“Yaya, that’s impossible,” Brock countered smoothly. No one in their right mind would want to get sucked into their family drama. Not even the executor of her will. Besides, he was certain whoever she chose as the deciding authority over whether or not he and his father weregetting alonglikely knew absolutely nothing about them.
“Ma, let’s be serious.” Aidan used his powerful wolfish smile. “Just sell the property to me. It has so much potential, and the growth would be good for the town.”
“No.” She lifted one slim hand. “I’ve already made up my mind. If the two of you can’t figure out how to love each other like a father and son ought to, then the beach house won’t go to either of you.”
“But—” Brock fumbled.
“You can’t—” Aidan tried to counter.
“I can and I did.” She folded her hands in her lap. Neatly and with finality. The conversation was over. “Now, more coffee?”
Brock could handle the renovation of the beach house, he was certain of it. That wouldn’t be the problem. But getting along with his father? Finding a way to overlook years of neglect? Of disappointment? That would prove far more difficult. He told himself it didn’t matter, he’d figure out how to make amends with his father another time. For now, he just needed to give the beach house a new purpose, then he’d be able to prove it was worth keeping. He needed to breathe life into that old house, make it a place worthy of holding more memories. Dead-end ideas and overdone concepts continued to plague him as he pulled up to his first job of the day.
He parked his truck, climbed out into the bitter cold, and looked up at Mystic Florals.
Gigi Laurent had given the sign of the flower shop a fresh coat of paint before the winter set in, but it would need another come spring. Even now it swung precariously as each gust of biting wind sent it creaking back and forth as though it would fly off at any moment. Maybe he would suggest something a bit sturdier. Like affixing it to the brick front exterior.
Brock dipped his chin into his coat and slipped inside the flower shop. A little bell tinkled overhead, announcing his arrival.
The fresh scent of florals greeted him, and Gigi looked up from her position behind the register.
“Ah, Brockton.” She came out from behind the counter and greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. “So good to see you again. How is your Yaya?”
“She’s doing great. Thanks for asking.”
“Bien.”
He never tired of her delicate accent. In all the years he’d known her, and it had been many, she always remainedexquisitely French. From her style, to her cooking, to her distaste toward people in general, which she often tried to disguise as indifference. If anything, Gigi was one of a kind, and so were each of her daughters.
Easy on the eyes and hard on the heart. All five of them. The twins, Adrienne and Vivianne, had stayed local, and both of them worked for their mother in some capacity. The youngest, Anne-Sophie, moved out a while back and seemed to be doing quite well for herself, though no one really knew what exactly it was she was doing. Gabrielle, the oldest, up and married a Marine. Last he checked, they were living out in California. And Juliette…well, he stopped asking about Jules a while ago.
Brock pulled out some blueprints from his back pocket. Usually he did all of his work digitally, on his iPad, but Gigi would have none of it. She required paper, pencils, and red pens, and he was happy to oblige.
“I’ve got the renovations for the upstairs apartment all drawn up and ready for you.” He glanced around the shop. Adrienne was photographing a handful of their latest bundles of flowers near the display window. Meeting his gaze, she lifted her hand in a small wave, but there was a flash of something in her eyes before she looked away.
Something he couldn’t quite place. Like a shadow of caution.
Brock nodded in greeting, then spread the blueprints out on the counter for Gigi. “Here’s the total renovation of the bathroom, with space for a claw-foot tub and more storage. We’re going to take down this wall, so long as it isn’t load-bearing, then this will really open up the living area. And over here is your new kitchen.”
“Oui. Yes.” She peered down at the blueprint, then glanced up at him from over the rim of her glasses, her eyes piercing him. “New cabinets? And fixtures?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pointed to the design. “If you want, I can hire a local designer to choose some color boards to present to you. That way you have some options.”
She waved his suggestion away with one slender hand. “That will not be necessary. I already have someone.”
He blinked. “You do?”
“Mm.” She pursed her lips, and her gaze shifted to the apartment overhead.
That’s when he saw her come down the stairs.
She was wearing black leggings with those ridiculous fuzzy boots and an oversized red sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. Her long dark hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, and she looked as though she’d just rolled right out of bed. No makeup, not like she ever needed it. Time had been good to her. Thirteen years and Juliette was as beautiful as ever, even with her brows drawn into a scowl. He knew the exact moment she caught sight of him. To anyone else, it was hardly noticeable, but he saw the hesitation in her step. The way her shoulders bunched. The way her chest rose far too quickly on that sharp inhale.
Thirteen years, and he was still entirely too aware of everything about her.
“Ah, Juliette. You are awake and just in time.” She motioned for her daughter to come over. “Our contractor is here to begin work on the apartment. I’m sure you remember Monsieur Gallagher?”
Brock dared another look at her. He wasn’t sure if Juliette Laurent would even remember him. But those wintry blue eyes framed with black lashes narrowed to slits, and her pink mouth pulled into a hard line. She folded her arms over her chest and cocked one hip to the side.
