Bowie sat and studied the menu even though he knew what was offered. All around, others filled the silence with clapping, hollering, and cheering when someone hit a bull’s-eye or sank the eight ball in the designated pocket.
“You’re not playing?” Monroe motioned toward the dartboards.
“I’m not really feeling myself tonight.” He tossed the menu down on the table and picked up his pint, chugging half of it. “I thought I left Luke in my truck. So stupid,” he said after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Did you hit your head or something?”
“No . . . I don’t know.”
Monroe leaned forward and rested her hand on top of his. He regarded her, wondering what she was thinking. “Brooklyn Hewett is back in town, Bo. I saw her at the grocery store today. Our encounter was weird—it was like she was hiding or something. She wore dark glasses and a hat. I don’t know. She didn’t act like she was happy to see me, though. I wonder what she’s doing here.”
That makes two of us.
Bowie sighed. “She’s renovating the inn.”
“What? Why?”
“The inn is going to reopen.”
“No, I figured that much.” Monroe waved him off. “I heard some rumblings around town earlier today. But why her?”
Bowie pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times and finally slid it over to Monroe. After he’d left Carly’s, he’d done what he’d always vowed he would never do—he’d searched for Brooklyn on the internet. He only had to type her name and the first letter of her last name before her website and hundreds of links and images popped up. She wasn’t just someone who painted interiors but one of the most sought-after decorators and renovators in the country. Her client list was a who’s who of celebrities. Anyone from actors to singers to professional athletes. Not to mention clients who paid top dollar to have Brooklyn redo a room in their house. Brooklyn had made a name for herself. That’s why she was here. Carly wanted the best, and the best just happened to be her son’s former girlfriend.
Bowie cut the lights of his truck as he pulled into the driveway where Brooklyn lived. Her downstairs neighbor found a reason to complain about everything, so he was doing his part to keep things civil. He was half hoping Brooklyn would be waiting for him so they could be on their way. When she wasn’t, he let out a sigh of relief and leaned his head against the back window and closed his eyes. He had a few seconds to gather his thoughts before he was going to spend all day with the woman of his dreams, working alongside of her, in close capacity, with paint fumes overriding his senses. If he were to make a move or say something about his undying affection, he couldn’t be held responsible—at least that’s what his subconscious told him as he pictured Brooklyn in the paint-splattered coveralls his father was insistent that she wear. They were far from sexy, but it was Brooklyn, and she could wear a burlap bag and be the most beautiful woman ever. For as long as he’d known her, he’d never thought of her as anything but gorgeous. Thinking of her like that was dangerous. She was his best friend’s girl and had been since the day he met her.
Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to think that Austin wouldn’t show up later or that Brooklyn wouldn’t take far too many breaks to talk to her boyfriend. It was the weekend, after all, and Austin and Brooklyn normally spent it together. Bowie also wasn’t foolish enough to think that Brooklyn asking for a ride was anything more than her not wanting to drive herself. Still, he’d had the presence of mind to stop at the café to pick up two extra-large coffees and Peggy’s freshly made cinnamon rolls, which made his truck smell more like a bakery than a stinky work truck.
The motion-sensor light flicked on, startling Bowie. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, looked at his dashboard to see the time, and barely caught a glimpse of Brooklyn as she passed by the front of his truck. The dome light came on when she opened the door, and she smiled at him. “Morning,” she mumbled. Clearly her smile was not an indication of how alert she was. He couldn’t blame her. His father wanted them on the jobsite by six a.m. to get the rooms painted and the trim work up. They were behind schedule, which was the reason they were working on Sunday.
“Here, I thought you would need this.” Bowie handed her the foam cup, which she immediately brought to her nose and inhaled.
“Thank you. I smell cinnamon as well.”
He turned his head away from her and smiled. Bowie had scored big-time bonus points with her by buying those rolls. “Peggy had just pulled them out of the oven when I arrived.”