by Skye Jordan
She let the tension slide from her body and softened against him. He was as hard and warm as she remembered. Lifting her hand from his shoulder, she ran her thumb along his lower lip. “Then I think you have a few problems on your hands.”
His gaze went distant, and a hint of pain glimmered deep inside there somewhere. Pain she recognized as a reflection of feeling trapped. The realization that struggle was futile. It hurt to see it. Hurt to watch him battle the intangible ties of unhealthy relationships, because she still remembered what it felt like.
Delaney pressed both hands against his chest and leaned away, breaking his hold. “As much as I would love to get another taste of what we had last night, it’s better for you if we step back”—she moved away, and he let her go—“to a professional distance.”
He looked both frustrated and lost. And while that same frustrated and lost part of her wanted to pull him back, she fished her business card from her back pocket instead. She’d brought it for the inspector, not realizing she’d be giving it—and her history—to Ethan. But there was no point in holding it back now. They were going to have to work with each other, whether she demolished or renovated. He needed to know where she came from and what she could do.
“After Phoebe,” she said, offering him the card, “you’ll be the first one to know what I decide to do with this place.”
He took the card, and Delaney walked toward the front door. Just as she stepped out, she heard his muffled, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” which meant he’d read her title on the business card for her old job: DIRECTOR, SITE ACQUISITION & DEVELOPMENT.
If she wasn’t terrified of losing everything she’d spent ten years building over this nightmare, she would have smiled.
Ethan let his truck coast through the gates of McClellan Farms toward what had been his light at the end of the tunnel—literally—until twenty-four hours ago. Until Delaney Hart had taken renovation of The Bad Seed seriously. Now the light in the barn signaled work for the day still wasn’t done. Which meant his grandfather was still working. In pain.
Almost eight o’clock now, the rich scent of earth wafted up from the soil beneath his tires on tendrils of cool early fall air, filling the cab. Ethan breathed deep, relishing the bone-deep contentment the scent still brought. So many of his best boyhood memories lived here. And the man who had nurtured those memories appeared in silhouette, ambling toward Ethan’s truck from the direction of the farmhouse, his Labrador-shepherd mutt running ahead, barking at Ethan’s arrival.
Ethan put the truck into Park, and Homie planted his front paws on the driver’s door, tail wagging, tongue lolling. “Hey, boy.” He reached through the window to scratch Homie’s head. “Taking care of the old man?”
His grandfather’s familiar limp seemed worse tonight, and as he passed through the headlights on his path to the driver’s side, the beams illuminated a grimace on Harlan’s face.
“Get down,” Harlan told the dog. “You know better, Homie.” Then to Ethan, “Where the hell you been?”
“Nodding off already?”
“I was on the tractor at four a.m., kid. Where were you?”
Ethan couldn’t bring himself to tell his grandfather he’d been in a nice, toasty bed. “It’s not all that hot in the afternoons now. Why don’t you sleep in?”
“No point. Neither one of us is gonna be sleepin’ in when the pub opens.”
Worrying over the state of that pub—one Pops had sunk every last penny of his retirement into—pushed the knife in Ethan’s gut a little deeper. “I can’t stay, Pops. I—”
“Got Sunday dinner. I know.”
And the knife twisted. That was a Sunday dinner Pops had attended every week as well—until Ian’s death. Until he’d voiced his opinion that Ian was responsible for his own death, not Ethan, dividing himself from the rest of the family. The bad blood over that event ran too deep to bridge.
“What wild card have you got for me tonight?” Ethan asked.
Pops held up a Ziploc and his expression transitioned from pain-etched to mischievous. “This here’s no wild card. This here’s magic.”
“Magic, huh?”
Ethan tapped the dome light on, reached for the bag, and held it under the light. The hops were bright moss green, fresh and plump and perfect. But then, all the hops his grandfather grew were perfect. They oughta be. He’d been farming them for decades.
“Which hybrid is this?” Ethan broke the seal and took a deep drag of the scent. Some men were excited by fishing or cars or weapons. For Ethan and Harlan, great hops made their hearts beat faster. And this blend had a rich, spicy scent, heavy on the wood and funk. “Holy shit, that’s amazing.”
