Until Forever, page 2
“In the kitchen, honey.” Her soft voice floated out from the right side of the house.
He followed the sound through the living room, which looked as though it could’ve been purchased straight from a farmhouse-style magazine. Not that he minded the crisp whites offset with grays and creams and splashes of black, but a place by the beach should draw in the color from the outside, not wash it away. He turned the corner toward the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks.
It’d been three years since he’d seen him last.
Fine: three years. five months. two days.
Not that he was counting.
No, he was rather accustomed to his father drifting in and out of his life. It was constant, and expected. The only thing that changed was the length of time he spent away. Eventually, weeks extended into months, which bled into years. It was only a matter of time before he stopped coming back to Mystic Cove completely.
Brock gave him a once-over.
Aidan Gallagher stood in the kitchen, dressed in his typical attire. He wore a sharp, slim-cut suit with cufflinks that blinked in the light and an overly loud tie at his neck. His dark auburn hair was slicked back, but age had threaded it with strands of gray. His charm won him favor, and he acquired properties with pretty words and broken promises. He swindled and bartered, sweet-talked and stole. He made fools out of those who worked hard for a living. He sold them a pipe dream and walked away when it crumbled to ash at their feet. Aidan Gallagher was a fraud. A cheat. And a pitiful excuse for a father.
“Kelly.”
Brock softened at her use of his middle name and gave his grandma a kiss on the cheek. Then she gestured to Aidan.
“Your father—”
“What about him?” Brock interjected coolly.
His grandmother’s gaze narrowed.
“It’s fine, Ma,” Aidan said with his usual dismissive tone. He stepped forward and smirked in appreciation. “He’s my son. He’s allowed to be angry.”
Brock scowled. “I can think of a more colorful term.”
“I bet you can,” his father retorted.
“That’s enough, you two.” Yaya poured Brock a cup of coffee. Black. While his father took his drowning in cream and sugar. “Now, Kelly. Your father is here to discuss the beach house.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and the familiar, empty pit feeling in his stomach returned. Except this time it was corrupted by a rising ball of anger.
“What about it?” Brock asked.
Immediately his father took center stage, as though he was star of the show. “Well, to start, it’s old and dilapidated.”
“It’s got character,” Brock countered with a surge of agitation. “And for the record, I was asking her. Not you.”
Aidan ignored his pathetic dig and stalked over to the picnic-style table. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers filled with paperclips and sticky notes. Papers that looked to require a lot of signatures and dates and half-truths.
“The beach house is located on prime real estate.” He flipped to a page displaying a map and property lines. “And I’ve got an interested buyer.”
Brock didn’t give him the opportunity to finish. “It’s not for sale.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever.”
Aidan arched one brow. “The house is an eyesore, Kelly.”
“That’s Brockton to you, Dad.” He took a swig of the coffee and didn’t even flinch when it scalded his tongue and throat on the way down. “Yaya, you can’t sell.” He faced his grandmother. “You love that house.”
Even though the house he stood in now was less than a mile from the ocean, the beach house had always been more like home. Growing up, he’d spent every summer there. Mornings had consisted of his grandfather taking him fishing on the pier that stretched out into the water and staying there until the sky filled with the early colors of dawn. Afternoons were for the beach—languid, lazy days where he did nothing but surf, swim, and sleep. When the evenings rolled around, he’d watch the rise of twilight take over the horizon, alongside his grandparents, with a sweet tea in one hand, then eventually a beer.
He never noticed the paint peeling away from years of salty, wind-battered beatings. He ignored the splintered, wooden steps leading to the beach and the way the handles would fall off cabinet doors, never to be replaced. On a whim, he’d up and joined the Marine Corps right out of high school like he had something to prove, and when he returned eight years later, his grandfather had already fallen ill, and the beach house was all but forgotten.
Okay, maybe he loved that house.
“I don’t know, Kelly.” Yaya absently stirred her hot tea. “It’s quite a bit of money on the table.”
Right. Money that would eventually go to his father.
Yaya still had plenty of years left in her, but she wasn’t exactly young. Which meant, not only would his father make commission on the sale of the beach house property, but then he’d also receive the income from it in the form of a will.
“Give me a chance to fix it first.” Brock was seething, but if he could make it profitable somehow, then he could tell his father and this potential buyer to back off.
