Page 36 of Beehives and Broken Heroes

She glanced up at the house that had once been hers, and she suddenly felt nervous herself. She understood now why he might have felt that way. She hadn’t stepped foot in the manor house since her family had sold it. What would it look like now? Was Brandon the kind of guy to redecorate the whole house, or would there be empty rooms throughout? Would it still feel like the place where she’d grown up? Or would it be a foreign land?

Brandon took off his hat and ran a hand through his golden-brown locks. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I know you love this house—”

She grabbed his hand and ignored the tingle of awareness that shot through her at the feel of his fingers in hers. “It’s okay, Brandon. I don’t look at you like you’re some evil villain who came and stole my house. You buying it helped us out more than you could possibly know. And besides, if anyone was going to live here aside from us, I’m glad it’s you.” She swallowed the rush of emotions that came over her at just how true that statement was. She couldn’t think of anyone better than Brandon to have taken the place. And besides, if she was going to be with Brandon, she’d have to get used to it eventually. “I’d love to have lunch with you.”

He took a deep breath and, keeping her hand clasped tightly in his, led her in the back door. They both took their shoes off in the mudroom, then stepped into the back hall behind the grand staircase.

Allie came up short. That rug? Those paintings? That hall table? She slipped her hand from Brandon’s and in a daze followed the hall to the main foyer. It was all there. Every piece of furniture. Every decoration. Everything they’d sold to Bateman and Stalls. Was it warm in here?

“Does this freak you out?” Brandon asked.

She jumped in her skin and faced him. “How . . . how is this possible?”

Brandon rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and stared at the rug—the blue oriental rug her mother had purchased when Allie and Jo had been about ten years old. She sucked in a breath.

“The day I came to pick up my keys, the auction house was carrying your furniture out. I went to Charleston the next day and made a deal with Mrs. Douglas for the whole lot.” He glanced up at her. “You see, I’ve never been one for decorating much, and your furniture was made for this house . . . it just seemed easier.”

She turned right and headed for the living room, her breathing coming in harsh pants. There, right where it had always been, was the couch she’d sat on to prevent the movers from taking it. The arch-back with lovely olive-green fabric was in perfect condition. She’d loved that couch, but the day that the movers had come, it’d been more about all of the furniture than it had been that specific sofa. She’d been a mess watching piece after piece of her father’s work being carted away, never to be seen again.

And now, she was back in her old family home and it was as if that day had never happened. This room, the whole house, was all exactly as it’d been before they’d left. It was as if it’d been set up as a museum in her family’s memory. Her head started to hurt. Was the world spinning?

From somewhere behind her, almost muted and too soft, Brandon spoke. “You’re upset.”

She wanted to turn to him. Wanted to reassure him she was fine. But her head felt light, and her body felt heavy.

He came up beside her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . Allie?”

She backed out of the room, three steps, when something caught her eye by the front door: a hand-crafted coat hanger made by her dad, and hanging on it, where it had always hung, was her dad’s Carhartt jacket. What had her podcast this morning been about? Something about poise under pressure. Well, she was going to fail at it miserably.

“Allie, are you all right?”

When she glanced over at him, his face was the last thing she saw before the world made a violent jerk to the side, and darkness settled about her.

* * *

“I want my pearls back, Allie.” Millie Douglas stood outside the honey shop, and Allie hid back in the office, her back to the door as she listened to the woman bang on the glass front doors. “It’s been months!”

Of course, it’d been months. Allie wasn’t a sleuth, and she didnotwant to talk to her mom about the supposed “affair.” She had no idea how to go about finding that necklace.

Another several bangs. “Allie, I know you’re in there!”

Did it matter? Allie had no intention of opening the door for the woman. She wouldn’t be thinking of her at all, except that when she’d been at Brandon’s and had seen all the old furniture, a thought had popped into her head. An idea about where the pearls might be.

Wait, when had she left Brandon’s?

Her mind was muddled. Had she left Brandon’s? She thought back and tried to remember what’d happened. She’d gone into the house. She’d seen the furniture, and then she’d . . .

Allie woke with a start in a mound of blankets that she flung off as she sat up. She glanced around the living room—not the living room in her apartment at Sticky and Sweet, but the living room of her old home. She blinked several times, willing her muddled brain to clear up. The living room was exactly as it’d been when they’d moved out.

Well . . . almost. She glanced at a small decorative table in the corner and the vase that sat atop it. That vase belonged in the dining room. And those lamps had been in her father’s office. And the blanket she’d kicked off onto the floor? She didn’t recognize it at all.

She swung her legs off the couch and grabbed the blanket. The moment she touched it, the distinct Brandon-y smell of deliciousness invaded her nose: pine and manliness. She shoved her face in it and inhaled deeply. Yummmmmm.

Then she remembered what had happened. She’d fainted. She dropped the blanket and cringed. Brandon had been at her side, she was pretty sure she’d held her breath for some reason, then the world had gone sideways, and . . .

Had he caught her? She put her head in her hands and groaned. Yeah, she was pretty sure he had. And to make it worse, she’d passed out so fast, there wasn’t enough memory there for her to enjoy having been in Brandon’s arms.

Not that he’d carried her far. What was this couch, a few yards from where she’d gone down? Gone down . . . How humiliating. What must Brandon think of her?

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