No. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed.Ihad approached Brewer about the renovations because he’d been recommended, and I’d hired him well before I’d ever heard of Anthony Harmon.
Besides, Brewer wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t.
I thought about calling Brewer right away, but I needed to get a little clearer on the details. He was estranged from his father, and his father was Anthony Harmon, the man I was trying todefendin my article.
Before I talked to him about it, I needed to get the facts straight in my head.
In a daze—notthe Disney princess kind anymore—I scooted my chair back toward the computer and kept scrolling. The article detailed how Tony Harmon and his son Brewer were expanding the family business, honoring Barney’s legacy of quality craftsmanship while taking on larger projects.
Two years later, there was another small newsprint clipping stating that the historic Harmon family home had been sold to Empire Ridge Development Corporation for an undisclosed amount. Plans were underway for a new housing development.
Brewer’s words rushed back to me. The stories of him helping his grandfather renovate his house. And then, from that night, we unearthed Elizabeth Winters’s paintings:I’m not close to my family aside from Hayes. My father gave away something that was mine, and I’ve never forgiven him for it.
Jesus Christ. Was it possible he was talking about the house?
What if the grandfather who’d loved him and taught him so much wanted Brewer to have his house? And Anthony had sold it before Brewer had a chance to inherit it.
And then they’d razed it to the ground.
My breath caught in my lungs.
If so, this wasn’t just a story about corporate corruption, about fighting for the little guy. It was a story about Brewer.
And Brewer hadn’t shared it with me.
When we’d been tangled in my sheets, talking about Empire Ridge, I’d asked if Brewer knew anyone who’d had dealings with them. He’d said he had… but he hadn’t explained it had been someone in his ownfamily. Brewer had stiffened physically and emotionally. He’d pulled back—his default response when he felt vulnerable. He hadn’t let me in.
Which begged the question, how much did I still not know about this man who’d somehow become the center of my universe?
The idea that the man who’d told me from the beginning totrust me, Delaneymight not trustmeburned in my chest.
I wanted to call him, right that fucking minute, to confront him and demand to know what the fuck was going on.
But just as my anger caught fire, a tidal wave of sympathy and indignation on Brewer’s behalf broke over me and snuffed it out.
What must it have been like for Brewer—having his own father sell his grandfather’s house to a big developer? The place must’ve been full of memories, presumably happy ones in which his grandfather had given him a love for craftsmanship. To watch his father hand over his grandfather’s legacy to Empire Ridge must have felt like a betrayal.
Christ, no wonder Brewer had built his walls so high.
No wonder he kept people at arm’s length and pulled back when he felt vulnerable.
When the person who’s supposed to protect you betrayed you like that, how did you ever trust anyone again?
It made my chest physically ache to think about how it must have been—might still be—for Brewer. The man who measured things in Delaneys, who sang Broadway show tunes while grilling steak, who’d crafted parts of my house with those talented hands… had lost hisownhome. And he’d carried that wound alone.
Did Brewer have the same facts his father had given me? Had Brewer chosen not to believe his father? Did he know something I didn’t?
If I was able to prove the case I’d been trying to prove, would that matter to him? Would ithelp?
I rolled my eyes at myself. Why the fuck was I sitting here and wondering what Brewer would want… when I could justcall Brewer?
He hadn’t talked to me about his family, and I didn’t want to push him, but at the very least, I needed to tell Brewer the article I was writing was about his father. Now that I’d discovered the connection, I couldn’t and wouldn’t keep it a secret.
I scrambled for my phone and dialed Brewer’s number expectantly.
A second later, the muffled sound of Brewer’s ringtone came from upstairs.
“Fuck,” I groaned, knocking my head on the desk. “He left his fucking phone? Now what?”
