Brant's Return

by Mia Sheridan

  “How long have you . . . worked here?”

  Her hands fluttered at her sides for a moment as if looking for something to hold on to. Finding nothing, she clasped them in front of her. “Three years.”

  “You like it here?”

  “Very much.”

  Our eyes met again and that buzzing tension I’d felt when we touched seemed to crackle in the air between us. “Anyway, he should be up soon, but do you want me to show you to your room so you can get settled before you see him?”

  “I know my way around this house, Ms. Farris. I can show myself to my old room.”

  She blinked. “Ah, well, a few rooms have been repurposed. Which one used to be yours?”

  “Top floor, second left.” The room across the hall from my father’s.

  She shook her head, a stain of color coming into her cheeks. “That’s mine now. I’d switch, but it’s more convenient if I’m close to your father.” Yeah, I bet.

  She moved suddenly, and I took a step backward, startled. “Follow me, though. There’s a guest room on this floor at the back of the house.” She took several steps, and I followed close on her heels. She turned back abruptly, apparently not realizing I was so close. We collided, both exhaling startled breaths, our gazes crashing as much as our bodies. I gripped her upper arms to steady her. She smelled like almonds and vanilla and her skin felt like velvet. My body tightened all over, every male part of me responding to her. Fuck. I let go of her as abruptly as I’d taken hold and she stumbled back a step, still staring as if in a daze, her top teeth scraping over her bottom lip as she blushed furiously. I had the strangest sense of déjà vu . . . as if she were familiar in some intrinsic way.

  What are you doing? Shake it off, Brant.

  I tore my eyes from hers and she cleared her throat. “D-do you have a suitcase? Oh, how long are you planning on staying?”

  “My suitcase is in the car. How long I stay is dependent on a few things.” How I was received being at the top of that list. If my father told me to get the fuck out, I wasn’t going to try to change his mind. I would like to get a look at that old bourbon distillery, though. I supposed I could drive there on my way out, see what was what.

  She looked momentarily worried but didn’t ask what those things might be. When she turned again, I followed her—though not as closely this time—to the back of the house. She pushed a door open, standing back so I could enter the room. She took her lip between her teeth again when I brushed past her into the plain but comfortable-looking guest bedroom. “This used to be my mother’s sewing room,” I told her, looking around, a dull ache taking up residence in my chest. She’d loved it here. I remembered it being one of the few places she’d ever looked at peace, ever focused on anything for more than an hour . . . but I pushed that thought away. I recalled the loud, steady hum of the machine, her soft, melodic singing as she worked. Country music. She’d loved country music. Of course, what good Kentucky son or daughter didn’t? My stomach twisted. I hadn’t expected this to hurt.

  “Oh.” She glanced around the room then back at me, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Well, hopefully it brings up good memories. I can have someone bring your suitcase in if—”

  “No, thank you. I’m capable of bringing my own bag into the house.”

  Our eyes locked, and she gave me an appraising look. It surprised me when something soft appeared in her gaze instead of the offense I’d expected. I’d been rude, and I suddenly felt guilty. “I’ll tell Mr. Talbot you’re here as soon as he wakes up. And then I’ll come get you.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She nodded. “See you soon.” She closed the door quickly as if she were making a getaway, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, releasing a sigh.

  I looked at the quilt folded at the end of the bed, one my mother had made. There were all different stitch types, some on the same square, and each one was an entirely different fabric, as if she hadn’t been able to settle on one pattern so had used them all. It was both slightly disturbing and oddly beautiful . . .

  Dropping the edge of the quilt I’d picked up, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment, letting the feel of being in this house again wash through me. I’d grown up here, run through the halls, slid down the bannister, stolen cookies from the cookie jar, and dreamed the big, uninhibited dreams of a boy who’d known little heartache. Until . . .

  Yes, until. What a big word that could be.

