“Maybe,” I grunt and focus on breakfast. By the time the eggs are plated and the potatoes are crisping up, Miles and Emmett have set the table and poured out more mimosas. Brody arrives last, wearing a gray T-shirt that hugs his broad chest, his hair disheveled in the best way.
“Eat,” I say, plopping down beside him. The table is a weird little slice of domesticity, and for a moment, I can imagine us doing this in some high-rise in NYC.
And it beingalmostnormal.
Brody’s hand is warm on my thigh, but he doesn’t look at me. He eats quickly, almost mechanically, and I run my fingers over his.
But there’s no response.
I tip my chin in his direction and catch his eye, but he only gives me a slight smile before going right back to his breakfast.
Yeah, something is definitely up with him.
And that feeling only grows when breakfast is over, and he stands abruptly. “I’ll be topside,” he grunts. “Miles, help me with the lines when we get to the dock?”
Miles nods, and they disappear up the stairs, their voices muffled by the bulkhead. Emmett lingers, refilling my mimosa.
“What’s up with him?” I ask, nodding toward the empty stairwell. “I swear, he’s not usuallythismoody. Not since we figured things out.”
Emmett shrugs. “Something’s eating at him, but that’s just Brody.I swear, something’salwayseating at him.”
“Maybe he finally got sick of playing cruise director for the rest of us,” I joke, but my heart isn’t in it. I gather the plates and head for the sink, my stomach in knots.
Emmett doesn’t follow. “Hey,” he says, and I glance over. He looks uncharacteristically serious. “If you need anything, I’ve got your back. I mean it. All this new stuff might be kind of hard.”
I smile, feeling a tinge of relief. “Thanks.”
He squeezes my hand before letting me go. Just as I turn to start the dishes, Brody enters, a stern look on his face.
“Georgia? Can we talk for a minute?”
My pulse thuds, and I glance at Emmett, who’s already halfway out the door. He winks at me and then disappears.
Brody immediately starts moving, pacing a tight little circuit between the couch and the table. Something is definitely going on…
I set one of the dishes down in the sink. “Everything okay?”
He stops, facing me square-on, and then gestures to the couch. “Come sit down for a minute?”
“Sure…” I dry my hands and sit down, my heart hammering in my chest.
He nods and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a long, thin envelope. I eye it warily.
“Is this how I’m getting my final paycheck?” I joke.
“Ha, no. It’s not a paycheck. I’ll get you that, though.” He pauses and then sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch. He turns the envelope over in his hands, then slides it toward me. “Here. I’ll just let you open it.”
I take it, trying to keep my breath steady. “Are you asking me to sign my life away to be your chef forever?” Once again, my humor lands flat, and Brody just shakes his head.
Well, okay then.
I open the envelope and pull out the sheaf of papers inside. At first, I don’t process what I’m looking at—just a lot of legalese, signatures, and notary stamps. Then I see my name, printed in neat, all-caps letters, followed by the wordsproperty deed.
I look up at Brody, baffled. “What… what even is this? You bought me a building?”
“I bought you a café,” Brody breathes out the words. “In New York. Well, technically, the LLC bought the building, and I hired a contractor to start the renovation, but the point is—” He stops, mouth opening and closing. “It’syours. The whole thing. You just have to sign and pick the paint color. I’ll have the designer pull together whatever your vision is.”
My brain blanks. For a second, I think maybe I’m still asleep, and this is one of those dumb stress-dreams that’s supposed toteach me a lesson about myself. I look down at the documents again, tracing the embossed seal with my finger.
