Bowie cut the lights of his truck as he pulled into the driveway where Brooklyn lived. Her downstairs neighbor found a reason to complain about everything, so he was doing his part to keep things civil. He was half hoping Brooklyn would be waiting for him so they could be on their way. When she wasn’t, he let out a sigh of relief and leaned his head against the back window and closed his eyes. He had a few seconds to gather his thoughts before he was going to spend all day with the woman of his dreams, working alongside of her, in close capacity, with paint fumes overriding his senses. If he were to make a move or say something about his undying affection, he couldn’t be held responsible—at least that’s what his subconscious told him as he pictured Brooklyn in the paint-splattered coveralls his father was insistent that she wear. They were far from sexy, but it was Brooklyn, and she could wear a burlap bag and be the most beautiful woman ever. For as long as he’d known her, he’d never thought of her as anything but gorgeous. Thinking of her like that was dangerous. She was his best friend’s girl and had been since the day he met her.
Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to think that Austin wouldn’t show up later or that Brooklyn wouldn’t take far too many breaks to talk to her boyfriend. It was the weekend, after all, and Austin and Brooklyn normally spent it together. Bowie also wasn’t foolish enough to think that Brooklyn asking for a ride was anything more than her not wanting to drive herself. Still, he’d had the presence of mind to stop at the café to pick up two extra-large coffees and Peggy’s freshly made cinnamon rolls, which made his truck smell more like a bakery than a stinky work truck.
The motion-sensor light flicked on, startling Bowie. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, looked at his dashboard to see the time, and barely caught a glimpse of Brooklyn as she passed by the front of his truck. The dome light came on when she opened the door, and she smiled at him. “Morning,” she mumbled. Clearly her smile was not an indication of how alert she was. He couldn’t blame her. His father wanted them on the jobsite by six a.m. to get the rooms painted and the trim work up. They were behind schedule, which was the reason they were working on Sunday.
“Here, I thought you would need this.” Bowie handed her the foam cup, which she immediately brought to her nose and inhaled.
“Thank you. I smell cinnamon as well.”
He turned his head away from her and smiled. Bowie had scored big-time bonus points with her by buying those rolls. “Peggy had just pulled them out of the oven when I arrived.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed as she took a sip of her coffee.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He hated asking her because he absolutely wanted to spend the day with her, but she didn’t need to work the weekends. As the secretary to Seacoast Construction, her job was Monday through Friday. She was in charge of booking jobs, making sure the bills were paid, writing paychecks, and helping the company with their branding. Painting houses was not a job requirement.
Brooklyn nodded. “I need the extra money.”
“For what?” He shouldn’t pry, but he wanted to know.
“I’m trying to save for nursing school.”
“Does Austin know?” It had been years since he’d heard her talk about nursing; he thought she had given up on her dream of becoming a nurse because she rarely mentioned it. He tried to recall the last time she brought it up, and it must’ve been shortly before they graduated high school, when everyone talked about going off to college.
She dropped her head and sighed. Bowie left it at that and pulled out of the driveway. On the way to the jobsite, he kept the radio on and only turned it up when the weather report came on, knowing full well it would grab Brooklyn’s attention. Everyone in town watched the weather, but it was the fishermen’s wives and significant others who were really in tune with it. Most of them could tell by the clouds or the quick shift in air pressure what the day was going to be like. He left his question alone, not prodding her for an answer. He knew his friend well enough to know he was never leaving Cape Harbor. The only problem was, Brooklyn had yet to realize it.
Bowie pulled up to the jobsite and shut his truck off. He opened his mouth to say something, but Brooklyn had already slipped outside, leaving him no choice but to follow. He unlocked the door to the house and turned on as many work lights as he could. Inside, he handed Brooklyn the gray coveralls. “They’re not fashionable, but they’ll save your clothes from paint splatter.” She thanked him and stepped inside the work clothes. He never minded wearing them but loathed seeing them cover her perfectly toned body. He would much rather work alongside of her in her shorts and tank top. After she was fully covered in the most hideous outfit known to man, Brooklyn began to braid her long dark hair. An act that turned Bowie on. He swallowed hard and fiddled with some tool in order to distract himself from staring. Only, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her for long. They were alone, and it was getting harder and harder for him to keep denying his feelings for her.
“Do you want to eat or get started?”
“We can start,” she said.
Perfect, he thought. Bowie loaded the navy-colored paint into the cup, secured the nozzle, and handed it to Brooklyn.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
He chuckled. “You’re going to paint the wall. It’ll be simple. I’ll show you.” It was like he had a light bulb moment. Over the years, he’d always looked for excuses to touch her, to caress her skin, to press his thigh to hers—all harmless flirting was what he told himself when it was pure torture for him. He didn’t need an excuse now. It was his professional duty to show her how to operate the paint gun.
Bowie directed her to the largest wall and with his hands on her hips, which was completely unnecessary, he stood behind her. His heart thumped loudly, and he feared she would feel it tapping against her back when he leaned in. She tilted her head toward him and, if he wasn’t mistaken, stepped back so they were pressed tightly together.
