The Clarke Brothers (Complete Series)

by Lilian Monroe

  Dominic has his back to me. He’s wiping down a gorgeous hardwood chair. It’s part of a set of six, as far as I can tell. The back of the chair is an intricate lattice, and the chair legs are perfectly tapered to match the large table beside them.

  I breathe out as I look at his work. He glances toward me and stands up, wiping his hands on his rag as he turns toward me. He frowns slightly, taking a step in my direction before pausing.

  “Mara?”

  “Hi, Dominic,” I say. It comes out as a croak, and I can’t stop my eyes from wandering from his face down to his chest. His thin t-shirt is clinging to his body in the most delicious way, and that flame in the pit of my stomach grows instantly hotter. He takes a few more steps toward me and I lift my eyes up to his. I can see the question in his look, so I hold out the papers in my hand. He glances down and then back up at me.

  He takes a few more steps toward me and takes the papers from my hands. Suddenly, I’m embarrassed. They’re not so much sketches as they are scribbles. As I glance around the workshop and I see samples of his work, I feel like a complete amateur.

  He’s precise, and detailed, and all the bits of furniture that I can see are expertly crafted. He’s frowning as he looks at my drawings, flicking through them one by one. My heart is still thumping and all I can think of is how silly he must think I am.

  I take a deep breath.

  “You think you could make those?”

  He finally looks up at me and nods his chin down ever so slightly. “I could,” he answers slowly. His voice is deep, and it seems to reverberate through my chest.

  I swallow, letting my eyes drift from his eyes down to his lips and back up again.

  “Would you?”

  Where has my voice gone? All my words come out as whispers or croaks, and I can hardly stand on my own two feet without feeling like I’m about to topple over. Dominic hands the stack of papers back to me and stares into my eyes. My palms start to sweat, and I resist the urge to squirm. I want him to look away – to stop this torture. At the same time, though, I want him to keep looking at me like that forever.

  He finally clears his throat. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want me to make them?”

  “We’re remodeling the hotel,” I say. “I’ll pay you, obviously! How much would you charge?”

  I cringe at my awkwardness. This isn’t going how I planned. But how did I plan it? I had no idea what I was walking into. My eyes drift down to his shoulders, where the fabric of his shirt stretches across them. His chest is so close to mine I could reach out and touch it. I ball up my fist and take a deep breath to try to control myself. Dominic stares at me for a few moments, and then I see a spark in his eye. The corners of his lips lift up and he starts to chuckle. It’s quiet at first, until he’s laughing with his mouth wide open. I smile, confused.

  He shakes his head and glances at me once more before turning away from me.

  “Good one,” he says. “I needed a laugh.”

  He’s walking back toward the table and chairs and I rush after him, putting my hand on his arm. A current of warmth shoots up through my hand as I touch him. “Dominic, I’m serious! We’re trying to get approved as accommodation for the Park. You’re the best woodworker in the state, everyone knows that. I need a new bed and two side tables for every room in the hotel. If we partner together, we could both get recognized as heritage facilities. It’s a win-win!”

  Dominic frowns and shakes his head, pulling his arm away. The movement makes my heart sting and I take a step back.

  “Why do you think I’d help your family? Last time you tried to expand your business, we burned it to the ground, remember?”

  The words catch in my throat and we stare at each other. I plead with my eyes, opening my mouth and closing it again. I can still feel the heat of his arm on my palm. I look down at my amateurish sketches and then back up at him.

  “I’m not my parents, Dominic,” I say quietly. I lift my eyes up to him and see his face soften ever so slightly. He glances back down at the papers and slides them out of my hands. The tips of his fingers brush against mine, and I try to ignore the pulsing in the pit of my stomach.

  He’s so close to me I can hardly think. I don’t know why I’m here. Is it to hire him? Or is it just to be near him? I watch his face as he looks through the drawings again.

  Finally, he sighs.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  With that, he turns back to the chairs and pops open a can of dark wood stain. I watch him for a few seconds before turning around to walk back outside. The sun is shining brightly now, and I shield my eyes with my hand until I can see properly. The walk back to the main road feels longer than it did on the way in, but maybe that’s because all I can think about is the beating of my heart and the heat in the pit of my stomach.

  9

  Dominic

  The sketches Mara gave me are still sitting on the workbench. I can see them out of the corner of my eye as I run my brush back and forth along the top of the table. I try to focus on my work. I watch the stain as it soaks into the oak furniture. I wipe the wood and brush it again to get an even coat, watching the rich, brown color absorb into the grain. The acrid, chemical smell of the stain drowns out any remnants of Mara’s perfume.

  It’ll take me a few days to stain and seal the new furniture, but by the end of the week I’ll be done. When the first coat of stain is painted on the table, I stand up straight and stretch my back. I’ve opened the big garage door, and a light breeze makes the papers on the bench flutter. I stare at them for a few moments before sighing. I walk over and grab the stack of papers, spinning them toward me on the table.

  She’s got a good eye. The drawings are a bit rough, but I can already see her intent. I flick from one page to another, looking at the precise detailing that Mara has drawn out, and the more general sketches of the finished rooms.

