends, the special people that wander into your life, they’ll be able to separate out the bullshit. They’re your therapy. The ones who help you believe in your self-worth again. They’re the ones you want to keep.”
A lopsided smile turned his mouth, but pain dulled his eyes. “Maybe I’ll find one of those someday. Until then, work is my therapy. Do you still want to tackle this today?”
She nodded even though her gut ached with the realization that Ethan was one of those special people, but that she’d never be able to keep him in her life. A Hayes and a Hart were never meant to be friends, let alone anything more.
“The sooner I tackle this,” she said, “the sooner I can get the hell out of town.”
Ethan covered his latest mash and double-checked the temperature on the kettle, then grabbed a bottle of the chocolate stout he’d brewed a month before and dropped into the chair nearby. He thumbed backward in his brewing journal to the day he’d cooked up the stout, a beer he wanted to add to his opening lineup.
If he got the chance to have an opening lineup.
His mind immediately drifted to Delaney, and his stomach twisted the way it always did when he thought of her.
He read over the beer’s ingredients, the fermenting time and temp, even the music he’d been listening to while brewing. There was something missing in this beer, but he couldn’t quite figure out what.
Closing his eyes to heighten the sensitivity of his palate, Ethan tipped the bottle to his lips, took a full drink, and let the beer linger on his tongue as Coldplay’s Ghost Stories album played in the background. He swirled the cool liquid in his mouth, focusing on every hint, pang, and nuance of flavor while evaluating balance. Finally, he swallowed, and he hummed with the smooth slide of this beauty down his throat.
Ethan had discovered an erotic element to drinking any good beer. The way it teased the desire for more with seductive flavor. Lured the drinker deeper with a hint of spice or fruit or funky hops. Then there was the whole mouth feel—cool on the first touch, warming as it rolled intimately over every surface of the mouth, circling and swirling and tantalizing the tongue, then finally quenching a craving as it coated his throat.
Once again, thoughts of the beer vanished as memories of Delaney overtook every brain cell. With his eyes still closed, he saw her as she’d been that night—naked, her hair down, her eyes filled with lust as she locked gazes with him and took his cock deep into her mouth.
A sharp stab of desire burned through his belly and groin, and his cock hardened the way it always did when he thought of her in his bed. Of the way her creamy skin contrasted with his navy sheets. Of the way her auburn strands felt like silk fanned out on his belly.
So erotic. So sexual. So passionate. She was everything he’d ever fantasized—but better. So much better. She was also funny. And smart. And feisty. And strong. And sweet. And the way she saw the good in him regardless of the bad she’d seen in his family showed more strength of character than his entire family had, put together.
He sighed, but it came out as a moan. God he wanted her. Wanted her so bad his entire body ached. And this was exactly what he tried to avoid. Exactly why he stuck with one-night stands. Because he didn’t want a woman in his head all the time—the way Delaney had taken up residence.
When that zing of desire came up, he just had to keep reminding himself that he didn’t want any kind of attachment. This lingering craving for Delaney would fade.
“Dammit.” Now he co
uldn’t focus on his beer. He pushed from the chair, and after three of his triple ales, his head swam for a second.
The buzz was nice. It helped him put all the stress in his life into perspective. It helped him let most of it go. But his lowered inhibitions had him thinking about going next door and finding out why Delaney continued to burn lights into the early morning hours.
Instead of seeking out trouble, he repositioned his erection and turned to his kettle to stir his mash.
A knock on the window of his front door surprised him. He barely had time to look that way when the door opened and Delaney stepped in.
Surprise and excitement stung the pit of his stomach but vanished the second her intensity registered. With her hands curled into fists at her sides, she met his gaze directly with a look he couldn’t quite figure out.
“Hey.” He covered the kettle, checked the temperature again, and made sure the steelhead pump was recycling the wort the way it should. Then he deliberately settled himself into a false casual front, as if he hadn’t been obsessed with the thought of her. As if she hadn’t been invading his every conscious and unconscious moment. As if he didn’t really care one way or the other whether or not she was into a quickie on his workbench. “I was just thinking about you.”
When he refocused on Delaney, she was taking in the space. Her gaze swept over the warehouse from the painted cement floor to the open rafters, skipped over the grain mill and the mashing tun, roamed the boiling kettles and the fermenting tanks, and took in his digital control station and bottling corner.
Ethan’s desire would never fade if she kept dropping in on him looking like that. She wore camo fatigue shorts, a black tank top, and the same worn leather boots he’d seen her in during the inspection. And he was damn sure she was the only woman on the planet who could make that outfit look so hot. But her scrutiny made his belly jump and churn, as if she could see right into his cheating heart and the way he coveted her liquor license.
“Nice setup,” she said, refocusing on him. Ethan was working up a justification for the equipment when she crossed her arms and asked, “Why did you drop out of UC Berkeley?”