So close.
She took another long sip of coffee and murmured, “This place really needs a doorbell.”
Fifteen minutes after the forensic team started collecting samples and snapping more photos, Brandi Dalton arrived. She knocked once, then pushed the door open with her hip, balancing a large roll of floor plans, a tote bag, and a travel mug that read “Don’t Make Me Use My Designer Voice.”
Laurel smiled as the woman breezed in looking beautiful, friendly, and cheerful.
Brandi was a little taller than Laurel, curvy and effortlessly stylish in a black scoop-neck top, distressed jeans, and ankle boots. Her caramel-colored hair was piled into a messy twist that still managed to look like it belonged in a fashion magazine, sun-kissed highlights catching the light as she moved. Hazel-green eyes scanned the room before landing on Laurel with sharp, practiced focus.
But it wasn’t her designer aura that stood out. It was the quiet compassion that softened her features as she crossed the room.
“Hey,” Brandi said, setting her things down. Her voice was gentler now. “You okay?”
Laurel opened her mouth to say yes, but something must’ve shown on her face, because Brandi stepped forward and lightly touched her arm. Not intrusive. Just enough to ground her.
“Really okay?” she asked again, eyes kind.
Laurel nodded. “Getting there.”
Brandi gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, then let go and straightened. “Well, you’re not rocking a nervous breakdown look, so that’s promising.”
“In this town, I’m starting to think that’s considered fashionable,” Laurel muttered.
That earned a smirk from Brandi as she pulled out a clipboard. “Perfect, because we’ve got things to discuss.”
Laurel blinked, caught off guard. “Wait…now?”
Good thing she wasn’t working at the diner today.
The designer plopped onto one of the stools and crossed her legs. “No time like the present. Besides, I work better when there’s chaos and overpriced coffee in the air.” She took a sip from her mug and raised an eyebrow. “So? Ready for your unofficial promotion?”
Laurel laughed, the sound catching her off guard with how normal it felt. “You mean to Renovation Queen of Winslow Fine Furnishings?”
“Exactly. Though I’m willing to negotiate on the title. How about Project Manager of Doom?”
“Very tempting.”
Brandi pulled out a sheet from her clipboard and pushed it toward her. “Here’s where we’re at: We’ve got two teams—mine for design and finishing work, and a second team for structural and electrical. Flooring’s nearly done in two units. Next door is ready for sheetrock. Plumbing’s complete in that one and yours and partially roughed in on the others. We’re scheduled for cabinetry installs in the second apartment tomorrow.”
Laurel blinked at the sheer amount of progress. “You’ve been busy.”
“Busy is how I avoid stress-eating my body weight in cookies.” Brandi leaned forward, her voice softer now. “But seriously, I meant what I told your aunt. I’ll do everything I can to stay on track. What happened here last night won’t change that.”
Laurel swallowed past a tight throat. “Thanks. Really. I know it’s a lot.”
“Which is why we’re doing this together.” Brandi gestured toward her tote. “I brought fabric samples for the stairwell benches, but we can look at them later. I also want your opinion on the storefronts.”
“You’re asking me?”
Brandi blinked. “You live here. You’re helping coordinate. You survived an assault by mortar. Pretty sure that makes you qualified.”
Laurel smiled despite the lump in her throat. “You know, I didn’t think I’d be part of any of this when I came to town.”
“Well,” Brandi said, reaching into her bag again, “Harland has a funny way of drafting people into its plans. Take me for example. I’m a transplant from Pennsylvania.”
Her smile widened. “Thought I detected a slight accent.”
Brandi chuckled. “I get that a lot.” She pulled out a mini bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans and tossed them across the counter. “For courage. And for dealing with the mountain of choices we’re going to go over later.”
