Last: A Copperslane Romance Novel

by Garnet Christie

  “Then it’s not a steak.” His thigh brushes against me, indecently, striking up the dirtiest parts of my imagination while he forces me aside. “Let me handle this. Make something else. Where are your pans?”

  There’s zero room for objections, and frankly, he seems more fit for the job than me. I point to a cabinet near the stove. I’m forced to have confidence in his skills while he fishes out a cast-iron skillet from a cabinet and fires up the stove. There are ready-made sides in my fridge raring to go, so I focus on dessert.

  Brownies, to be exact. I’m fishing out flour, cocoa powder, butter, sugar. All the fixings for a proper, chewy brownie. I’ve just finished stirring a pinch of salt in my chocolate mixture when Brett speaks over the hissing and fizzle of the stove.

  “You make them the way Connie made them.”

  I tilt my head, continuing to mix my batter. “Connie?”

  “Yeah.” He clicks the tongs in his hand and leans his butt against the lip of my counter. “Saber’s mom.” His gaze flits away when he says it, a coldness slamming down in his gaze. “One of my guardians.”

  I can’t breathe. Guardians . . . My gut leaps up into my neck. Did his parents . . . ? It’s like he’s thinking my thoughts as he continues.

  “You guessed right that night at the lounge.” He folds his arms across his chest, his lips pulled into a grim line. “Both of my parents died when I was young.”

  Guilt ruptures down my spine, flowing into my limbs. I end up clenching the whisk till my knuckles whiten. The words he uttered that night strike like a hammer.

  “You cut deep when you want, kitten.”

  More remorse compounds, snuffing out the air in my lungs when I think of the sad look on his face that night. My heart jumps to life when I notice he’s looking at me, a strange, half-cocked grin on his face.

  “Don’t look so horrified, Bianca. It happened when I was young.” He turns his attention to the steaks, flipping one on its side, dousing it in butter, pressing it hard to the pan till it browns.

  It sounds like Brett doesn’t want me to be dramatic about it, and that’s what I’ll do. Diverting my attention back to the white ceramic bowl, I stir away, trying to keep my voice easy yet serious—because there’s no way I’m letting this go. He’s just dropped a bombshell of info.

  “Do other people here know?”

  He scoffs. “Please. Hardly a topic to bring up at casual dinners.” Metal tongs scrape against dark iron as he flips the other steak. “I usually don’t talk about it.”

  “Mmm.” A weak nod lifts my head and flattery swells inside. There’s a notification dinging in my brain—one of me learning that he’s telling me something he doesn’t share with a lot of people. I scrape down one side of the bowl, still keeping my head down. “So your time with your guardians . . . was it good?”

  “Ha. No.” A hard edge slices through his voice.

  “That’s why you don’t talk about it.” I sense him turn around to face me but I don’t look up. “If it was a good experience, you wouldn’t mind talking about it.”

  He grunts, but it’s soft and low. “I guess you’re right.”

  The dark brown batter swirls in the bowl, and I pause, staring at the mixture. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to eat something that dug up the past. I frown. “If this reminds you of her, should I not make it?”

  “Oh, she was fine. An angel, actually.” He shuts off the burner, flings open the oven door, and puts the cast-iron skillet inside. After he does that, he snorts, giving me all his attention. “It was him.”

  “The dad?”

  His eyes roll. “He was no dad.” The counter is quick, razor sharp, and there are heaps of bitterness mingling in the way it’s spoken, hurt too. Loads of it swirls in his blackened gaze. I think he’s trying to shut it out, to still be the badass he shows to the world, but here, with us all alone, I see the rawness bundled up inside him. I feel it.

  The tops of my shoulders tighten and while I want to apologize and tell him I’m sorry that I was right about him having a shitty life, nothing comes out. All I muster is a weak swallow and probably a sad smile.

  My knees weaken when he combs me over. It’s slow, and the further he gets up my body, the more he shuffles toward me. When he reaches my eyes, he’s standing over me, and I’m not sure he’s breathing. I know I’m not.

