“It’s… it’s actually a bit of a departure from what I usually write,” I went on. “A little less… sensational, I guess? But a whistleblower came to me directly a couple months ago and asked me to take a closer look at the situation. He claimed he got a raw deal, which in and of itself isn’t that interesting—I mean, if I had a nickel for every person implicated in a scandal who swore they were innocent, I’d be the Nickel King of New York?—”
Brewer laughed, a deep sound that vibrated through me.
I swallowed hard and continued. “—but my editor freaking loved the idea, and a bunch of news outlets are interested, and… honestly, something about the guy got to me. My gut is telling me he is a decent guy who got caught up in something bigger than he knew. That he made the best decision he could at the time and ended up paying the price. He wants redemption and a second chance. And I’m not sure my article will actually make things, you know…” I waved a hand.
“Fair and right?” Brewer quoted me with a little smile.
A startled laugh escaped me. “Yeah, that. But sometimes people feel like they don’t have a voice. I like to think I give them one.”
“That’s a pretty idealistic goal.” Brewer looked thoughtful for a moment. “Because justice is subjective, isn’t it? Every villain is the hero of his own tale.”
“Well… yes.” The unexpected depth of his response caught me off guard. “That’s… that’s true. But it’s not up to me to decide. I put the facts out there because everyone deserves to have their story told, especially the little guy.”
Brewer cast off his serious expression and forced a smile. “Well, good luck with that, I guess. I’ll call Hen about your vanity first thing. Maybe he can spare Theo Ross to help me, if Theo doesn’t have art class.”
I struggled to switch gears. “Oh. Yeah. Okay. And if you and Theo need to hire a couple other guys, too, that’s fine. Please feel empowered to do that.”
Brewer’s eyes danced. “I will. Thank you, boss. But we’re moving a vanity, not an armored car. It should be a two-man job at most, unless your vanity’s made out of concrete or something.” He chuckled lightly.
I bit my lip.
Brewer shut his eyes. “Delaney, tell me it’s not made of concrete.”
“It’s not,” I assured him. “Not… entirely. It’s a custom concrete top on a metal base, and it’s going to lookamazing. It’s industrial but rustic at the same time, and?—”
“Please tell me you measured the space?—”
“Brewer.” I held up a hand. “I don’t want to fight with you, but I would like to remind you once again that this ismyhouse and that I’m not incompetent.”
“I never said?—”
“I’ve learned my lesson about trying to move electrical outlets or refinish doors, but I’m perfectly capable of reading the measurements you provided and ordering a vanity that fits. I understand inches and feet.”
“It’s not that simple,” Brewer insisted. “That space is tricky. And because of the unexpected repairs to the living room and dining room?—”
My neck heated at this unnecessary reminder of my fuckups.
“—and the cost of those metal cabinets I assume you still want for the kitchen?—”
“I do.” I lifted my chin. “In fact, I’d like you to reorder them today.”
Brewer’s nostrils flared. “—we can’t do any reframing or move any of the plumbing if you want to stay on budget, so the vanity needs to fit perfectly?—”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Since I’m the person who created the budget, I am very aware, which is why I made sure this vanity is exactly as long as the little alcove where the current vanity is. Pop that one out, pop this one in.”
Brewer huffed out a breath. “Sure thing,boss,” he said before draining his coffee, rinsing out his cup, and heading for the door.
Needless to say, nothing about the peace-offering croissants actually got us back on track. I spent the next few hours alternating between staring at the notes for my article and replaying our interaction, thinking of a million better ways I could have handled it. There’d been a moment in there where Brewer and I had actually had a conversation that wasn’t ruined by my weird one-sided lust or his insistence that I didn’t know how to manage my own house renovation, and I’d liked it.
At precisely ten o’clock, my laptop chimed with an incoming FaceTime call from my editor, and I accepted, smoothing my expression into something professional.
“Marjorie, thank fuck,” I said. “Tell me about complex journalistic ethics and give me a deadline. I need normal right now.”
Marjorie Levine laughed, the sound warm and gravelly from decades of forbidden cigarettes she still indulged in “only at Christmas and on deadline days”—which meant at least once a week. Her home office backdrop featured the same chaotic bookshelf I’d seen in our calls for years, manuscript pages tacked to a corkboard visible behind her head.
“Well, hello to you, too, sunshine,” she said. “Oooh, loving the shelves behind you.”
I turned to look at the dark wood shelves that gleamed in the winter sunshine and scowled. “Hmph. They would’ve been nicer painted white.”