No, he definitely wasn’t mistaken. There wasn’t space between their bodies, and he was going to relish the moment as long as possible.
“Why didn’t you go to college and become an architect?”
Her words hit a sore spot deep within his chest. That had been his dream, to design skyscrapers in cities, but he couldn’t leave Brooklyn behind. He was in love with her, and as long as she stayed in Cape Harbor, he would too. He knew his feelings would come back to bite him someday, that he would regret giving up his dream because of a woman who belonged to another man, but to him, it was worth it. He’d rather live on the sidelines in her life than not see her every day.
“Dad needed help.” The lie fell easily, although it was partly true. His father could always use the help, but Bowie stayed because of Brooklyn. He’d tell her . . . someday. “Why didn’t you go to college?” he countered. “I remember your first day of school, you sat at the table and told everyone you’re going to be a nurse.”
She shrugged and turned slightly to look at him. “I fell in love.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. He wanted to ask her if she felt the same way about him as he did her but couldn’t bear the rejection.
So many things could’ve been said in that moment, but words failed him. He studied her hard, looking for any sign that she was referring to him but hadn’t a clue what to look for. He could’ve easily leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, but he held back, not willing to tempt fate. Sure, he had dated over the years, but not a single woman held a candle to Brooklyn. Bowie was going to have to shit or get off the pot where she was concerned because he dreaded his future. He didn’t know if he could stand up next to Austin as Brooklyn walked down the aisle. Unfortunately, he would have no choice.
“We should start.” Bowie motioned toward the wall. He placed his hand on top of hers and pushed her finger against the trigger. “Slow and steady wins the race,” he told her as they moved the spray gun back and forth. Brooklyn was a natural and picked up the task easily, leaving him no choice but to start working on the trim. Even thoug
h they were on a deadline to finish the house, he spent his day watching her and making excuses to be next to her. To him, she was his sun, and he was going to bask in her warmth until he had to return her to his best friend.
Bowie shook his head. He would have to call and thank his father for hiring Brooklyn after they finished high school. In a way, it was all his fault. If he hadn’t offered her overtime on the weekends, she would’ve never learned how to paint, which she managed to make a very successful career from. Yep, Brooklyn’s return was his father’s fault.
After Monroe had scrolled through, clicking links and gasping at some of the images, she finally sat back with a stunned look on her face. “It seems that Brooklyn has made quite a name for herself,” Bowie said as he locked the screen on his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
“She probably brought a television crew with her. She’s going to turn Cape Harbor into a spectacle.”
“Not that I saw.”
Monroe’s eyes went wide. “You saw her? Where? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bowie wanted to chuckle, but it was hard finding the silver lining in the situation, at least for him. “I saw her at the inn.”
“What were you doing there?”
He leaned back and tried to smile. “Speaking with Carly. She’s hired me to do the construction.”
“Shut the front door.” Her hand clamped down on his wrist. “Bowie, this is amazing. It’s just what you need to expand your business, and after Rachel . . . well, you could use the distraction.”
It was something, but not the distraction he was looking for, and he wasn’t sure amazing was the word he would use. For his crew, this was a good thing. For his mental health, probably not. As far as anyone knew, the only animosity he held against Brooklyn was due to the fact that she had ditched out on everyone after the funeral. No one knew that she had broken his heart and ruined their friendship at the same time.
He wasn’t exactly thrilled to work with Brooklyn, despite her impressive résumé. He should be honored—at least that’s what all the other contractors said in their blurbs on her website. Everyone she worked with loved her, which meant his job should be easy, yet he felt like he was about to go into a gun battle with a knife—a butter knife at that. Knowing he would have to see her and hear her voice every day for months left him feeling like what little hold he had on his life was slipping through his fingers. He wasn’t emotionally strong enough to deal with all of that . . . with her.
As the night wore on, more and more of his friends meandered into the bar. The table he and Monroe sat at now overflowed with people laughing and telling jokes. The mood was light, regardless of how Bowie was feeling.
Toward the end of the night, Graham finally joined them. He brought another round of beers, and everyone clanked their glasses together. “Jason called earlier. He’ll be here for Austin’s celebration,” he said, causing the table to go silent.
“And Brooklyn’s back. It’s like the whole gang is back together for the anniversary,” Roe added solemnly. Graham’s and Bowie’s eyes met across the table. They shared a look. Bowie sensed that Graham knew why he was in such a funk tonight.
“Fifteen years,” someone said with a sigh. The mood quickly turned somber. No one spoke. No one drank. Bowie was too focused on the cheery tabletop to look for the owner of the voice. But whoever had said it was right. This year was a milestone. Every five years the celebration would get bigger. Until when? Bowie wanted to know when they’d stop mourning their friend and start living again, because he felt like he was going through the motions, day in and day out. Everything had changed for them that night fifteen years ago. Dreams and flourishing careers had been put on hold, relationships ended, and people left.
“Hey, did anyone see Brooklyn Hewett? Man, time has been very good to her. She’s hotter now than she was in high school. What I wouldn’t give to hook up with her.”
