“Clunky feet?” He nodded. “Looks a little rusted, if you ask me, but?—”
I waved a hand. “That’s intentional. It’s industrial chic.”
“If you say so.”
“Do you know what this means, Hen?” I braced both hands on the counter and leaned toward him. “This means the downstairs bathroom can be finished soon! Maybe even this week. One more project done.”
One step closer to having the renovation over and Brewer out of my business forever.
I was ready to bust out a spry little jig of my own.
“You’re my new favorite person,” I gushed.
Hen laughed. “Glad to hear it. I was worried you’d still be sore over your kitchen cabinets, but?—”
My happy bubble wobbled and popped. “Hang on. What’s wrong with my kitchen cabinets?”
“Oh, I just meant how Brew had to put the kibosh on those fancy metal ones you originally wanted.” Hen’s mustache twitched like his lips were shrugging. “But you’re better off with the custom ones he’s gonna make you. I never heard of him doing custom cabinets for a client before.” He stroked his mustache. “You’re pretty lucky, huh?”
For a moment, I lost the ability to speak. The store around me and all the people in it disappeared into a white haze. A rushing sound, like the engine of a train heading right for me, filled my ears.
Whatever I was, it was far, far fromlucky.
I swallowed. “Brewer canceled my cabinet order? The one I placed myself?”
“Well, yeah. He said he’d told you those cabinets wouldn’t work with your house, and he didn’t want you to waste your money. That’s just Brewer’s way.” Hen sounded nearly as besotted as Janice-with-the-flyers. “It’s why his clients love him so much, and… uh… Delaney? Kiddo, you look kinda… peaky.”
Yes, no doubt I was.
Peaky was a natural result of a man’s brain short-circuiting.
Brewer hadn’t just ignored my input this time. He hadn’t just tweaked things without consulting me. He’d canceled my damn cabinets. The ones I’d researched. I’d ordered. I’d paid for.
For months, I’d let him get away with his attitude—a purse of his lips at my fixture choices, a huff when I suggested a layout tweak—but somewhere along the way, my entire renovation had been hijacked by Brewer Barnum and his big hands, big shoulders, and bigger-than-life ego.
And it wasn’t just the house. The past few months had been a slow, relentless stream of reminders that what I liked—hell, who I was—just didn’t work around here. Despite Tam’s endless lectures, I was never going to be a wick-dipping enthusiast or a leg-pain-meteorology guy, and I refused to try to change myself just to win anyone’s approval.
That wasn’t adapting; that waslosing.
And I refused to lose, especially to Brewer Barnum.
I exhaled slowly and forced a pleasant, deadly polite smile on my face. “Hen,” I said, voice tight, “would you excuse me? I need to have a little chat with my contractor.”
“Now, Delaney,” Hen called after me. “Don’t go off half-cocked?—”
But he was too late. I was already fully cocked, and both barrels were aimed at a very large man in a very snug tool belt.
CHAPTERTWO
BREWER
Some days called forHamilton.Others forRent. Today was definitely aWickedday.
As I flipped the burgers on my little grill under the awning I’d strung up between my camper and a tent pole I’d hammered into the ground, I hummed along with the soundtrack playing in my ears.
Then, as I gazed out over the acres of pastureland I’d bought a couple of years ago—my first half step toward permanence after five years spent drifting from job to job, learning how to improve my trade from anyone who’d teach me—I went ahead and belted out the chorus of “Defying Gravity” because Icould.
Because there was no one around to hear me.