“No, that’s magic.”
Ethan pulled one cone from the bag and rolled it between his fingers. The woodsy scent grew stronger, and the funky smell, one that marked this baby as something really unique, filled the cab. He breathed it in like a drug, then lifted the crumbled cone to his lips and tasted. The bitter tang hit first but mellowed quickly, leaving a floral aftertaste, and a hint of . . .
Ethan smacked his lips. “Is that mint?”
Pops chuckled in affirmation and crossed his arms on the window ledge, leaning into the cab. And for a moment, his grandfather looked ten years younger—closer to his midsixties than his midseventies.
Ethan knew that was what living out your passion and having someone to share that passion with could do for a man. It was one of the major factors that drove them both.
“It’s as mild as Willamette, but with more flavor and better scent. And it’s versatile.” Pops pointed to the bag, his muddy eyes brightening with excitement. “I bet you that’s going to be our signature hops for at least some of our Wildcard brews.”
Ethan had tried every one of his grandfather’s crazy cultivations over the years, many successfully. Harlan had done well for himself creating and selling unique hops varieties—even introduced three of the main types sold commercially. And he’d been trying to get Ethan to take over the business for decades.
But Ethan was no farmer. He’d learned that during the four long summers he’d worked the farm with his grandfather during high school. Pops’s passion may lay in creating and cultivating new hops, but Ethan’s lay in creating and cultivating new beers. As business partners, they were a perfect match.
Ethan just hoped there would be a business to partner in.
“The architect is going to have plans for us to look at in another week,” he said.
Pops nodded. “Amanda was asking for you down at the market today. She sure is a sweet thing. Why haven’t you asked her out?”
Ethan had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Amanda’s not my type, Pops.”
“Sweet? Pretty? Comes from a good family? What’s not to like?”
“That whole picket-fence look in her eyes, that’s what. My family ties are screwed up enough as it is. I don’t need to add any more knots to a fraying rope. Besides, do you want me at the warehouse brewing or out messing around with some chick?”
“I want you to learn to balance your life the way you balance your beer. Go talk to Amanda and stock up Caleb while you’re at the store. He’s completely out.”
“I’m out, too. Won’t have another batch ready for at least a week.”
His grandfather’s mouth pressed into an irritated frown. “You still runnin’ down your daddy’s every narcissistic whim?” He didn’t wait for an answer to the rhetorical question. “You’d better get your priorities straightened out right quick. You’ve got your own life to live, which, outside regular work hours, should be spent at the kettle or with a pretty lady, not working yourself ragged for Jack.”
Ethan hung his wrist over the steering wheel, searching Harlan’s face for insight into his crabbier-than-usual mood. “Weren’t you supposed to get your cortisone shot today?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re always crabbier when your leg’s hurting.”
“I got the d
amn shot. And I just told you why I’m crabby. Ain’t you listenin’, boy? My business partner just told me he ran out of supply because he’s wasting his time fulfilling hollow obligations for a selfish prick. When I’ve got all my liquid funds tied up in a proposed venture, yeah, that makes me crabby.”
Guilt pinched Ethan’s gut. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll focus.”
“You’re plenty focused, Ethan.” Harlan’s voice had lost its angry edge. “But you’re just one person, and there are only so many hours in one day. Until you can quit this damn job, you’ve gotta guard every moment of your spare time like gold at a mining camp. And Jack is that guy who will loot you while you sleep.”
Ethan didn’t like having to admit that about his own father, but he nodded. Not only was it true, but Pops wasn’t unearthing the half of it. “I hear you.”
Harlan harrumphed and turned toward the farmhouse with Homie on his heels, then paused to face Ethan. “And while you’re cookin’ tonight, check on your neighbor. There was talk at the market of movement ’round the Hart property today. That is one big fly we don’t need in our soup.”
Ethan pulled in a breath to call his grandfather back, but the slump of Harlan’s shoulders made Ethan swallow his words. He decided to let the man get a good night’s rest. News of Delaney Hart’s mission was something Ethan could tell Pops tomorrow.
