Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(12)

The options for what would happen inside that empty room were endless.

And still, it didn’t feel like mine.

Because it came at a price.

It was my father’s name on the check that secured that piece of real estate for me. It was because of him that I had a place to live on my own, and a business to bring to life.

And in order to keep it, I had to play by his rules.

Every time the thought assaulted me, my fists would clench, my nose would flare, and I’d close my eyes and try to find a breath that didn’t burn on the way down. There was nothing I could imagine being worse than being in debt to my father, than being under his thumb again like I had been before I turned eighteen.

And yet, here I was.

I was still looking around, trying to find a sense of ownership when my best friend plowed through the front door with a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“I brought the bubbly!” Chris exclaimed, floating into the vacant shop with the same grace that he made an entrance everywhere he went. He was dressed impeccably in his beige cable knit sweater, accented by a thick, plaid scarf that hugged his neck and the tweed jacket shielding him from the Tennessee winter wind outside. I’d never seen my best friend in jeans, not in all the years I’d known him, so it was no surprise that he was in navy dress pants and brown leather ankle boots. His blonde hair was parted to the left, styled neatly, and his face clean shaven — which accented what I referred to as his Superman Jaw. His chocolate eyes were warm and inviting as always, accented by the flurry of freckles that dotted the apples of his cheeks.

I lifted one eyebrow at the bottle in his hands. “I’m sure you brought that bottle to celebrate the shop, and not at all because it’s Saturday and you love brunch more than the cast of Friends loves coffee.”

“Think of it as two birds, one bottle,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Now, we just need two champagne flutes and a—”

Chris stopped mid-stride on his way over to where I stood in the middle of the room, his eyes dropping to the mound of matted fur in my arms.

“Mallory… what in the ever living hell is that?”

I glanced down at the subject of his disdain with a smile, running a hand over the little fur ball until I found an ear. I scratched behind it, and a soft purr rumbled against my chest.

“This is Dalí,” I explained, and as if he already knew his new name, he peered up at me with green, glowing eyes that then turned to Chris.

“What the fuck is a Dalí?”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s a cat, silly. Here,” I said, holding Dalí out toward him. “You can hold him. He’s really docile.”

“Why do you have a cat?” he asked, leaning away with one brow climbing higher and higher on his forehead as he assessed the creature in my hands. “And how do you have a cat?”

“He was a stray. He wandered up when I was moving my stuff upstairs last night. I gave him some food, a place to sleep that wasn’t freezing… isn’t he cute? He reminds me of Salvador Dalí with his little mustache,” I said, running my fingertips over the fur around the cat’s mouth. “I thought he could be a sort of Shop Cat.”

Chris blinked. “Only you, Mallory. Only you.”

He rounded to stand on the other side of me, still watching Dalí like he was a dragon and not an adorable, fluffy, calico cat.

“Anyway,” he said, unwrapping his scarf and letting it hang over his shoulders. “Can you put Mr. Dalí down and go grab us some glasses? We have celebrating to do!”

I sighed. “I can, though I’m not sure I’m much in the mood to celebrate.”

“How could you not be? You have an art studio, Mallory. This has been your dream since you were in high school.”

“But it’s not mine,” I reminded him, placing Dalí on the floor. I gave him one last pet before he sauntered off, finding a spot by the window where he could soak up the sunshine streaming in. “It’s my father’s.”

Chris waved me off. “Logistics. His name was on the check, but it’ll be your name on the door. And besides, you only had to sell him five years of your soul in exchange for something that you can build and enjoy for a lifetime.” He pointed the bottle at me. “I’d say that’s a deal worth making. Now, glasses. Stat.” He started peeling back the gold paper around the cork. “Mama needs some champs.”

I chuckled, jogging up the stairs that led to my small studio apartment above the shop. It was almost as vacant as the shop below, aside from my art from over the years that laid against the walls, waiting to be hung, the new bed I’d splurged on, and a random pile of shit I’d picked up from the local thrift shop. Mom had offered to take me shopping for furniture and essentials, but I’d declined.

I was already in enough debt to them as it was.

Because I knew my best friend was coming over, I’d been sure to make two champagne glasses first on my list at the thrift store. I plucked them free from one of the boxes, unwrapping the brown paper around them and rinsing them off in the sink. I glanced around at the assortment of boxes waiting for me to unpack them before my eyes landed on the one and only book in the entire place.

I paused, smiling as I thought of the boy who’d given it to me. I’d only read thirty pages so far, but already, I could tell there was more to Logan Becker than I ever imagined before.