Page 7 of The Misfits of Copper County
Sunday afternoons on my property were sacred—no interruptions, no phone calls, no clients freaking out at me because I refused to paint the gorgeous, original woodwork of their 1932 Arts-and-Crafts bungalow a cheap, overdone,wrongmatte white.
This one day of the week was for relaxing. For grilling half-naked in the freezing cold after a workout, if I wanted to, since no one was around to judge except the lazy dog inside keeping my couch warm.
I knew the fine people of Copper County had been surprised I hadn’t bought a place closer to Copper Lake or to the shops and restaurants of neighboring O’Leary. They’d come up with some wild explanations for my strange behavior, and thanks to my cousin Hayes, who’d lived in town less than a year but had already plugged himself firmly into the gossip matrix, I’d heard them all.
The guys who knew me best assumed this land was an investment and that Ilikedliving in my turquoise-and-white camper… which was accurate.
Some folks thought I’d given away all of my possessions like a modern-day Thoreau, trying to “live deliberately”… which, as Hayes teased, just went to show those folks had never seen my teacup collection.
Others thought I lived out here in consideration of my neighbors so they wouldn’t hear the banging as I renovated the trailer with my own two hands… which made me sound more altruistic than I deserved.
And at least one person—I had to imagine it was Janice Plum since no one else could’ve said it with a straight face—had suggested I might be a time-traveling philanthropist who gave away all my money to support various causes and did historically accurate renovations as an homage to my “actual timeline”… which kinda made me wonder what was in those novels Janice was always reading and whether I needed to check them out myself. You know, for research.
The truth, though, wasn’t that deep: I simply liked being alone.
I liked that I didn’t have to explain or justify myself here.
I liked that my home wasn’t my father’s sprawling, hollow mansion and that every inch of it, however few there were, was mine.
My grandfather used to say that the spaces we inhabit shape us as much as we shape them, and I believed that. So until I was ready to claim a house as my own again—and to have that house claim me—my trailer in the middle of nowhere was the ideal situation.
My phone rang, cutting off my soundtrack and catapulting me out of my peaceful haze.Hayes, the screen said, and I sighed as I let it go to voicemail.
Sunday afternoons were sacred, even from the cousin I loved like a brother. Especially when that cousin had started mentioning my father every time we talked.
Last time, it had been, “Uncle Tony’s been trying to get in touch with you.” The time before that, “My mom says your dad wants to explain about all the business stuff. He didn’t do what they say he did. Can’t you just listen to him?”
Hayes didn’t have all the facts—partly because my dad was a master at playing the victim, partly because Hayes was too young to remember the actual events—but he knew my problems with my dad were about more than his shady business practices. Hayes was trying to play peacemaker, as usual.
But that part of my life was over, and I’d moved on.
An icy breeze blew across the field, sending goose bumps shivering over my bare chest, but fuck it. If I wanted to freeze, it was nobody’s business but mine.
“Something has changed within me,” I sang, flipping another burger with a spatula flick.
But before I could recapture the peace of my musical interlude, I recognized the sound of feet crunching on gravel. I turned to find that a silver Audi had, at some point, parked itself at an odd angle next to my truck, and a man was marching toward me, looking like a specter of doom. And not just any man, of course, but the man guaranteed to disrupt my peace like no one else on Earth.
Delaney Monroe.
My current client, the permanent pain in my ass… and the star of thoughts I shouldnotbe having about someone paying me to renovate their house, though my brain refused to get that memo.
His hands were clenched into fists as he stalked toward me like his feet were spring-loaded. His face was flushed, blue eyes crackling with anger behind those hot glasses he sometimes wore, and his long coat flapped around him in the breeze. His entire five-foot-eight frame vibrated with indignation.
Despite myself, I enjoyed the show. Delaney was never more gorgeous than when he was righteously pissed off. Fortunately (which was to say, really fuckingunfortunately) for me, he seemed to be perpetually pissed off when we were together.
He didn’t slow, and as he got closer, every nerve in my body went on alert—a physical reaction I’d come to associate exclusively with Delaney. It was like my body recognized a coming storm long before it broke—that electric feeling in the air that made the hairs on your arms stand up—only this particular storm was wrapped in a cashmere-blend coat that hugged surprisingly fit shoulders and had a mouth that seemed permanently set in a displeased line I couldn’t stop thinking about softening.
“Brewer,” he called, voice sharp enough to cut through whatever remained of my peaceful afternoon.
I pulled my earbuds free, pocketing them as I responded, “Delaney. Hey. What’s?—?”
“Don’tHey,Delaneyme. You stole my cabinets.” He jabbed a finger into my chest.
I blinked, as stunned by the contact as I was by the accusation. Had Delaney ever touched me before? The way my skin lit up at the touch suggested he hadn’t. Sure as fuck not like this.
I let out an extremely eloquent “Huh?”
“Don’t play innocent.” Another jab landed against my bare chest, and the contact ricocheted through me. “I talked to Hen. Iknowyou canceled my order.”