“The house is in disrepair, Brockton.” Aidan shuffled his papers back together and slipped them into a binder. “It’s falling apart.”
“Because you let it,” Brock countered. “If you’d ever bothered to hang around for longer than a day or two, you could’ve helped Pop fix it up.”
Aidan’s features turned to stone. “I did what I had to do.”
“You did what you had to do for you.” Brock set down his cup of still-hot coffee. “I’m sorry, Yaya. I don’t have time for this. I have a job site to get to.”
His father flicked his wrist, and his absurdly expensive Rolex glittered. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself.”
A retort was on the tip of Brock’s tongue, but he swallowed it down. One look at Yaya told him he’d already taken it too far. Her eyes pleaded with him, a silent promise for amends. Just because Aidan Gallagher was a crappy father didn’t mean he was a crappy son.
Brock would give her that. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. I have.”
He refused to look at the man who quit on him. Instead, he faced the woman who’d raised him as her own. “Yaya, don’t sell. I’ll figure something out. We’ll find a way to save the beach house.”
Of course, there was always the slim chance she actually wanted to sell. Maybe she didn’t want to keep the beach house anymore. It could be that it brought too many memories along with it, or maybe it was simply too much work and upkeep.
“I’ve had my will drawn up for awhile now.” Yaya addressed both of them, but her eyes were on Brock.
“Yaya. Stop.” Brock shook his head. “You’re in perfect health.”
“He’s right,” Aidan added. “You look amazing for a woman of thirty-nine.”
“Ha, ha.” Yaya waved off their flattery with the faintest blush. “But I’m serious. My will is drawn and finalized. And I think the two of you need to understand something about that old beach house.”
She sighed a bit and settled herself into a chair at the kitchen table. “If both of you can’t get along, the beach house is going to the city of Mystic Cove. Then they can do with it what they want.”
“What?” Aidan’s mouth fell open. He’d always assumed all of Yaya’s assets would go to him.
“Yaya, that’s impossible,” Brock countered. No one in their right mind would want to get sucked into their family drama. Besides, he was certain whoever she chose as the deciding authority over whether or not he and his father “got along,”, likely 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—”
“You can’t—”
“I can and I did.” She fisted her hands on her waist. The conversation was over. “Now, more coffee?”
Brock could handle the renovation of the beach house, he was sure. But getting along with his father? That would prove far more difficult. It didn’t matter. He’d figure that part out later. For now, he just needed to give the beach house a new purpose, then he’d be able to prove it was worth keeping. Those thoughts continued to plague him, even when he pulled up to his first job of the day.
He parked his truck, climbed out, and looked up at Mystic Florals.
Gigi Laurent had given the sign 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.
Brock dipped his chin into his coat and slipped inside the flower shop. A little bell announced his arrival.
The fresh scent of florals greeted him, and Gigi looked up. “Ah, Brockton.” She came out from around 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 had always remained exquisitely French. From her style, to her cooking, to her distaste toward the American public 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, had moved out awhile 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, had gone off and married a Marine. Last he checked, she was living in California. And Juliette…well, he stopped asking about Jules awhile ago.
Brock pulled out some blueprints from his back pocket. Usually he did all of his work digitally, on an app, but Gigi would have none of it. She required paper, 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. Two shop girls were setting up a new display in the window and Adrienne was photographing them. She lifted her hand in a small wave.
He nodded once and spread the blueprints out on the counter. “Here’s the total revamp of the bathroom, with space for a clawfoot 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, the complete reno of the kitchen.”
“Oui. Yes.” She peered down at the blueprint then glanced up at him from over the rim of her glasses. “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. To give you 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.
Then he saw her come down the stairs.
She was wearing black leggings with those ridiculous fuzzy boots and an oversized 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. Seven years and still as beautiful as ever, even with her brows drawn into a scowl.
“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. You remember Monsieur Gallagher?”
He dared another look at her. He wasn’t sure if Juliette Laurent would even remember him. But then those wintry blue eyes narrowed to slits. Oh yeah, she definitely remembered.
Gigi continued as though no ounce of tension had permeated the air of the shop. But he could feel another set of eyes on him, and he knew for a fact Adrienne was watching this exchange with keen interest. “I want you to go with him to choose new flooring, cabinets, and countertops for the kitchen remodel. And if you have any other design questions, Brockton, Juliette will be the one to decide. Yes?”
He nodded quickly. “Sure. Of course.”