  He diverts his attention to the tattoos on his right arm, coasting over the A and C initial with his finger. “I got these because of him. They’re my parents’ initials. Alison and Carson.”

  I tilt my head, fighting the urge to nestle closer to him, drowning in his heat and smell. Observing the markings, I’m a little lost at his meaning. “Because it helped to remind you what you’ve been through? Or . . . ?”

  “To hide the scars.” Peeling back more of his shirt sleeve, he puts his arm closer to my face. “It’s hard to see them now since they’re so old, but look close.” One finger tracks in the middle of the swooping A.

  At first, there’s nothing. Then he flexes his forearm and twists it. I catch a glimmer of old silver and uneven grooves flowing under the ink—and like a veil’s been lifted, I follow it up and down his whole arm. There are lots of scars. Lots, tattering his smooth skin until it looks like a roadmap.

  My heart falls to the floor. Clenching my fingers into my palm, I notice my teeth are gritted. “What happened?”

  “Field work.” He draws out the first word, hard and angry. Dropping his arm, he sighs and rests his hip against my counter top. “Saber’s dad owned some land.” He huffs through his nose. “He owned a lot of things, but there was a ranching field in particular that he would graze cattle on at times. It was my tenth birthday, and I’d lived with them for a while at this point.” Shifting on his feet, he looks at the floor. “So he drops me off in the middle of a field I’d never seen, out in the middle of nowhere and said there was some fencing work being done. He gave me half a canteen of water and half a sandwich. He said the guys were working on the south side and all I had to do was walk there, help out, and that they’d give me a ride home.”

  He pauses, and his brows furrow. Meanwhile, my stomach picks itself off the floor and finds its way in my throat.

  When he stays silent longer than I like, I finally release the whisk and dare to prod him on. “And?” I barely hear myself.

  His jaw tightens. “There was no one in the field and he didn’t come back. I was out there for three days.”

  No. My pulse flatlines. No one is that barbaric, to just leave someone—a child—alone to die. But I believe him, and the longer he talks, the more my heart sways toward him.

  “He didn’t even find me. Someone else on the property line did and rushed me to the emergency room.” His usually broad shoulders deflate. “I had sunstroke, blistered skin, was dehydrated, and my arm was tangled in barbed wire. I thought it was a door, but I guess I passed out and fell in it.” His throat bobs with a hard swallow while bringing his hand to the arm in question. “I almost lost it, but the doctors were able to save it. After years of therapy, I could use it again. And that’s why you’ll never see me in a jacket. I fucking hate the heat. I chase cool climates because of it.”

  Damn. I take a much-needed gulp of air. All my preconceived notions of him being a natural-born badass fade away and I’m thinking the Brett standing in front of me has earned and fought for every scrap he has.

  I rub up and down my arm, hoping it comforts the sickness ravaging my body. “So, what happened after that? Did you get taken away?”

  “Hardly.” He rubs at the nape of his neck. “He showed up and said I got lost hiking. His name alone cleared him of any suspicion.”

  “That’s disgusting.” My face heats.

  “It is.” He nods, pressing his lips together in a grim line. “Thankfully, Connie stepped in after that. She sent me and Saber to a boarding school. Bless her.” A gentle smile causes his eyes to glow. “I think we would have died without her. Sadly, she passed away last year.” The soft glow
snuffs out and he pulls his posture up high and tall. “He’s why I’m here.”

  “Mr. DuBois?” My brows furrow when he nods. “I’ve never heard his name before. He doesn’t live here, does he?”

  “No.” He backs away and ducks his tall frame to peek into the oven. “But he used to. It was way before my parents died, or before they knew him and Connie. They didn’t meet him until after he’d left this town. However, he did live here and controlled half the damn city.”

  “So he’s coming back?” I fold my batter into a square pan, preparing it for baking.