Bowie scanned for the person speaking. Once he spotted him, he tried to recall his name but couldn’t. The guy was a year or two younger than Bowie and not someone who ran with his crowd. Still, the words pissed him off. The last thing he wanted was to hear people go on and on about Brooklyn, particularly in that manner. Especially when everyone was coming home to honor Austin.
TEN
Brooklyn sat with her toes in the sand and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The tide was still out, and she could barely hear the waves crashing against the shore. Seagulls chirped overhead, squawking louder when they found a morsel of food or an enemy came too close. She loved everything about the ocean, minus the gulls. When she was twelve or thirteen, she had been down on the docks in Seattle, and not one, but a whole group of birds had flown above and done their business at the same time, each plop landing on her head, shoulders, and arms. Mortified hadn’t even begun to explain how she had felt. She had cried for days and sworn to always wear a hat when she was near the water from that day forward.
The memory had her touching the brim of her cap. Yesterday, when she had run into Bowie, she had thought for sure he would say something about it, comment on how it used to be Austin’s. But he hadn’t. Maybe he hadn’t noticed because he’d been far too busy throwing daggers at her, trying to emotionally maim her in the driveway for even stepping foot in Cape Harbor again, and sending her into an emotional whiplash. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t. Things between them could’ve been different if she had called, written a letter, or even told him she was leaving, or stayed. She hadn’t. She had chosen to run. She had chosen to deal with her actions privately because she had known any relationship she and Bowie had had was over, and seeing him every day would’ve destroyed her even more. Knowing he was there, within arm’s reach, would’ve been torture. The relationship they had known, the one that had been cemented in her life from the time she had arrived, was over. Leaving had been her only option.
Boats began to leave port, setting out for the day. Even in the early dawn, she could see the crew waving as they motored by the inn. In her heart, she knew who it was. She didn’t wave back, knowing they weren’t acknowledging her but the woman who lived in the home behind her. They were paying respect in their own way—a way that didn’t make sense to Brooklyn. What Carly needed was people to surround her, to help her. And yet, she only had Simone, and Brystol when she was here. She wanted to shake each one of Austin’s friends, including those fishermen who likely never even knew him, and ask how they could forget about his mother. Their mother. The woman who had taken every one of them in without question or reservation. She had opened her door, her life, and her heart to them, and they all had ditched out on her. Brooklyn wasn’t much better, but at least she had given her Brystol.
There were a few joggers running up and down the coastline, and by the middle of summer, there would be more. She and Simone were going to sit down today, once painting started, and figure out a marketing strategy. They planned to reach out to the former guests, inquire if they were interested in a return stay, and offer them a discount for a future booking. As much as Carly wanted to rush the project, Brooklyn was going to follow Bowie’s timeline, even though with their combined crews they could easily open five rooms at a time. Waiting made more sense. It gave her more time to make sure everything was perfect. The only thing that had bothered her after the meeting with Bowie was how long it would take him to get supplies. One call and she had a delivery scheduled to arrive this morning.
She would plan a grand reopening party, a gala of sorts. Something that would encourage Carly to don a beautiful gown, get her hair done, and show her granddaughter what the inn used to be like. Even thinking about organizing an event like this put a smile on Brooklyn’s face. She had spent countless nights dancing in the ballroom, with the moon shining through the window, and she wanted to do it again.
She hadn’t been back in town more than twenty-four hours, and she already wanted Brystol to experience everything she had growing up here, the majesty that seemed to surround the inn when people f
rom all over filled the rooms. The sunsets, bonfires on the beaches, the close friendships she’d made in the short time she lived here. These were important parts of life that she was denying her daughter. Brystol needed to make lasting memories that didn’t revolve around her mother’s job. Mostly, though, Brooklyn wanted Brystol to be happy. Carly as well.
The sun rose, beating down on Brooklyn’s back. She closed her eyes and basked in its warmth. She hoped for a warm day with a breeze. She intended to open windows so she could hear the ocean while she worked and smell the sea’s salt air as it wafted through the inn. She wanted to hang wind chimes because it reminded her how life used to be here. Of all the jobs she had done in the past, she preferred the ones on the coast. The ocean was her place; it was where she belonged. To her, working inland was boring, and there wasn’t an escape. Sure, some towns had amazing vibes, great festivals, and beautiful parks, but there wasn’t anything like a pier where you would run into a sea lion waiting for his fisherman friends to return with a snack, or sitting on a dock with your feet in the water, watching as the sailboats came in and out of port. Life was always different by the water. It was hard to explain to people who hadn’t lived along the coast. It was a feeling, a sense of being, and Brooklyn missed it . . . she missed belonging somewhere.
It had taken Brooklyn a few years until she was ready to face the water. For the longest time, she wouldn’t go in, afraid she’d swim out too far in her quest to find Austin. As far as she knew, his body was still out there. And if it wasn’t, Carly hadn’t said anything. Nor had Brooklyn asked. The story of what had happened that fateful day only needed telling once by Grady. No one would ever forget his story.
Brooklyn looked up and down the beach. Not a long way from where she was sitting was a bonfire pit. Back in Seattle, her friends hadn’t really done this. They were into shopping, sailing, and spending time on yachts. But here, this was what she and her friends had done on the weekends.
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