Brystol finally glanced up and waved at Bowie. He’d use this as a chance to ask about her mom; he walked over to her with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. Brooklyn had called him out for asking Brystol too many questions, and yet there he was again, about to do the same thing. “Your mom home?”
She shook her head. “I think she’s still with Nonnie. Simi’s home if you need something.”
He didn’t. He merely wanted to see Brooklyn, to know that she was okay. “I’ll give her a call.” Except he couldn’t because he didn’t have her number, and he wasn’t about to ask Brystol for it. “Can you watch Luke for me today? I’m going to be inside a lot, and the pavers are coming to fix the driveway and parking areas. I don’t want him to get in the way.”
“Of course. My mom says that if I need anything after Simi leaves for the hospital, I should ask you.”
On the inside, Bowie was beaming. Elated. Brooklyn trusted him with her child. “Absolutely,” he told her proudly. “Do you have a cell phone?”
She rattled off her number to him. He carefully put each digit into his phone, saved the contact information, and then sent her a text.
“Call me, anytime. And if you leave the house, shoot me a text so I know where you are. Otherwise, we’ll meet for lunch?”
Brystol nodded again and stood. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly closed it. There was a sadness in her eyes, one that he had seen many times with her mother. He wanted to reach out to her, give her a hug, but didn’t know how Brystol would react. Instead, he offered her a soft smile and turned toward the inn, intending to use work as a distraction. When he showed up here weeks ago, he had no idea what to expect. If someone would’ve told him that the woman he had spent most of his life simultaneously in love with and hating was going to show up and completely rock his world, he would’ve easily called their bluff. Good things—and yes, he considered this a win in his book—didn’t happen to Bowie. He wanted to believe his string of bad luck had run its course, but if it hadn’t, he was going to do whatever he had to in order to make sure it was ending soon.
Inside, construction activity was bustling. He checked the progress in every room, jotting down notes in case Brooklyn asked. As far as he was concerned, the rooms were shaping up to match her specifications perfectly, and as much as he had initially balked at the idea of the shiplap and overdone farmhouse look, he appreciated how Carly’s vision was coming together. The fine lines, attention to detail, and old-fashioned vibe were adding a lot of character. The inn was shaping up to feel like a home rather than a place people rented so they could sleep.
With Carly out of the house, Bowie did the one thing he knew he shouldn’t. He ventured into the kitchen, a place he was all too familiar with while growing up. As soon as he stepped into it, a wave of emotion came over him. Memories of the sound of laughter hit him squarely in the chest. The day before Austin had died, they had stood in here, hovering over Carly as she had baked a cake. They had dipped their fingers in the batter, testing her patience. It didn’t matter that they were in their twenties; every time they were here, it was like they were kids again.
Bowie ran his hand over the appliances. They were in pristine condition, and from what he could gather, recently replaced. Someone had done some work in here. The flooring was new, the walls painted, cabinets changed, and the old tile countertop was now granite. He tried not to let it bother him that he hadn’t been the one who made those changes. After all, he didn’t deserve to be here after the way he had treated Carly since Austin’s passing.
The door to the kitchen swung open, startling Bowie. He jumped and clutched his clipboard to his chest, as if to keep his rapidly beating heart securely in place. He’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and by the expression on Simone’s face, she knew it.
“Bowie,” she said sternly. Her tone gave everything away; she knew Carly hadn’t wanted him in the kitchen.
His posture relaxed, and he tugged on his hat, adjusting the way it was sitting. “I was trying to help, to make sure everything was in working order.”
Simone sighed. “Shortly after Austin died, Carly came in here with a sledgehammer. She destroyed everything. It’s taken me about ten years to fix it all. The appliances arrived about two months before she called you and Brooklyn to do the renovation,” she said as she ran her hand over the stove.