by Darcy Burke
“Well, that’s probably true.” Mom made some sort of noise away from the phone—it sounded like she was talking to one of her two dogs. “At least he’s dating someone,” she said with a hint of accusation that was impossible to ignore.
Maggie stuck her key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. “Hey, you’re the one who encouraged me to put myself and my goals first. That’s what I’m doing.”
“And I will always encourage you to do that. But I know you, dear. Better than you know yourself.” Nothing she said grated Maggie’s nerves more than that. “You need someone in your life. Someone you can take care of.” Because then maybe you’ll take better care of yourself. The words, spoken so many times before, hung on the phone line between them.
“Mom, can I call you later? I was just getting into my car, and I need to get to an appointment.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean to keep you. I always forget to ask if it’s a good time to talk. Just cut me off in the future, will you?”
Hadn’t she just done that? “I’ll try. Talk to you later.”
Maggie ended the call and started her car. She didn’t really have an appointment—it was Wednesday, and she didn’t see patients on Wednesdays. She did have some work she could do, but instead of driving to the clinic or home to work in her office, she found herself at the local nursery.
Twenty-five bucks and two flats of premium annuals later, she went home and did the only thing that would absolutely soothe her—she got herself nice and dirty.
Chapter Two
KYLE PULLED INTO the large dirt lot that served as the parking area of The Alex. He still smiled when he thought of Sara coming up with the idea to name their brother’s dying wish after him. It only made sense.
The hundred-plus-year-old monastery rose in front of him, its church spire stretching two hundred feet into the vivid blue summer sky. The sounds of construction came from the west end of the property. A dirt lane led to what had once been a small house occupied by the head monk or whoever had been in charge at the monastery before it had been abandoned twenty-odd years ago. Phase one of the project Alex had conceived—renovating the property into a premier hotel and event destination—was underway. It would be the newest space and the first of its kind under the Archer name, which included nine brewpubs across the northern valley and into Portland.
Alex had purchased the property using the trust fund left to each of them by their grandfather, then set up a trust for each sibling to inherit an equal share of the project. He’d planned for everyone to participate in the renovation, assigning key roles to every sibling. And he’d made his attorney, Aubrey Tallinger, the trustee.
She’d endured copious amounts of anger and blame immediately following Alex’s suicide, because to all of them, it had seemed unlikely that she’d established the trust without knowing what Alex had planned. But she insisted she hadn’t known, that Alex had told her he was simply preparing in the event that he died young, something he’d convinced her was likely with his chronic lung disease.
However, things hadn’t quite worked out the way Alex had envisioned. Not everyone had been eager to return to Ribbon Ridge, least of all Kyle. He’d declined to come at first, as had Liam and Evan, but Kyle had come home a few months later. Alex’s project had given him a purpose, but it wasn’t the sole reason he’d fled Florida.
A sharp prick of regret pierced his chest. He shook the discomfort away. He’d fucked up. A lot. And he was trying to fix it. He owed it to Alex.
While Alex had been tethered at home with his oxygen tank and debilitating illness, the rest of them had gone off and pursued their dreams. Well, all but Hayden. As the youngest, he’d sort of gotten stuck staying in Ribbon Ridge and working for the family company. His participation in the project should’ve been a given, but then his dream had finally knocked down his door, and he was currently in France for a yearlong internship at a winery.
Kyle stepped out of Hayden’s black Honda Pilot. He’d completely taken over his brother’s life while Hayden was off making wine—his car, his job, his house. Too bad Kyle couldn’t also borrow the respect and appreciation Hayden received.
He slammed the car door. It wasn’t going to be that easy, and he didn’t deserve it to be. He should be driving his own goddamned car, but he’d had to sell it before leaving Florida so the same shit that had driven him from Ribbon Ridge wouldn’t also drive him from Miami.
But hadn’t it? No. Things hadn’t gotten as bad as they had four years ago. No one had bailed his ass out this time. He’d learned. He wasn’t the same man.
His sister Tori stepped out of the trailer that served as the site office. She slid a pair of dark glasses on and fidgeted with her long, straight hair, now sporting some light streaks. He swore she changed something about her hair color every couple of weeks.
“Hey, sis,” he said, striding over to her.
“Hey. Did we have a meeting?” She looked up at him, though he couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses.
“No.” And it wasn’t like her to even ask a question like that. She was the most organized, the most managerial, the most anal of all of them. “Just here checking on the progress. What’s up with the cabinetry?”
The wrong color had been delivered a few days prior. Kyle had almost felt sorry for the sales rep when not one, but two Archer women ripped him a new one. After Tori had chewed him out, Sara had called him back and demanded a discount for the fuckup. Reticent in their youth, Sara had blossomed into a capable and formidable force of nature. Kyle couldn’t have been prouder of his youngest sister.
“They’re delivering the right color on Monday. Dylan also worked a deal to get the cabinetry for the restaurant at a reduced rate.”
