Page 40 of Over & Out

“Well, his manager—Mabel, sweet thing—she hired a lawyer, got everything taken down. But you know what they say, things live forever on the World Wide Web.”

I’d smile at how she references the internet, but there’s nothing to smile about after what she’s just told me. I send up a silent thank-you that socials weren’t really a thing when my dad passed. The thought of finding out you’ve lost your person online makes me physically ill. Not that the neighbor waking me up sobbing in the middle of the night was super great, either.

“Of course,” Margaret continues, “that was a few years back. But we figure it was the anniversary of her passing that came up two months ago that threw that boy for a loop. He didn’t say as much, but he did tell us later they were like peas in a pod, so we put it together.” She presses a hand against her chest. “He did a bad thing, no doubt. But when he woke up the morning after he broke down, you know what the first thing he did was?”

A few weeks ago, I would have guessed he called Tru. Or one of his people to deal with it. But now I’m not so sure. I shake my head. “I don’t.”

“He sought us out. Came to us directly, himself, hat in hand, and told us exactly what he did. Then he paid us. But he didn’t just dump cash on us and leave us to hire contractors and what-not. He wrote a check for the equivalent of the rate of that room for six months,including our holiday rates. Those are double, you know. Then he asked us to think about everything we ever wanted with this place. We entertained him, because gosh, when a man like Hopper asks you for something, you jump, you know? We put everything on there. Things we knew would never get done. It was a darned laundry list. And you know what he did? He took that list and turned it into a plan. He organized it all—with our consultation, of course—and here it is, getting done!”

She beams as a worker in a visi-vest passes us by, nodding.

“He didn’t do it all himself,” I say.

“Oh he did! At first, anyway. We had meetings several times a week for a month. On the computer, of course. He vetted all the local contractors, then got us the best contracting company money could buy. The ones who do all the fancy houses in town.” She sighs almost dreamily. “Getting that room knocked around a bit was the best thing that ever happened to us. And not just because we’re getting the place redone. It’s because we get to know a man like Hopper Donnach. He reaffirmed our faith in humanity.”

For a moment, I can’t think of a single thing to say. I couldn’t help being swept up by this story. But then I give my head a shake. She’s starstruck, that’s all. Exaggerating. Remembering with rose-colored glasses on. I’m impressed, for sure, that Hopper went above and beyond in repairing the damage. But she’s talking about him like he’s some kind of saint. There must be some kind of angle he’s working by doingsomuch with this place he could have just walked away from. The good publicity, maybe?It’s a PR stunt, surely. But during my internet stalking last night, I didn’t read anything about him doing all this. Only the original incident itself, where commenters called him a spoiled, entitled asshole.

Words I’ve used myself.

“Anyway, I just think the world of him,” Margaret says, “and Al does too. He doesn’t tell us much, so you telling us he’s doing well—it means the world to us.”

“Bangles!” a voice calls from inside.

I keep myself from rolling my eyes for Margaret’s sake.

“I have to go,” I tell her. “But thank you for telling me about what happened.”

“He made us promise we wouldn’t talk about it to the papers, but we tell everyone we know what he’s done. The papers aren’t right about him!”

I give her a smile and head into the room, feeling like there’s something important I’m missing—something just out of reach.

When I step inside, I smash into Hopper. Like, quite literally run directly into a wall of man.

“Hey!” he says, gripping my shoulders to keep me from falling.

I’m mortified at the memory of the woman outside needing his help only a few minutes earlier. But Hopper’s expression is not unfazed like it was with her. He looks worried.

“Oh,” I say.Oh?

Hopper’s hands sear the flesh of my upper arms. But worse, my breasts are crammed right up against that warm-marble chest, sending a dangerous bolt of heatstraight through me. Okay, so this is not like the woman outside, who he held at arm’s length, and released as soon as she was steady again. I force myself to take a breath so I can think straight. Because I’m a lot closer, and he hasn’t let me go. I should probably be backing up. Except when I do let out a breath and breathe in again, I inhale a deeply familiar scent that nearly makes me let out a melting sigh. He’s been using this sage and eucalyptus soap I love, made by a local artisan. I’m actually obsessed with it. I sniff it every time I come across it in the store, though I’ve never bought it because I can’t justify a twenty-five-dollar bar of soap. But Lord. On Hopper? I feel like I’m gliding on horseback through a magical forest.

But it’s not just the soap, is it? It’s the soap onhim.

“Everything okay, Chris?” Hopper asks, brow furrowed.

I look down to see I’ve bunched his shirt in my hands. My heart flutters, and for a moment, all I see is the Duke.

All I hear is a voice calling me sweetheart.

My crushes are melding together. Into this man I hate. Because I hate my boss, right?Right?

“Yes,” I say, though it takes me a minute to let go of him and take a step back. “Yes, totally fine.”

“I was just coming out to get you. Was Margaret talking your ear off?”

I swallow, my throat still sandpaper-dry. Even though I’m not pressed up against him anymore, we’re still standing too close, just outside the door. He’s examining me, his brows still knitted together. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Hopper looks genuinely and increasingly concerned. I stand there, unable to move.

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