I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine, then. What if you get rid of the door and put in a pocket door?”
For half a second, he almost looked impressed. Then he shrugged. “We could. Except reframing and moving the electrical would cost money, like I told you earlier.”
I rubbed at my forehead, where my nagging headache had become a full-blown throbbing nightmare. “What if you?—?”
Brewer’s face softened, and he leaned toward me, bracing his hands on the vanity. “Do you care about it that deeply, Delaney? Is this vanity really so important when there are a million vanities you might like just as much that would actually fit this space?”
Brewer’s reasonable, sympathetic tone was annoying. I didn’t want him to be gentle or understanding. I wanted him to be smug and insufferable so I could maintain my righteous indignation.
Objectively, I knew he was right. But admitting he was right meant admitting I waswrong.
And after everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, after the disappointing conversation with Marjorie about my story…
I just didn’t have it in me to be wrong again.
“What you’re saying is that I’m stuck with whatever you think is best for my house after all.” I sounded like a petulant child, and I hated that.
“No. What I’m saying is that you have options. Keep this—” Brewer kicked lightly at the vanity. “—and change the budget. Or keep the budget and change this. But Delaney… something’s gotta give.”
He was talking about the vanity, obviously, but when our eyes met and my breath caught, it felt like he was talking about something else. Something more.
I swallowed hard, watching how his chest rose and fell with each breath, how his pupils flared when our eyes locked. The room felt ten degrees hotter, my skin hypersensitive under his gaze.
For the first time, a startling thought crystallized in my mind: What if Brewer felt this too? What if that intensity in his eyes, the careful way he maintained his distance, wasn’t just annoyance or professional frustration but something else entirely? The possibility sent a jolt of heat straight to my core.
“Trust me,” he said softly.
I wanted to. Well, Ialmostwanted to. But I couldn’t.
I looked away first and toyed with the corner of my glasses. “Show me some vanity options,” I said imperiously. “Realoptions. Not three color variations of the thing you’ve already decided I should get.”
Though I wasn’t looking directly at Brewer, I’d swear I caught his lips curving into that sideways-hook smile for an instant, there and then gone.
“Okay,” he said.
Before I could formulate a response, Theo poked his head back in.
“So, we returning Mr. Girthy?” His gaze darted between us. “Or do you two need more time alone?”
“No,” Brewer said, his voice suddenly brisk and professional. “Delaney’s decided to return the vanity, so let’s get it back on the truck.”
“Okey doke,” Theo said easily. “I figured that might be the case, so I called Hen while I was waiting and told him what was up. Delaney, he said to tell you not to worry about getting your money back ’cause a buddy of his works for the manufacturer and owes him a favor. He’ll make sure they take the vanity without any ridiculous restocking fees or whatever.”
I blinked. “Wait, really? Hen called in a favor for me? Please tell him thank you.”
Theo shrugged. “I will, but don’t sweat it. He’s got a million buddies who owe him a million favors—like, if there were a hardware mafia, he’d be the don of Western New York—and he likes you.”
He did? I blinked again, this new information more surprising than the last, but before I could formulate a reply, Brewer said gruffly, “Vanity, Theo. Move it along,” and then he and Theo got busy.
It turned out that unwedging a stuck vanity was trickier than wedging it in there had been. The process took twenty long minutes and involved plenty of swearing (from Brewer), sweating on the sidelines (from me), and at least one lube joke (from Theo), but they finally got the truck loaded and headed back to town.
And that night as I lay in bed, listening to Brewer singing something softly to Teeny on the far side of the wall, I thought there might be a metaphor in there somewhere about being stuck and fitting… about trust and croissants andrightness… and about the way my stomach fluttered at the prospect of sharing breakfast with Brewer again, even though the man drove me crazy.
But I fell asleep before I could figure out what it was.
CHAPTERFOUR
BREWER
