Page 29 of The Misfits of Copper County
In the house where I was staying. While I was out.
Which was none of my business. None….
Except it sure as fuck felt like it was.
I took a step toward the doorway before stopping myself. Did I really want to see whatever the fuck was happening in there?
“I wish you and I could be… friends,” Delaney whispered.
Friends? Was that what they called it?
Something hot and possessive clawed its way up my throat. I had no claim on Delaney—no right to care who he brought home. But the thought of him in there with someone else, in the soft firelight, while I’d been out thinking about him, worrying about him in the storm…
Before I could talk myself out of it, I strode the rest of the way toward the living room, rounding the corner with enough force that I nearly stumbled.
“Delaney—” I began, but whatever I’d been about to say died in my throat.
Because Delaney was sprawled on his stomach in front of the fire, a mostly empty wine bottle on the hearth beside him.
He wore a pair of those damn silky pajama shorts—blue this time, I thought. Fucking blue—which were twenty times hotter when they were stretched across his ass and baring his toned, beautiful legs.
And he definitely wasn’t alone.
CHAPTERFIVE
DELANEY
After Brewer had stormedoff all shower-damp and angry, I’d barely had a chance to recover my equilibrium before my sister showed up.
“I think they’re very… industrial. Very you.” Tam’s voice was carefully neutral as she examined my new cabinets while bouncing baby Tierney against her chest in a baby sling. The darkness outside the kitchen window made it feel much later than it was. Incredibly late. Probably bedtime. “But the important thing is how you feel. Obviously.”
I swiped dust off one of the boxes stacked on the floor tiredly, more for something to do with my hands than because it would make a difference.
My kitchen was a disaster… and not simply because every surface was covered in construction dust, the refrigerator and pantry had been moved to the laundry room two days ago, my trash was mostly takeout boxes, and the space that should have been my sanctuary—where I’d imagined myself preparing elaborate meals while NPR played in the background—was now a chaotic war zone.
“Me? Oh, I love them!” I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “Love them. They’re exactly what I wanted, so how could I not, right?”
As if sensing my lie, one shiny red cabinet door swung open with an ominous creak.
I closed it and gave it a proud little pat.
The second I removed my hand, it swung open again.
I groaned and rubbed a dusty hand over my forehead. “There might still be a few bugs to work out?—”
“Oh my God, you hate them, too, don’t you?” Tam said in a relieved rush. “Thank fuck. I thought I was going to have to get Lawson and Wells on FaceTime so we could stage a sibling intervention. Delaney, what were you thinking?”
From her chest, little Tierney was giving me the same expression her mother was—tiny eyebrows drawn together, rosebud mouth pursed in disapproval. It seemed the Monroe women were united against my decorating choices.
“I—” I began to argue, but Tam gave me a look that was pure no-nonsense sister—the same look she’d given me when I’d tried to convince her I hadn’t taken her sparkly nail polish whilewearingher sparkly nail polish—and I folded. “Fine. I admit it. They’re awful. The red metal manifestation of my poor judgment. And they won’t even sit right on the walls.” I folded my arms over my chest. “But should you really be saying the f-word around my niece? Studies have shown?—”
“Zzzt. Don’t change the subject, Uncle Laney.” Tam rubbed her three-month-old daughter’s back in a soothing motion. “Lucas and I know Tierney’s going to hear curse words anyway, so we’re focusing on teaching her when, where, and how to use them appropriately instead of pretending they don’t exist.” She eyed the cabinets again. “And I can’t think of a more appropriate circumstance than this one, frankly.”
I huffed. “They looked so good in the pictures online. Kind of… industrial loft meets 1950s retro. They were supposed to make me smile every time I looked at them?—”
“Said every homeowner who ended up on Zillow Gone Wild.” Tam crossed to the pizza box I’d propped atop a bunch of paint cans on the dining room table and helped herself to a slice. “I know I live in a Colonial in the suburbs, but I want my whole house to look like a dingy ’70s cabaret! I’ll smile every time I see the stripper pole in the corner and the leopard-shag carpet running up the wall!”
Against my will, I snorted. “Seriously, though, shouldn’t my house reflect… well, me?”