  “In a way.” Leaning against the stove, he props one leg over the other. “I caught wind he wants to buy a house north of town. It was passed down through the family, but they sold it suddenly one summer and moved away. He’s been talking about that house for years. Growing up, all I heard was how he regretted selling it.” A brow raises. “He wants to try to buy it to maintain the house and preserve the family name. I’m not going to let that happen.” A smirk pulls up his mouth. “I’m going to buy it before he can. Maybe tear it down. Hell, even burn it. Either way, I can’t wait for him to find out I’m the one who took it away from him. That’s the land Monica’s husband owns. That’s the land I need.”

  Wow. Words fly away for a beat, and I’m not able to speak. When I finally do, it’s one word. One I understand and know well, one that works down to my marrow. “Revenge.” I shake my head in awe, understanding hitting me like lightning in a bottle.

  His fingers tighten around the oven handle. “You probably think that’s disgusting, don’t you?”

  “Not at all.” Pressing a hand to my mouth, I allow the realization to settle in my sternum—the one that Brett and I aren’t so different after all. I laugh while confessing the truth. “My whole career as a writer is based on revenge.”

  “Really.” The smirk grows, climbing up in his eyes. I think he’s impressed.

  I nod. “Junior year in high school, Mom committed suicide because my dad was a drunk.”

  A frown steals the smart look away. “Well, that fucking sucks.”

  Something about the way he addresses it lessens the lump in my throat. He doesn’t offer sympathy and soft coddles. Brett identifies it for what it was in his cut and dry way. The frankness tamps down the usual grief that tends to hit.

  I continue, smoothing down the top of my brownies. “For a long time, I didn’t realize how much Dad manipulated her. The reality that he caused her death happened once I’d broken away and went off to college.”

  “What did you originally study?”

  “Law, and I hated it.” Rolling my eyes, I finish working on dessert. “Dad always wanted me to go to law school. He said I was gifted for it. I excelled in debate classes in high school. Plus that’s what Dad was. He wanted me to follow in his steps.”

  “Interesting.” He tilts his head, amusement dancing in his observant gaze. “So tell me how a law student becomes a novelist?”

  “I took a creative writing class and felt liberated from Dad’s expectations.” I turn to face him. Air tangles up in my lungs as I catch sight of the gentle look swimming in his eyes. It’s totally disarming, forcing me to make a nervous shuffle on the balls of my feet. Clearing my throat, I look away. “Turns out my professors said I was gifted at it too. It came way easier than studying law.” Thinking of Dad, I shake my head, smoothing back a flyaway hair. “Discovering something on my own made me realize that Mom never had a chance to delve into things that interested her. Dad always stripped her joy away. I decided I wasn’t going to live my life like that, so I dropped all my law classes. The happiest day of my life was returning home for Christmas break and telling him I’d changed all my classes.”

  “Was he mad?” His brow arches.

  “Livid.” I nod.

  He tilts his head and smirks.

  Satisfaction zings across my chest, serving as a reminder that I made the right choice all those years back. “I did it out of spite, and I don’t regret it. Disappointing my dad is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.” Lifting my head, I look up and almost smile, something akin to a band-aid soothing over years of embedded pain as I connect with someone who finally gets it. “You won’t hear any sermons from me. I know exactly what it’s like to be fueled by someone you hate.”

  A gentle grin pulls at his mouth and a glow simmers in his eyes. “Well, what do you know about that?” He taps a long finger on the handle of my oven door and chuckles low. “Turns out we have more in common than we thought.”

  A cleansing swallow washes down my throat—one that takes dislike and hatred with it, casting it away to a dark place. Locking eyes with him has never been easier. Same goes for smiling. It’s warm and sincere, unleashing a lightness in me I haven’t had in years. I nod, accepting what feels like a silent olive branch of peace.

  Not so different after all.

  And we’re not.

  We cook and eat our steak dinner in peace, getting acquainted like normal, mature human beings, shocked when we discover we like the same foods, music, movies, and have almost the same travel bucket list.

  By the time he’s leaving for the night, my palms are clammy—from nervous attraction. All the layers of disdain that have been peeled back tonight allow me to feel the pent-up magnetism.

  I’m shifting from side to side as he faces me from the front door.

  “Good night, Bianca.”