He waited as his grandfather worked his way up the stairs and stepped into the house, providing a path with the truck’s headlights. Pops’s painfully slow movement tonight made discomfort rise in Ethan’s belly and a million what-ifs gnaw at the back of his mind.
“Soon, Pops,” he murmured as his grandfather disappeared inside. “You can rest soon.”
The living room light flipped on. One light in a sprawling farmhouse that had, in Ethan’s youth, been a hub of activity and happiness and more love than he’d been able to absorb.
Now, in the wake of his grandmother’s death and Ethan’s worst mistake, Pops lived alone, all but abandoned in the middle of acres and acres of land he farmed with unstable, seasonal hired help.
Ethan swung a U-turn and started back toward town along the quiet, dark country road. But instead of the calming effect the setting normally had on him, Ethan’s thoughts twisted through his mind, crisscrossing and turning until they returned to the original thought, just to start over again, like a crazy figure eight.
He stepped in the door of his parents’ home in the hills of Wildwood right about the time his family was starting dessert.
“There he is.”
His mother’s voice reached him in the foyer, where he unlaced and toed off his work boots before walking through the living area to the dining room. Judging by the other voices, his uncle and cousin Adam were also here. Which meant Aunt Ellen was here. Ethan winced internally before his mother came around the corner with bright eyes and a welcoming smile.
“I was just wondering if you were going to make it.”
“Hey, Mom.”
He gave her a hug and let her take his arm as he walked her back to her chair. As soon as he turned the corner into the dining room, he was hit with four pairs of eyes. His father, brother, uncle, and cousin all managed some form of hello. But the fifth person at the table, his aunt Ellen, was focused on making patterns in the whipped cream of her strawberry shortcake with a fork.
And here we go.
Ethan heaved a sigh, working to make it sound relieved rather than troubled. “The gang’s all here.”
“Hey, Ethan.” Uncle Wayne stood and reached across the table to shake Ethan’s hand. “Bring any of your newest creations with you?”
“Hi, Wayne. No, sorry. I didn’t know you and Aunt Ellen would be here. Next time.”
Wayne nodded. “It’s about time you started up your own brewery, kid. Say the word, and I’ll back you.”
Ethan smiled for his uncle, but if manipulation was something he wanted to get rid of in his life, Wayne and Jack were people that had to stay out of his business. “Nice offer. Thanks.”
Ethan would have to be blind to miss the bruised crescents beneath his uncle’s eyes. And if Wayne looked ragged around the edges, Ellen looked . . . ghostly, in body and spirit. Most people thought Ellen and Ethan’s mother, Beth, were twins at first glance. They both had petite builds, delicate features, the same hazel eyes, and hair that had once been blonde now dyed and highlighted to a silvery gold. But Ellen was markedly pale. And the hollows in her cheeks were clear indications she’d dropped weight she couldn’t afford to lose.
He paused beside Ellen and bent to wrap his free arm around her shoulders in a gentle hug, then kissed her head. “Hey, Auntie.”
She didn’t respond, but she lifted a hand to pat his.
Ethan pulled out his mother’s chair and scooted it in for her as she sat, then pressed a hand to her shoulder and rested his chin on her head. “What’s for dinner?”
“There’s a plate for you in the oven, honey. Fried chicken, spicy roasted green beans with the candied bacon you love, and buttermilk cornbread waffles.”
“Damn, that sounds good.” He straightened and met his father’s gaze across the table. “Sorry I’m late. Dad loaned me out to the Fischers.”
One corner of Jack’s lips twitched in a dry smile, which translated into annoyance with Ethan’s subtle complaint.
He turned into the kitchen, grabbed a hot pad, and pulled his plate from the oven as his father asked, “How’s their pool house coming along?”
“Just fine,” he said, returning to the table. “Definitely not something I needed to look at on a Sunday.”
“Your schedule’s so full. He told me he’d have to wait three weeks for a routine inspection.”
