After All (Cape Harbor #1)(25)
“Who isn’t?”
Bowie jerked in shock and found Monroe Whitfield standing in front of him. She smiled softly and pushed her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. Along with the Chamberlain twins, she had grown up with Bowie. While Monroe was beautiful, he wasn’t attracted to her. Sometimes, he wished he was, though, because his mother loved her. He did as well, but only as a friend. He looked around and realized he was back at the bar. Was he really that deep in thought that he was losing time, or was he drunker than he realized? Either that or Graham was spiking his beer.
“Hey, Roe. You snuck up on me.”
“Really?” She tilted her head and smiled. “Pretty sure if I hadn’t said something, you would’ve plowed me over.”
Bowie ran his hand over the back of his head and sighed. “Sorry. I’m in a fog.”
“Rachel?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly and motioned toward the door. “You going in?”
“Yeah, do you know if Grady’s in there?”
Bowie wasn’t sure what Roe saw in him other than a charity case. Everyone in town knew Monroe tried to help Grady. Late at night, she would be seen driving around, looking for him, trying to get him to go home. The accident that had taken Austin also had taken Grady, but in a different way. Everyone had been affected, lost someone they loved, but Grady had taken the death of Austin the worst.
Again, Bowie shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, pointing to his head. “Foggy.” Bowie held the door open for Monroe and followed behind her. Graham yelled her name, and she waved. Monroe chose to sit at a table, likely expecting her sister to join her later. Bowie was torn. Go back to sit at the bar or go converse with one of his oldest friends. Graham made the decision for him when he sat two beers down on the table along with a bowl of popcorn and two menus. The Whale Spout served some of the best finger foods this side of the Sound.
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.