  I grant him a stiff nod. “Night. Uhhh . . .” My nails dig into my palm, still not sure how to act. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “No problem.” He says it softer than what I’m used to, and I want to choke on my own air. “Good luck finding a new car.” His voice darkens. “And I meant what I said. If anyone offers to repair that thing, I’ll smash their face into the hood. Don’t get ripped off.”

  My throat tightens. “I promise to get a new car.” The answer squeezes out of me as I fight not to twist my shoulders around at his intense stare.

  “Good girl.”

  Damn. The heat in his voice zings up my spine. I push away a dirty thought about him—one of him whispering those words in my ear. I tug at my earlobe, hoping to hide the redness I’m sure that’s showing in them.

  “Thanks again.” He turns his frame to leave, then stops, and there’s something boyish winding in his features. His eyes flick to the ground and his mouth lightly presses up. “Hey, uh, maybe we could do this again sometime.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah. You know, like me come over and eat and we repeat this.” He smirks. “That’s what ‘again’ means.”

  My face deadpans. “I know what the word means.”

  “Didn’t seem like it.” The smirk stays affixed and I want to slap it off his face.

  “Damn, you’re annoying.”

  He widens his stance, staring down. “Same goes for you, little one.”

  “Don’t call me that.” I muffle back a grunt, irritation simmering at the base of my gut.

  “I’ll call you whatever I want.” He winks, making sure any insult that could be attached to it washes away.

  My cheeks flare. “Brett—”

  “Night.” He leaves, shutting the door firmly enough so my windows rattle. And while I want to be upset, the deep chuckle that I hear on the other side has me laughing too.

  After his engine purrs away from the house and down the block, I stare at the door and sigh.

  Yeah. Not so different. And right now, I’m convinced I find him a little endearing. I just don’t want to tell him that yet.

  Yet.

  Chapter 16

  Standing on my tiptoes proves to be an insufficient way to reach the top shelf at the Nifty Dime grocery store. There’s one remaining bag of my favorite popcorn flavor that I’m trying to snag, and of course it’s the one that goes the quickest. Seems like I have the same taste as everyone else in this town.

  Securing my foot on a lower shelf, I’m about to stand on it to get a better reach.

  That is
, until a large hand reaches above me and plucks up the bag.

  “Excuse me—” I stop, and my fingers press into the shelf when I notice the swirling A tattoo accompanied by a clean, just-got-out-of-the-shower scent.

  It’s Brett, and his low voice raises a drove of goosebumps on my skin. “Needing this?” He hovers it down, dancing it in my face. “Or should I take it, eat it all, and then tell you how amazing it tasted afterwards?”

  I spin around on my heel, nearly brushing against him. My toes curl in my shoes at the hot and smug smirk plastered on his face. “You would do that.” Somehow I keep my voice steady, despite the quiver attempting to lie in it.

  “I would.” He hands off the bag. “But not to you.”

  I smile when his words hit.

  It’s been a week since he last helped me, and to say I’ve done a one-eighty toward this man would be the understatement of my life. I’ll never admit it to anyone, but after he left my house, I found myself lonely, almost wondering if I should ask him over again. I haven’t, of course, because that would be stupid on my part. Hope sparks too quickly and imaginations are wistful, slipping all too fast into the slippery pit of expecting things to last—whether that be amazing sex or something more. I’d hate for Brett to join the collection in my pile of disappointment.

  However, our peace is nice. After our rough ride, it’s relaxing to not exchange sneers from across the room.

  My fingers curl around the packaging, and I tug it toward my chest. “Oh.” I smile some. “How chivalrous of you.” Eyeing my cart to the left, I make a sideways scoot. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I didn’t say you could leave.” Propping his hand on the lip of the shelf, he cuts off my exit. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Damn. He’s hot when his alpha comes out to play. Even if it’s not intentional, I love his domineering ways. Always have. It makes me wonder how rough he is in bed. Damn it. Window shopping. But my body says otherwise as my stomach squeezes together. I hope a blush doesn’t rise in my cheeks. “Did you need anything else?” Cold metal presses into my spine as I lean into the shelving.