“After all, I am very busy woman, which I am sure you understand.”
“Absolutely.”
“And Juliette’s design aesthetic is perfectly adequate.”
He swallowed. Hard.
Juliette stood frozen on the stairs. “Mama. You can’t be serious.”
“He’s the best in town. Your history together has nothing to do with this project. Besides, you are both adults now.” Another dismissive wave. “Now, take him upstairs so he can get started. I have a bride coming in for an appointment.”
Her mouth fell open in protest. “But, Mama.”
With her black-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, Gigi cut her daughter down with only a look.
“Of course, Mama,” Juliette said through an expertly clenched jaw. Then she offered him a saccharine smile. “Follow me please, Monsieur Gallagher.”
Brock muttered a swear. Here we go.
He followed her up the stairs. This was going to be the longest renovation of his life if they weren’t able to come to some sort of agreement. “Look, Jules—”
She whirled on him, eyes flashing, and he almost careened backwards down the staircase. “Don’t you dare ‘Jules’ me. You lost that privilege thirteen years ago, after you…” Her chest heaved. “After you…”
After he left her. After he joined the Marine Corps and never came back.
“I will do whatever my mother asks of me because she’s putting me up for the time being.” She lifted one finger. “But don’t think for one minute that just because we’re working together means we’re friends. Because it doesn’t. Not now. Not ever.”
He nodded sharply. “Understood.”
Brock wasn’t sure how this unexpected and forced proximity would play out over the next few weeks, but one thing was crystal clear. Juliette Laurent's feelings toward him had not changed over thirteen years.
She still hated him.
Chapter Three
Of course it was Brockton Gallagher.
Juliette had hoped to avoid seeing him for the duration of her stay, but no. The second she woke up and went downstairs, there he was, standing in the lobby of her mother’s flower shop.
Unfortunately, the years had been very kind to him.
His rich auburn hair was short on the sides and longer on top, but it was wild and unkempt, as though he just ran a hand through it and went on about his business. His amber eyes followed her every move. Silent and watching, like always. Fresh stubble lined his jaw, and he’d gained an age line or two along his brow. He wore a cobalt blue Henley beneath his coat, and a tape measurer was clipped to the belt loop of his jeans. All in all, he was painfully handsome—if one preferred the rugged, rough-around-the-edges sort of look.
Which she absolutely did not.
“Just give me a minute,” she muttered. Juliette stalked down the hall to the small bathroom, slipped inside, and shut the door.
She took a deep breath, then blew it out low and slow. From inside a gilded mirror, her hollow reflection stared back at her. Eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Face splotchy from exhaustion and lack of sleep. Her hair was a mess. She gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white, until her heart stopped its erratic beating.
She could do this. She could face him. There was a tremble in her hands when she switched on the faucet, and the cold water she splashed on her face did nothing to soothe or calm her. She gave herself another good scrub, tried to wash away the memories, but the freezing cold water simply stung her skin until it was numb. She patted her face dry with one of her mother’s fancy hand towels, the sort never meant for actual use, and tried to focus on something other than the fact that the one man she never wanted to see again was just on the other side of her bathroom door.
But her mind was a useless thing.
All she could think about was the last time she saw Brock. The night before he left for boot camp, he’d kissed her under a blanket of stars while the warm summer tide swept over their ankles. There’d been so much promise, so much hope. She could remember every detail, from the way his thumb brushed across her cheek and wiped her tears, to the way the wet, squishy sand rushed between her toes.
Juliette stole a breath of air and shoved out of the bathroom.
Brock had spread the blueprint for the apartment over the island and had a measuring tape running from kitchen cabinets to the edge of the living area. He glanced up, and when their gazes met, a small frown marred his forehead. But Brock said nothing and she was grateful for the silence.
He stood up and clipped the tape measurer back to his belt loop. He pretended to look over the plans spread out before him. “No one mentioned you were coming back to visit.”
Small talk was overrated.
She shrugged. “No one knew.”
Brock shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the island. “I take it you didn’t know you were coming back.
“Something like that.” She wrapped her arms around herself and let her gaze drift to where the beautiful windows faced the street and glimpsed the ocean. “Do I have bad breakup written all over my face?”
His jaw clenched shut. “I’m sorry, Juliette. I didn’t know.”
“Neither did I, apparently. But it’s fine. I’m fine.” She glanced back at him over one shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well.”
