She shrugged and turned slightly to look at him. “I fell in love.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. He wanted to ask her if she felt the same way about him as he did her but couldn’t bear the rejection.
So many things could’ve been said in that moment, but words failed him. He studied her hard, looking for any sign that she was referring to him but hadn’t a clue what to look for. He could’ve easily leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, but he held back, not willing to tempt fate. Sure, he had dated over the years, but not a single woman held a candle to Brooklyn. Bowie was going to have to shit or get off the pot where she was concerned because he dreaded his future. He didn’t know if he could stand up next to Austin as Brooklyn walked down the aisle. Unfortunately, he would have no choice.
“We should start.” Bowie motioned toward the wall. He placed his hand on top of hers and pushed her finger against the trigger. “Slow and steady wins the race,” he told her as they moved the spray gun back and forth. Brooklyn was a natural and picked up the task easily, leaving him no choice but to start working on the trim. Even though they were on a deadline to finish the house, he spent his day watching her and making excuses to be next to her. To him, she was his sun, and he was going to bask in her warmth until he had to return her to his best friend.
Bowie shook his head. He would have to call and thank his father for hiring Brooklyn after they finished high school. In a way, it was all his fault. If he hadn’t offered her overtime on the weekends, she would’ve never learned how to paint, which she managed to make a very successful career from. Yep, Brooklyn’s return was his father’s fault.
After Monroe had scrolled through, clicking links and gasping at some of the images, she finally sat back with a stunned look on her face. “It seems that Brooklyn has made quite a name for herself,” Bowie said as he locked the screen on his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
“She probably brought a television crew with her. She’s going to turn Cape Harbor into a spectacle.”
“Not that I saw.”
Monroe’s eyes went wide. “You saw her? Where? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bowie wanted to chuckle, but it was hard finding the silver lining in the situation, at least for him. “I saw her at the inn.”
“What were you doing there?”
He leaned back and tried to smile. “Speaking with Carly. She’s hired me to do the construction.”
“Shut the front door.” Her hand clamped down on his wrist. “Bowie, this is amazing. It’s just what you need to expand your business, and after Rachel . . . well, you could use the distraction.”
It was something, but not the distraction he was looking for, and he wasn’t sure amazing was the word he would use. For his crew, this was a good thing. For his mental health, probably not. As far as anyone knew, the only animosity he held against Brooklyn was due to the fact that she had ditched out on everyone after the funeral. No one knew that she had broken his heart and ruined their friendship at the same time.
He wasn’t exactly thrilled to work with Brooklyn, despite her impressive résumé. He should be honored—at least that’s what all the other contractors said in their blurbs on her website. Everyone she worked with loved her, which meant his job should be easy, yet he felt like he was about to go into a gun battle with a knife—a butter knife at that. Knowing he would have to see her and hear her voice every day for months left him feeling like what little hold he had on his life was slipping through his fingers. He wasn’t emotionally strong enough to deal with all of that . . . with her.
As the night wore on, more and more of his friends meandered into the bar. The table he and Monroe sat at now overflowed with people laughing and telling jokes. The mood was light, regardless of how Bowie was feeling.
Toward the end of the night, Graham finally joined them. He brought another round of beers, and everyone clanked their glasses together. “Jason called earlier. He’ll be here for Austin’s celebration,” he said, causing the table to go silent.
“And Brooklyn’s back. It’s like the whole gang is back together for the anniversary,” Roe added solemnly. Graham’s and Bowie’s eyes met across the table. They shared a look. Bowie sensed that Graham knew why he was in such a funk tonight.
“Fifteen years,” someone said with a sigh. The mood quickly turned somber. No one spoke. No one drank. Bowie was too focused on the cheery tabletop to look for the owner of the voice. But whoever had said it was right. This year was a milestone. Every five years the celebration would get bigger. Until when? Bowie wanted to know when they’d stop mourning their friend and start living again, because he felt like he was going through the motions, day in and day out. Everything had changed for them that night fifteen years ago. Dreams and flourishing careers had been put on hold, relationships ended, and people left.