  Turning my head, I looked out the window, the green pastures of Graystone Hill rising and falling in the distance. How had I forgotten how beautiful this land was? How had I forgotten the peaceful quiet and calming stillness? How had I forgotten the way it made my heart clench with pride? And why did I still feel that way if it wasn’t mine anymore? I no longer belonged to this land. I belonged to high-rises and sleek metal structures, to rooftop parties and thrumming crowds. Dissonant sounds. Noise that filled your head and helped you forget the things you no longer chose to remember. That’s what I loved now. Wasn’t it?

  The buzzing of my cell phone brought me from my reverie, and I shook my head free of the disquieting thoughts. It was only natural that I’d feel like a boy again for a couple of hours while here. Something about homecoming that happened to everyone, I was sure.

  I looked at the incoming number on my phone.

  “Hey, Derek.”

  “Brant. How was the trip? You in Kentucky now?”

  “Yeah, it was fine. I got here about an hour ago.”

  “Ah. Good. Listen, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I just heard from Edwin Bruce, and he’s ready to talk. Which means,” he dragged out the word, “we got him.”

  I sat up, surprised. Edwin Bruce was the owner of The Mustang Room, one of the most popular clubs in New York City since the eighties. Or it had been, until recently when a competing bar, owned by two Hollywood celebrities, moved in down the street and quickly had lines of young, hip partygoers that went on for blocks. It was really a combination of the new high-style competition, and the fact that The Mustang Room hadn’t changed with the times, relying on its once iconic status rather than working to stay fresh. Current. Nightlife in New York was a risky business, club goers were fickle, and what was hot yesterday could be as cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra the next.

  Edwin Bruce was as iconic as the establishment he ran, and I liked him as a person, but business was business, and if I could take over that space, refresh the image, rebrand The Mustang Room, it could be my biggest success yet.

  “Set it up for as soon as possible, Derek.”

  “Will do. I’ll email the specifics.”

  We said our goodbyes and I hung up, tossing my phone on the nightstand. I felt more myself already. I’d tie up whatever loose ends needed tying up here, look in the old man’s eyes one final time, and say goodbye to this place, and Kentucky, forever.

  I ran a hand through my disheveled hair. I needed a shower, but I needed my suitcase first. The house was quiet when I stepped from my room, heading toward the front door. I paused when I passed the main staircase, curiosity causing me to turn and head up. Several of the rooms have been repurposed, she’d said. I’d noted a few changes, seen the updates to the kitchen. I wondered if the upstairs still looked the same. I was sure Isabelle would give me a tour if I asked, but that seemed ridiculous. A stranger showing me around what had once been my own home? I didn’t want that. I wanted to look around myself, to explore the things that interested me, to pause at the places that brought back one memory or another. Many of those good . . . until they weren’t. Until that awful day.

  Funny how after all this time, I still remembered where those old stairs creaked. I stepped around the noisy spots and into the upstairs hall, peeking into the doors that stood ajar. Sitting room, linen closet, hall bath. I paused outside the door, listening to the sounds of the shower running and female humming. Was that my father’s secretary in there? Naked under a spray of water?

  An angry sound of fru
stration came up my throat. Jesus. What was it about that damn woman?

  “Who’s there?” a male voice demanded.

  I halted, a shiver of surprise running through me. That voice. Fuck. I hadn’t heard that voice for well over a decade, and yet it was as if I’d just heard it yesterday.

  “I can hear you out there. Belle, is that you?”

  Belle.

  I put my hand on the doorknob of the master bedroom, turning it slowly and pushing the heavy wooden door open, my past appearing in front of me. My father sat in a huge armchair near the window, his feet on an ottoman, an afghan over his lap.

  We stared, his eyes registering shock, confusion, and finally . . . anger.

  “Belle!” he bellowed. “Belle. Get in here.”

  Jesus, did he not recognize me? Was he loopy on pain medication?

  “Belle!”