Even the contractor had taken a piece out of them? Now Kyle did feel sorry for the cabinet guy. Dylan was ex-military and could be a total hard-ass. He was also Sara’s boyfriend, and he was as committed to this project as the rest of them. Maybe even more, since he’d worked his butt off to land the entire construction project.
“What does that do to the schedule?” Kyle asked. The renovation of the house into a midsized entertainment space was being managed by Sara, who was an event planner, and was due to be finished by early August. They had to make the date because Derek and Chloe were getting married here.
“Dylan says he’s working around it. It’s going to be tight, but we knew it would be.”
“I’ll offer to help out again this weekend.” Kyle had worked onsite with Dylan and his crew the past couple of Saturdays. He’d become quite accomplished at grouting tile.
Tori offered a rare but fleeting smile. “Careful, or you’ll make yourself indispensable, and when you run back to Florida, everyone will be even more pissed than last time.”
He knew she was kidding. Wasn’t she? She and Sara had gone easier on him since he and Sara had patched things up last month. Of all his siblings, he shared the closest bond with Sara, and his leaving four years ago had impacted her the most. He’d apologized but still hadn’t come completely clean about why he’d left. And he wasn’t sure he ever would. There was only so much disappointment one could endure.
He decided to ignore the comment altogether. “Are your latest restaurant drawings in the trailer?”
She nodded. “I’m ready to submit them for permits if you are.”
“I think so.” He’d been over them a million times, ensuring everything was perfect, but he was petrified he was missing something. Seems like if you heard that you were a screw-up enough times, you began to believe it. “I’ll let you know later if I have any final changes.”
“Okay,” she said, a tinge of admonishment in her voice, “but don’t add any more refrigerators or stoves or anything. I’ll have to redraw the entire power grid.”
He grinned, knowing he’d made some changes that had likely driven her nuts. “Gotcha, sis.”
“Does that mean I’ll see you for dinner tonight?”
Kyle often went and cooked dinner for
Tori at the Archer family house, which is where she stayed when she was in town. Sara and Dylan joined them from time to time, and it was always a fun evening. “Will Dad be there?” Kyle had been avoiding him since their confrontation the other day.
“Probably. Why does it matter? You’ve come and cooked for him before.” Tori slid her purse strap over her shoulder. “You should talk to him.”
He should. And he would. When he had something good to say—when he could tell Dad who had supplied Alex with the drugs. Then maybe Dad could move on. Or grieve. Or whatever he needed to do. “It’s not just me, you know.”
“I do. Alex’s death devastated him. I think he’s even worse off than Mom was—not that you were here for that.”
He glared at her. “Thanks for the dig. At least I came home later, which is more than I can say for some of our siblings.”
“Sorry.” But the flash in her gaze said she wasn’t really. “It was a really shitty time.”
“I know, and if I could go back, I would’ve stayed.” Would he have? Yes, and not just because it would’ve avoided the problems he’d spiraled into in Miami.
She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. Her blue-green eyes, the same color as his, clouded with concern. “I want to believe that, Kyle, but it’s so hard when there seems to be this thing . . . I don’t know. I just don’t understand why you disappeared like that, why you rarely came home. It’s like you just forgot you had a family for four years.”
“I didn’t forget. Why is it that Liam can leave Ribbon Ridge without anyone accusing him of turning his back on the family? For that matter, why can you?” She lived in San Francisco and was only here temporarily for the renovation.
She pursed her lips. “You know it’s not the same.”
“That’s right. The rules aren’t the same for everyone in this family, and I’m tired of it. No, I won’t see you for dinner.” He stalked off toward the job site without looking back at her. The sound of her car firing up and pulling out of the lot drained the tension from his shoulder blades.
This was why he hadn’t come home sooner. He couldn’t stand the scrutiny, the meddling. Growing up, people always commented on how great it must be to live in such a big, loving family. In reality, it was a major pain in the ass.
After talking with Dylan and arranging to help out on Saturday, he went to the trailer and reviewed the drawings. Still annoyed by his conversation with Tori, he decided to take the drawings and leave before she got back from lunch.
His mind went back to Dad and trying to find a way to demonstrate that he was worthy of respect and trust and . . . love. Kyle was doing his best at Archer and here on The Alex. Add that to discovering the identity of Alex’s drug dealer, and Dad would see how much Kyle had changed, that he could be proud of him.
Kyle turned the Bluetooth on in the car and dialed the number of Maggie Trent’s office. The ultra-mellow receptionist dude answered, “Mental Health Services.”
Christ, that guy’s voice would sedate a sleepwalker.
“Yeah, hi. May I speak with Dr. Trent?” Kyle looked at the clock—it was 1:23. He knew from scheduling his appointment that her lunch ran from twelve thirty to two. Hopefully she was in the office. “She should be free right now,” he added, in case the guy wanted to send him to voicemail.
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Cal Drogo.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drogo. Hold on, please.”
Kyle fought the urge to take a nap as a result of the receptionist’s droning voice and the hypnotic lute hold music.
“Mr. Drogo?”
Kyle couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think that was Maggie Trent’s sultry voice.