“Jack,” his mother scolded softly. “Ethan deserves a day off, too.”
“He had one. Yesterday.”
Yes, he had, and it had been one of the longest damn days of his life. A day filled with thoughts of Delaney. Of how badly she could hurt him. Of how badly she could hurt his family—again. A day of minutes passing as slowly as hours as his thoughts turned to their night together, to how badly he wanted to feel her touch, her kiss, her body against his. When he shouldn’t have been thinking about her at all.
Ethan shook his head, lifting a drumstick to his mouth. “Forget it, Mom.” He deliberately took the spotlight away from his father in an attempt to actually enjoy his Sunday dinner with the family for a change. “How’s the investment world, Uncle Wayne?”
“Oh, depends.” He put down his fork, picked up his wine, and started talking about some type of stock being compromised by a merger. Ethan’s eyes glazed over within thirty seconds, but the way Wayne went on and on gave Ethan a chance to eat while the others finished off their desserts. “Ethan, you should really look at real estate investment. Finish up that cottage of yours, sell it for a profit, and do something with that cash.”
“I was working on just that when I was called away. See, I’ve got two schedules, Uncle Wayne—my regular schedule and the mayor’s favor schedule.”
“And the best use of Ethan’s time,” Jack cut in, “is putting one hundred percent focus on those schedules. Do you have a demolition contractor lined up for the Hart property? I want them on-site at dawn with a wrecking ball the day their deadline runs out.”
Ethan looked at his mom. “This is amazing.” He traded the chicken bone for his napkin and wiped his hands, then his mouth. “You did something different—I can tell.”
His mother beamed, clasping her hands under her chin. “I didn’t think you’d notice. No one else did.”
“Oh, hell yeah. How could you not notice? It’s got deeper, richer flavor. The spices . . . I don’t know—they’re just perfectly balanced. The coating is crunchy but tender. The meat is juicy.” He picked up another piece. “What’d you do?”
She laughed. Giggled, actually. “You know that Octoberfest that you thought bombed, and I asked you to bring me some because I know you never—”
&n
bsp; “Make a bad beer.” He grinned. “Yes.”
“Well, I was reading about beer pairings and how the Octoberfest had all the perfect elements to balance with fried chicken, so I combined the brine and the buttermilk and added a few bottles of Octoberfest and marinated it overnight.”
He sat back, wiping his mouth again. “No way.”
“Yep.” She leaned her forearms on the table, her eyes twinkling with delight.
She was so proud of herself, and Ethan was touched that using his beer brought her such pleasure. She was the only one in the family who gave a damn about his deepest passion. A passion she used to share with Ethan and Pops before the tragedy split their family. The only one who still asked after Pops’s well-being.
Ethan covered her hand with his. “I want the recipe.”
“You haven’t even started renovating your kitchen,” Austin said. “You can barely cook macaroni and cheese in what you’ve got.”
Ethan didn’t look away from his mom as he batted the air at his ear. “Is there a gnat in here? There’s something whining in my—”
Austin shoved Ethan’s shoulder. Adam laughed.
Ethan cut a look toward his brother, who was usually outfitted in his deputy’s uniform. “Why aren’t you on duty?”
He had that shit-eating grin on his face. “My day off.”
Ethan lifted his hands in a what’s-up-with-that gesture, then turned his gaze on his cousin. “What about you, Adam? The lumberyard ever give you a day off?”
His cousin grinned. “Two days. Every week.”
“Huh.” He challenged his father’s dry expression. “Funny how that works.”
He chanced a glance at Ellen. She’d given up on the patterns and set down her fork. Now she just sat there like a zombie, her arms crossed, staring at nothing.
An old, familiar guilt tore at Ethan’s heart. He couldn’t even imagine having children, let alone losing one, so he couldn’t even begin to conceive the depths of despair Ellen had suffered since Ian’s death.
He looked at Wayne, but his uncle didn’t have an answer to Ethan’s silent question of whether or not his aunt was okay. Instead he brought up the last topic Ethan thought ought to be discussed, considering Ellen’s current state of distress.