  I heard a door open and bang against the wall and a second later, Isabelle Farris—Belle—appeared in the doorway in nothing more than a towel wrapped around her shapely body, hair secured in a high bun, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “What’s—?” Her eyes met mine and flared with almost the same emotions, and in the same order as my father’s had. She strode forward, coming to stand directly in front of me. Water droplets still glistened on her skin, and she smelled more strongly of almonds and honey—her body wash most likely. Despite the situation, despite all the swirling emotions filling the room, my blood ran hotly through my veins at the sight of so much of Isabelle’s skin. The reaction of my errant body to this woman made me angry all over again, and for a second we all simply glowered at each other.

  She pulled her towel more tightly around her, and it only served to showcase her curves more fully.

  “I thought we had an agreement about this.”

  “What is this, Belle? Is this your doing? Why is he here?” my father yelled.

  So he did recognize me. “Nice to see you too, Dad.”

  My father’s eyes narrowed as he took me in, his still-bright eyes moving from my face down my custom suit to my black dress shoes. “You all dressed and ready for my funeral? Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve still got a little fight left in me yet.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Isabelle said, jumping in, her knuckle white where she held her towel closed. “I was going to let you know Brant was here. Apparently, he”—she shot me a glare—“beat me to it.” She walked over to him and took his hand in hers—the one not gripping her towel closed. Despite his glower, he didn’t let go. “I called him.” She glanced back at me. “I thought”—she let out a breath—“well, you’d both like a chance to . . .”

  Her words faded and there was a beat of silence. “Say goodbye?” my dad grumbled. “We took care of that a long time ago, damn interfering woman.”

  Isabelle let go of his hand and my eyes wandered to the shape of her ass, clearly defined under the thin terrycloth of the towel. When I lifted my eyes, my dad’s were narrowed on mine.

  “You’re being stubborn,” Isabelle said, raising her voice. “Brant came from New York to see you. You can at least talk to him.” She shot me a disapproving look over her bare shoulder.

  My father looked from Isabelle to me and then back to Isabelle. “Go get dressed. You’re half-naked.” He shot me another measuring glare full of what looked like possession, and for some unknown, godforsaken reason, a trickle of jealousy dripped down my spine. Hot acid seeped through my veins. Burning me up inside. I squashed it with violence, forcing myself to cool down. I’d die before I competed for my father’s woman.

  “That’s because I didn’t take time to dress when I heard you hollering like the devil.”

  “Well, go on then. Leave me and the boy to talk.”

  Isabelle picked up my father’s hand again and gave it a squeeze. He tried to hold on to his look of annoyance, but I saw the affection for her in his eyes as clear as day. Saw the way he squeezed her hand back before she let go.

  Isabelle turned, giving me a small nod, her expression serious. I breathed in her fresh scent as she walked by—because I couldn’t fucking help it—and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

  My father and I stared at each other again, a standoff. I broke eye contact, glancing around the room. The bedding was different, as were the curtains. But everything else was the same: the oriental carpet, the heavy oak furniture, the oil paintings on the walls. “You really dying?” I asked.

  “You really care?”

  I massaged the back of my neck, not knowing exactly how to answer that question.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Your Belle called me.”

  “Yeah, well, Belle’s too noble for her own good. But you didn’t have to come.” Fuck. Same stubborn-ass bastard.

  I paused, hating that his callous reaction to my presence hurt. What had I expected?

  “Someone’s going to have to help settle this estate.”

  “What makes you think I’m leaving any of this to you?”

  I raised my brows. “Who else is there?”

  There was a beat of silence. “Maybe I’ll leave it to Isabelle.”

  I stared at him. Ah. Was that why Isabelle Farris had called me? To make sure I wasn’t going to get in the way of her huge windfall? To have my father spell things out for me so she didn’t have to? Was that the purpose of this visit?

  Back away. This is mine, was her message.

  Only I had already been backed away, couldn’t have gotten any more backed away if I’d tried. What kind of game was she playing?

  “What would you want with Graystone Hill anyway?”