  I lean against my worktable and look at all the sketches one by one, shaking my head.

  I can’t.

  I know I can’t. I can’t work for the McCoys! It almost killed Aiden to work for them until he got his own garage.

  And yet, I keep staring at these sketches. I need the work, and a job this big would keep me busy for weeks. If they’re getting recognition by the Park, that would put me on the map and it could turn my business around.

  If I took the job, I’d almost certainly have to spend time with Mara. My heart thumps at the thought, and I stare at her sketches a bit longer. The breeze washes over me and I can almost smell her perfume again. Long hours, poring over drawings together, late nights together in the workshop…

  Shaking my head, I pull myself out of my daydream. I can’t lie to myself – I want to do it. I want to make these pieces, and I want to work with Mara, but…

  But…

  I can’t.

  Mara is the reason my father died. Aiden would never look at me the same if I took this job. I burned down the luxury hotel that her family wanted to build. Do her parents know that she wants to hire me? Are they okay with it?!

  The questions are flying around my head, and I just keep staring at the sketches. I flick to the headboard she’s drawn up, tracing the gentle curve of it with my finger. I’ve got a pencil behind my ear, and I grab it and make a few adjustments. I stare at the modified sketch for a few seconds and feel myself start to smile.

  The next hour goes by in a flash. I’m grabbing an old piece of wood from the back of the workshop and laying it flat. I’m measuring and sketching and sawing and sanding furiously – glancing at the sketch every few minutes. In record time, I stand up a brand new headboard. It’s got the curve that Mara sketched, and some clean grooves and detailing that I added.

  I stand it up against the wall and take a step back, feeling the pride swell in my chest. It looks good. I haven’t felt that inspired to create something in weeks – maybe longer. I run my hands along the top of the headboard and love how smooth the freshly
sanded wood feels under my touch.

  “I like it!”

  I jump at the noise and turn to see my brother Ethan in the doorway. I was so focused I didn’t even hear his car pull up.

  “Thanks,” I respond, turning away from the headboard and back to the table and chairs.

  “You got another job? It looks good,” Ethan says, walking toward the headboard and running his hand over it just like I did. I resist the urge to tell him to stop touching it, instead turning back toward the work I’m actually getting paid to do.

  “Nah, just playing around with some ideas,” I respond without looking up. “What’s up? Two days in a row to visit me? Must be important.”

  I glance up to see Ethan grinning. “Not happy to see me?”

  I snort, shaking my head and turning back to my work.

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing. You left in a hurry yesterday. Harold’s was just starting to go off.”

  “Had enough of the place,” I respond.

  Ethan grins. “Enough of eyeing Mara McCoy, you mean?”

  I throw him a glance and put my head down to work again. I try not to bristle as Ethan peers over my workbench at the sketches that Mara left behind. He turns a page over and frowns.

  “What’s this? Did you do these?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say, maybe a bit too gruffly. I grab the stack of papers and stuff them in my back pocket. “I’m fine, Ethan. Just need to get these things done.”

  Ethan stares at me for a few moments and nods his head. “Alright. I brought you some new firewood, help me unload it?”

  I nod, following him out the door. We work silently, unloading his truck and stacking firewood until he claps me on the shoulder and finally leaves. I watch him drive away and let out a sigh. My shoulders slump down and I rub my temples with my fingers.

  I definitely, absolutely, cannot take this job. Even Ethan looking at some rough sketches had me panicking. What if I was actually working with Mara McCoy! I’d never hear the end of it.

  I make my way back to the workshop and start closing it up for the evening. Once the big rolling door is closed and everything is put away, I reach back and pull out the crumpled sketches from my back pocket.

  I can’t take this job.

  As much as I want to, as much as it would be good for my business, as much as I want to see Mara again, I just can’t.

  I can’t deal with the questions from Ethan, and the disapproval from Aiden. I can’t deal with the gossip and chatter that would surely follow. I can’t deal with the McCoys. I grab the sketches and toss them into the garbage can, turning my back on them and walking out the door.

  After a long shower and a cold beer, I have a mediocre dinner of leftovers and fall asleep on the couch. When I wake up to the grey light of dawn, my whole body is stiff. It aches to get up, and I groan as I put my head in my hands.

  I can’t get her out of my head.

  I dreamt of her last night, and I woke up thinking she was beside me.

  I don’t know how, or why, but Mara McCoy has gotten under my skin.

  10

  Mara

  I wake up to the familiar sounds of the hotel. The restaurant is open, and I can hear the pots and pans banging and the cooks calling out to each other. I used to hate being woken up to that sound when I was a teenager, but now it seems somewhat comforting.

  It’s strange being back home. I lie in bed and take a deep breath, once again wondering how I came to be staying with my parents when I’m almost thirty years old. I try to push away the thoughts that are telling me that my life is falling apart, and to ignore the sense that I’ve moved backward. My heart squeezes when I think of my failed engagement. I still feel like such a fool for thinking that Vincent cared about me.

  I shake my head and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I take a deep breath.

