Page 5 of The Misfits of Copper County
The competent hands? Well… I had nothing to say about those since they were admittedly very competent… at building thingsandat driving me absolutely insane.
But since that fucking contract appeared to be legally binding, whether I liked it or not—and Ididn’t—I was still very much…
“Brewer’s client, right?” a voice said.
I turned my head and found an older gentleman in a plaid scarf smiling at me. In his arms, he held a tiny, trembling dog with puffy hair, bulging eyes, and a face that suggested it was just as appalled to see me as I was to see it.
Beneath the arm of my cashmere blend coat, four small, decades-old puncture marks throbbed, reminding me of their presence.
I leaned away. “Delaney,” I said stiffly. “And yes. Technically.”
The dog let out a sharp, high-pitched yip that made my blood curdle as he lunged toward me.
“Admiral Barkington,” the man admonished, tightening his grip. “Hush.” To me, he added, “Don’t be afraid. For the Admiral, barking’s a sign of friendship.”
Affronted, I lifted my chin. “I’m notafraid…”
A fear of dogs—especially small and harmless ones—would be foolish. Everyone knew that.
The creature was one-twentieth my size and had no opposable thumbs.
He hadn’t taken a dozen Intro to Krav Maga classes a few years ago and nailed not only the technique but also the hot instructor.
“…I’m justifiably cautious,” I concluded firmly. “There’s a difference.”
“Of course.” The man beamed. “The Admiral is a very discerning judge of character, too.”
The dog and I shared a dubious look.
“I expect he likes you because you smell like Brewer,” he went on. “The Admiral’s loved Brewer since their first meeting, you know.”
“Figures,” I muttered.
He scratched at the dog’s fluffy head fondly. “You’re Tam Monroe’s brother, aren’t you?” the man went on. “The one who doesn’t play hockey?”
His words were enough to distract me from the small demon he carried.
“The one who’s a journalist,” I corrected.
Anyone who’d come from a family like mine knew there was a difference between being a Monroe followed by an asterisk (the *not-a-hockey-player Monroe) and being something you’d made yourself. Something you were proud of.
“Hey, Delaney!” Hen called, a tease in his voice. “Hurry up, kiddo. I can’t keep waitin’ on ya all day.”
I huffed and stepped around the Admiral in a wide circle with a nod of farewell to his owner.
Hen’s eyes twinkled merrily as I approached. “Bet I know why you’re here. You’re here because you need…”
“A snow shovel,” I said.
“Your vanity,” he finished. Then he cocked his head in dismay. “You don’t have a snow shovel?”
“No, I… wait.” I did a mental one-eighty, forgetting about snow shovels and impending storms, about meddling Coppertians in general and one very large one in particular. “Are you talking about the bathroom vanity I ordered? It came in early?”
Giddy excitement and relief flooded me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed a win today until Hen provided one.
“Yep. Truck dropped it off yesterday,” he confirmed. “I was gonna call Brewer tomorrow to come get it with a couple of those helpers of his. It’s a big ol’ thing.”
“And it arrived in one piece?” I asked. “The cement slab top? The metal bottom with the?—”