  “I didn’t say I wanted it. But from what I can tell, it’s still a lucrative business. Someone will want it—or portions of it. I run businesses now. I have lawyers and contacts, people who make deals for a living.”

  “Good for you. So you’d what, big city boy? Have your fancy lawyers dismantle it piece by piece? Take what you want and who the hell cares about the rest? You can bet your pinstriped ass, Graystone Hill will go to someone who gives more than two fucks about it.”

  I took in his angry glare, his stern features, his vivid blue eyes, the same ones I saw in the mirror every morning. “And that’s Isabelle Farris?” I walked to the bookshelf, picking up a picture of my mother on their wedding day and then setting it down. A bolt of anger ricocheted through me. How did he even dare to look at her face day after day? “What’s her story anyway? Where’d she come from?” Did it even matter?

  “Careful when it comes to Belle, boy.”

  I turned toward him. “I’m not a boy, old man. But don’t worry. I don’t want anything to do with your . . . secretary. If you want Graystone Hill to go to some stranger, that’s your business.”

  “Seems to me the only stranger in this equation is you.”

  I couldn’t deny it so I merely shrugged.

  “You sure have changed,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. I didn’t miss the disdain—disappointment?—in his tone. He waved his hand, apparently indicating all of me. “This is you now?”

  I glanced at my suit. “I don’t usually travel like this, but I had a meeting this morning and went straight to the airport.” Had I ever seen the old man in a suit? Did he even own one? Had he worn one to my mother’s funeral? He must have. I could barely remember that day. It’d been raining . . . other than that, when I thought about it, all I could recall was the heart-wrenching grief, the soul-crushing anger.

  The betrayal.

  “I wasn’t talking about your clothes. Bring me those pills over there and get on out. I have things to do.”

  So that was that. A cold dismissal. I thought about saying something more, but what? It wasn’t worth it. Fuck him. Fuck the old distillery. Fuck this miserable house and the land it was on. I didn’t need any of it, just as I didn’t need the man I once called Dad. I’d built my own wealth, my own legacy, and had no need for the arrogant asshole in front of me. Nothing tied me t
o Graystone Hill any longer. That was abundantly clear.

  I grabbed the pills and tossed them to my father. He caught them with one hand, our gazes battling, but our lips remaining silent. At least this would be more dignified than the last time I left. The day that had been filled with bellowed words of hatred on my part and stony silence on his. My father opened the bottle and threw back two pills with the water from the glass next to him.

  He leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” I said, and then I closed the door behind me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Isabelle

  I brought my legs up under me, snuggling into the upholstered armchair in the corner of the library. This was my favorite room in the house. A sanctuary of sorts where I could sip a cup of tea and lose myself in someone else’s story. Although after today’s episode in the truck, I’d decided doing some reading that pertained to my particular story was timely and necessary. I’d been doing so well lately, had found coping mechanisms that worked to keep the nightmares at bay. A small backslide wasn’t unexpected, especially when triggered by something specific. But still, I had fought long and hard for every inch I’d climbed out of the dark well of desolation since the day my world imploded, and I would fight to hang on.

  I heard a door close somewhere down the hall and wondered if Brant had turned in for the night. Brant. Several emotions pricked at the inside of my skin when I thought of him. Anger at his arrogant demeanor, as if he knew everything there was to know about a person without asking any questions whatsoever. Anger, yes, but also hurt. He’d pre-judged me, made assumptions, and I didn’t like the way it had felt when he’d glared at me as if I’d wronged him greatly and he was barely tolerating being in the same room.

  Why I even cared, I had no idea. I had bigger fish to fry than Brant Talbot. I shouldn’t be wasting a precious moment of emotion on him, when in all likelihood, he’d be out of my life for good in a matter of days, if not tomorrow.

  I’d seen him retrieving his bag from his car after he’d spoken to his father. I had to assume things had gone . . . decently, at least. I hadn’t asked Harry when I’d seen him after dinner, and I’d avoided Brant entirely.