The woman made sweeping changes simply by being herself.
And he wanted more of it. More of her.
He didn’t give a shit who knew they were seeing each other or what trouble it caused. He didn’t give a shit if the smart thing to do would be to stay away. He only knew he needed more time with that woman. A lot more time.
EIGHT
Delaney sat at a corner table in Patterson’s, her elbows on the scarred wood, tired eyes scanning the screen of her laptop as she scrolled through countertop materials on a vendor’s website.
The bar was relatively quiet, with most of the customers watching the Giants game from their stools at the scarred length of wood. Someone with a love of classic rock kept pumping the vintage jukebox full of quarters, and Delaney was about ready to arm wrestle the oldies addict for a little Seether or Lifehouse or Buckcherry.
Instead she calculated finishes, prices, and square footage in her head. As she jotted numbers, watching the total amount rise, her anxiety mounted in tandem.
Under normal conditions, she’d already have everything picked, calculated, scheduled, and ready to order once the final go-ahead had been given. Only this go-ahead was all on her. All the cash supporting the go-ahead was on her, too. And she could easily see that keeping the costs contained to her every red cent was going to be more than just a little challenging. It was going to be impossible.
And wouldn’t that just give Jack Hayes all the arrogant satisfaction he craved?
God that ate at her.
She sighed, groaned, and rubbed her eyes. Sleep had been in short supply as she’d taken the necessary steps toward obtaining a building permit over the last week. Even though she wouldn’t make a final decision until all the facts and figures were in, Delaney knew exactly how much work went into the drawings and documents required in this process. And if there was one thing she’d become over the last decade, it was prepared. Prepared to pick up where her mother left off raising her sisters. Prepared to run the bar when her father was passed out drunk. Prepared to survive when she’d left Wildwood. Prepared to take opportunities as they arose in the years since.
And the moment Phoebe had twisted Delaney’s mind around to see the bar as an opportunity—whether she wanted to admit it or not—that innate survivor inside her wouldn’t allow her to simply throw it away out of spite. Especially not when her sisters still needed so much help. Or when her guilt over walking away while they’d been too young to do the same still gnawed at her conscience.
But shit . . . just thinking about the magnitude of the job and the emotional stress it was taking on her, on Ethan, on Ellen, on their whole family, kicked up her body heat, and she pulled at the buttons on her sundress, flapping the material at her chest for air as she lowered her gaze to her work again.
Delaney’s mind tugged back to her run-in with Ethan’s father on the street earlier in the day. The entire ten minutes fast-forwarded through her memory in seconds, and her gut knotted.
She’d anticipated lingering resentment and hard feelings among the Ryan and Hayes families, but Jack’s belligerence had been over the top. He wasn’t even Ian’s father. Jack and Wayne weren’t even brothers. On the one hand, Delaney knew she shouldn’t judge someone based on how they grieved. On the other, Jack’s response to her presence in town for a short time—to do something good for the community, something he’d mandated—was extreme.
An eerie tingle prickled along her shoulders. Something was going on beneath the surface here. She’d stepped on a hidden hornet’s nest of some kind and was sure she would get stung any minute. But without knowing what festered
beneath the surface, she had no idea what to expect next. And that, more than the animosity itself, unnerved her most.
She pulled out her phone to call Phoebe and get her take on the renovation situation, maybe pop in a few questions about Jack, but the time shone back at her. At only 8:00 p.m. her aunt would still be at the store.
The waitress came by with a refill on Delaney’s soda. She thanked the woman, then forced her attention back to the numbers in front of her and reminded herself she would have to spend money to make money. But this project encompassed so many roadblocks she couldn’t even see them all. Which meant she couldn’t prepare for them. And in renovation, that never—never—turned out well for the financier. In this case: her.
For the hundredth time since she’d arrived, she wondered if demolishing the damn place and taking the hit would end up being the better plan for the long haul.
But without knowing what the long haul looked like . . .
Delaney heaved a sigh, picked up her phone, and redialed Avery. This would be the fifth message if she didn’t pick up. At the click of Avery’s answering machine, Delaney’s stomach pulled in disappointment.
“Hey, just me, your psycho sister. Hope you’re okay. I know you probably don’t want to deal with this any more than I do. Believe me—I get it. And I know I wasn’t there for you when you needed me, so you’re probably thinking, ‘Screw her—I’m not calling her back.’ That’s okay, too. I’m really trying to be there in the future for you and Chloe by doing something with this dive that’s going to benefit all of us. But without knowing what your plans are, that’s pretty tough. I’d really love to hear your voice, talk about your life, maybe bounce a few ideas off you. If you know how I can get ahold of Chloe, I’d like to check in on her. Phoebe’s pretty worried. Okay. That’s all. I love you.”
Delaney disconnected and dropped the phone. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her forehead, then rested her head on her hand.
“Are you okay?”
Ethan’s voice startled her. She jerked her head up and dropped her arms to cover the papers and catalogs scattered over the table as if she were a teenage boy caught looking at a stack of Penthouse magazines.
“You scared me.” She shoved everything into folders and those folders into her laptop case. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re not answering my calls or texts. I stopped by the bar, but it was locked. I’ve been worried.” His gaze darted to her briefcase. “What are you doing?”
“Research.” She pushed her indecision over the bar away and focused on Ethan, whose brow was creased in concern. When was the last time a man had cared enough to worry about her? “I was hoping we could talk a minute.”
He slid into the booth without hesitation and right to her side until their thighs pressed, then covered her hand on the table with his. The gesture tugged at her belly, and she tried to pull away only to find he wouldn’t let go.