Sultry? What the hell?
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Trent’s assistant, Stacy. Listen, I know who you are, Mr. Archer. She asked me to tell you that she doesn’t have any information for you and wishes you luck in your endeavor.”
“I need to speak with her, please.”
“No, you don’t.”
The annoyance he’d felt toward his sister earlier came back with a vengeance. “Actually I do.”
“She’s not coming to the phone, okay? Sorry, but have a nice day.”
Click.
He growled in frustration as he redialed the number.
Again, Monotone Man answered. This time, Kyle altered his voice, pitching it lower. “Hello, my name is Ned Stark. Dr. Trent is expecting my call at one thirty.” Kyle glanced at the clock. Close enough. “She told me to ask you to put me straight through to her office.”
“Will do.”
More fucking lute music. This time with a dash of sitar thrown in. Awesome.
Coming off the hill on which the monastery was perched, he pulled onto the main road that went through Ribbon Ridge and, after a few blocks, turned right toward Archer Enterprises.
“Ned Stark? Really?” The assistant’s voice again. “You do realize I watch Game of Thrones? That I said as much the other day?”
Of course he knew that. “I wasn’t expecting to have to talk to you again.”
“Clearly. Your attempt to get straight to Dr. Trent, while amusing, was a complete fail. Do yourself a favor and think twice before calling back as Jon Snow.”
She hung up again.
Goddamn it.
Kyle gave up trying to get the woman on the phone. What the hell was her problem? He’d been clear about wanting—no, needing—her help. She’d spent hours and hours with his brother. She might know something about where Alex had gotten his drugs. Something she didn’t even realize was something.
Why wouldn’t she help him? Kyle had the impression she’d held Alex in high regard. Her reaction had been that of someone who’d cared about Alex, but then she likely cared for all of her patients. Enough to close up her practice in Ribbon Ridge and start over someplace else? No. There had to be something more going on. Her dark eyes had been full of emotion—anxiety, concern, trepidation—and he meant to find out why.
He had a vague idea of her overall schedule from when he’d set his appointment. Monotone Man had asked him if he’d needed an evening appointment, which was available on Thursdays. Today was Thursday, and her last appointment would be over at eight o’clock.
Gripping his steering wheel with grim determination, he made plans to be there waiting for her.
MAGGIE LOCKED THE main door of the office and took the elevator down to the lobby. It was almost dark outside, but the remnants of the sun cast a pale glow on the partially cloudy sky. The automatic doors slid open, and she stepped into the summer night, inhaling the scent of grass and juniper.
She turned to the right, toward her car, and jumped as a figure moved into her path from the shadow of the building.
She shrieked and threw her purse and keys, the former landing at her feet and the latter ending up who-knew-where.
Kyle Archer’s face came into the light of the parking lot lamp. His expression was one of surprise, which really pissed her off, as he’d been the one to scare her.
“God, you’re an asshole!” she yelled, her hands shaking and her stomach twisting in knots. Mark had done this to her four or five times before she’d gone to get the restraining order. He’d wait for her to leave the library or finish up her intern shift at the hospital, then jump out at her from the shadows in an effort to convince her that he loved her and she should come back to him. Except sane men didn’t menace the women they loved or make them feel unsafe.
“Let me get that.” Kyle bent and tried to retrieve her purse.
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch it. Just leave me alone.”
“Hey, I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely concerned.
She glanced at him and saw that he also looked genuinely concerned.
“I didn’t mean to spook you. I just wanted to talk. Lurking in the dark was maybe not my best move. I’ve been waiting like forty minutes, so I sat over there.” He gestured to a bench tucked against the side of the building
, completely out of range of the light. Perfect place for a stalker to lie in wait.
“I need to point that out to security,” she muttered, picking up her purse and slinging it over her shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re lucky I didn’t bring my laptop tonight. If I’d dropped that and it had broken, you’d be buying me a new one.”
“I absolutely would. Is there a chance you broke anything in your purse that I ought to replace? A tube of lipstick perhaps? Or a bottle of hand sanitizer?”
She looked at him quizzically, not sure what to make of his questions. “Aren’t those usually plastic?”
“Plastic can break.” His eyes narrowed slightly again—with concern, like before. “Are you sure you’re all right? I feel really terrible about scaring you.”
“I’m fine.” Her hands were still a little quivery, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
He gave her a long, assessing look. “Okay. So can I buy you a drink or something?”
“Hell no!” He had the nerve to ask her out after scaring the shit out of her?
His eyes narrowed once more, but this time with some other emotion. Irritation maybe. “Not on a date or anything . . . social. I want to talk to you about my brother. I told you I wanted your help.”
“And I told you—via Stacy—that I have nothing to tell you.”
“Maybe you think that, but if you could just spend fifteen minutes answering some questions. We can sit in your car, if you like.”
Like she’d invite him into her car as if they were on some teenage make-out date? She envisioned sitting in the backseat with him, the windows steamed, their lips locked, his hand creeping up her thigh . . .