  I’m not moving backward. I’m definitely moving forward. Somehow, I’ve ended up back in my hometown in the heart of the mountains – but in a lot of ways it feels good. I’m away from Silicon Valley and all its fakery. I’m away from my fiancé and all his fakery.

  When I stand up and stretch my arms overhead, my thoughts drift to Dominic Clarke. I’ve never noticed how deep his eyes are, or how he smells ever so slightly of pine. His workshop is incredible. All those half-finished pieces in the corner scream out raw talent.

  I walk to the window and open the blinds, casting my eye over the peaks that surround Lang Creek. I lean against the window frame and stare out as my thoughts wander back to the workshop.

  Would he ever take the job? I know it’s a big ask. I know that our two families have been at odds for over a decade. I know that he probably hates me in particular, for falling into the creek that day, and causing his father to get pneumonia. I know his brother Aiden hates me. That alone would be enough to refuse the work.

  But still – would he ever take the job? It would be the biggest job he’s ever got. I have no doubt. It would set him up to be a supplier for a number of heritage properties. He’d be a fool not to take it.

  I take a deep breath and shake my head. I already know that’s not true. Maybe on paper, it would be a great move – but in practice it would be different. He’d have to work closely with me, and with my parents. He’d have to come to the hotel every week – maybe even every day.

  He’ll never take the job.

  In my heart I know it’s true. He’s the man who burned down the luxury hotel before it was even built. The hotel would have put Lang Creek on the map. It would have brought a huge amount of people and business to the area.

  If he cared about money, he wouldn’t have done that.

  I take a breath and turn away from the window, trying to ignore the budding disappointment in the pit of my stomach. It’s not just the work. I’m disappointed that I won’t have an excuse to go to his workshop, and to brush my shoulder against his. I’m disappointed I won’t get to look into those deep brown eyes and steal glances at his chiseled body.

  By the time I’ve showered, the sun is warming up the air outside. I can tell it’s going to be a gorgeous day, and I glance out the window of my room one more time.

  If Dominic Clarke won’t build my furniture, I need to find someone who will. With a sigh, I resign myself to the idea of working with someone else. I'll have to atone to the Clarke brothers some other way.

  I sweep my eyes around my room and try to find the stack of sketches that I drew. My stomach drops when I remember Dominic taking them from my hands at the workshop yesterday. He’s got all of them, even the concept sketches for the rooms.

  The thought fills me with a simultaneous sense of excitement and dread. I want to see him again. Before I know it, I’m sliding the glass door at the back of my room open. My feet are taking me back down the road toward the workshop on the edge of town as my heart thumps in my chest.

  The air is fresh. There’s a bounce in my step as I make my way across town. It’s still early, and the town is quiet. I don’t pass anyone on my way to Dominic’s place, and I’m silently grateful for it. Even going to see him feels like a rebellious move.

  After only a few minutes, I’m turning down the long gravel drive that takes me into the edge of the forest. Even though Dominic’s cabin is in town, it still feels far removed from it. His house is tucked away at the end of a long driveway, surrounded by dense forest on all sides. I take a deep breath and inhale the fresh air one more time before the cabin and the workshop come into view.

  I’m relieved to see the lights on in the workshop. He must be working already. I strain my ears to hear any sounds of tools or saws, but I hear nothing – nothing except my footsteps and the beating of my heart in my ears.

  The big garage doors on the workshop are closed, but the small door beside them is open. Every step that takes me closer makes my heart beat a little bit faster.

  Should I have come here? I know the answer to that. I’m basically harassing him at this point.

  I take a deep br
eath and shake my head. I’m only here to get my sketches back. I already know he’ll refuse the job, so I can just be graceful and leave on good terms.

  When I’m two steps away from the open doorway, my heart is hammering in my chest. I close the distance and turn into the workshop, pausing in the doorway and letting my eyes sweep across the big room.

  Dominic sees me right away and stands up. He’s got a paint brush in his hand, and I can tell he’s working on the table in front of him. He’s wearing a white mask over his mouth and nose. He lifts the mask off his face and moves it onto his forehead as his eyes narrow.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” he replies. God, I love his voice.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot and chew my lip. Suddenly I’m nervous, and I don’t know what to say. I take a step toward him almost involuntarily. It’s like something is pulling me toward him. My eyes are glued on his, and he stays completely still.

  My voice catches when I try to speak, so I clear my throat and try again.

  “I was just here to…” Before I can ask him about the sketches, my eyes flick to a huge piece of furniture behind him. It’s a headboard, and the curve of it reminds me of what I drew.

  My eyebrows knit together and I take another step forward, sweeping my eyes over the headboard. Finally, I drag my eyes back to Dominic’s gaze and swallow before opening my mouth.

  I take another couple steps toward him so that there’s only the half-finished table between us. I look at the headboard again, and I’m finally able to speak. My voice is hoarse, but I force out the words anyway.

  “You made it,” I breathe. “You made my sketch.”

  I make myself glance back at his face. His eyes are dark and unreadable. He’s staring at me with an intensity that I’ve never felt before. My whole body is sparking, and the pit of my stomach is on fire. I can feel the honey pooling between my legs as his eyes burn into mine.