“The one who doesn’t play hockey, who caused a small fire in his own home, and who may have contributed to the… the accidental destruction of Brewer’s camper?” I asked defiantly. “Yes. Yes, to all of it. Now, can Ipleasehave my croissants?”
“Dude.” Kel the delivery guy managed to insert a wealth of rebuke into the single syllable. “I was gonna say the guy who sent fourteen handwritten letters to the Kitchen Couriers corporate office asking them to extend our delivery area ’cause weneverdelivered out this far before you moved in.”
“Oh.” I paused, taken aback. “Well. Fourteen seems excessive. I don’t recall there being quite that?—”
“Fourteen,” he assured me solemnly.
I cleared my throat, feeling my cheeks heat. There was no shame in strategically influencing corporate policy, was there? It wasn’t acrimeto enjoy croissants.
“I may have… taken the lead on an issue that affects the entire neighborhood, yes,” I said stiffly. “Did you know, studies show small towns are one of the fastest-growing sectors for delivery expansion, especially in rural and exurban areas where populations are increasing?”
He frowned deeply. “I guess. But dude?—”
“And you should also know that the revenue from expanding these markets often outweighs the initial cost of longer-range deliveries. Which, obviously, means more tips for you.”
“Yeah, but like?—”
“Have a nice day, Kel.” I took the box from his hands with extreme dignity.
“Wait!” Kel called. “You didn’tactuallydestroy Brewer’s camper, did y?—?”
I closed the door firmly, then leaned back against it and took a deep breath.
It was just after 7:00 a.m., and this morning was already so far off the rails I couldn’t remember where the rails were supposed to be.
Then I headed to the kitchen to arrange my peace-offering breakfast.
Brief confession time: I hadn’t actually intended to ask Brewer to stay with me after the fire. When I’d offered to help him out, I’d meant tohellllppay for the overpriced hotel that accepted dogs, not to move him into my home.
It was bad enough for my equilibrium having the man in my home five days a week doing renovation work. Only a truly deranged person would volunteer to have their sexy nemesis in their house 24/7, sucking up all their oxygen and distracting them constantly, and I flattered myself that I wasn’t quite that deranged.
At least not yet.
But something about Brewer’s defeated expression yesterday and the sight of his belongings in a sad, soggy pile on the snow had tangled my words, and when he’d misunderstood my offer…
Well, I wasn’t a monster, okay? Of course I’d brought Brewer and his dog to my house.
And of course I’d placed Brewer’s antique teacup collection with the hand-painted peonies and gold-leaf trim—“I use them every day,” he’d explained when I’d looked surprised, which had only raised more questions—in my kitchen cabinet.
And of course I’d agreed that Brewer could use a blow-up mattress in the attic above the garage—a space that was heated, insulated, and mostly empty—so he could keep Teeny contained, and I wouldn’t have to give up my office to be his bedroom.
I’d even sort of consoled myself with the knowledge that I was doing a good deed and earning some Copper County karma points that might help me fit in better.
I’d forgotten, temporarily, what they said about good deeds not going unpunished.
Imagine, if you will, my mentally, physically, emotionally exhausted self, freshly showered, slathered in night cream, and clad in my favorite silk pajamas, as I’d finally crawled into my bed last night.
I’d made it through the harrowing events of the day, through a scrupulously polite pasta dinner I prepared, through the weirdly domestic scene of burly Brewer scrubbing dishes, and even through feeding time for the dog—which I’d observed from a great distance and which had sounded not unlike running a Dyson over a bed of rocks.
I’d wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep.
So I’d burrowed my head into my pillow and lain there in the dark, practicing some yoga breathing I’d once learned on an overpriced retreat. I’d allowed all distracting thoughts of fires, and dogs, and the solid wall of Brewer’s chest under my hand, and the charged moment when we’d both realized I was touching him to just float through my brain. I’d felt sleep reaching out her arms to claim me…
And then Brewer’s deep voice had murmured something I couldn’t quite make out,right in my fucking ear, sending an unwelcome zing of electricity to my balls and making my cock hard almost instantly.
My eyes had flashed open, and I’d blinked disorientedly into the darkness, my heart pounding a million miles an hour… but my room had been empty.
And then the voice had come again—a low, soothing chuckle that time, followed by the jingle of dog tags—and I’d realized what I must have blocked out when I’d helped Brewer tote all his stuff to the little attic over the garage.
