Chapter Twenty-One

Casey had always had an uncanny ability to wake up at whatever time he wanted, probably because he'd learned to keep out of his father's way in the mornings, when Donald was fresh from the farmers' markets and already barking at his sous chef over the phone.

Since he knew when Dev took his morning run, he'd set his internal clock to wake up an hour before that, just as the wan dawn light filtered through the Roman blinds in Dev's bedroom, casting a soft glow over the butter-yellow walls with their white wainscoting, over the gleaming wood floors littered with discarded clothing, over the rumpled patchwork quilt and white sheets, and of course, over Dev himself.

Apparently, Dev's worry followed him into sleep, because there was a little divot between his eyebrows. Casey was tempted to kiss it, but he didn't want to wake the man. He suspected Dev hadn't been sleeping well lately—maybe not for the last year and a half, since his brother and grandfather had died and the care and feeding of Home landed squarely on Dev's shoulders.

And what shoulders. With the sheets pooled around his waist, Dev's admirable upper body was on full display, but Casey wasn't tempted—okay, he was a little tempted, because damn—but he wouldn't, because he recollected the surprise and wonder on Dev's face when Casey had made it clear that he'd meant it when he said he didn't expect sex.

Casey chuckled softly. He'd bet his last nickel that Dev had never been the little spoon before in his life.

He climbed out of bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. After he excavated his clothes from the random piles and got dressed, he eased Dev's phone off the nightstand and took it out into the living room of the charming little cottage—not because he wanted to snoop, but because he didn't want Dev to wake with the ping or vibration of a message.

Casey pulled out his own phone and typed a text:

CF: Didn't want to wake you. Got an errand to run. CU later this morning.

He gazed down at the screen for a moment, teeth sunk into his lower lip. Oh, what the hell. He added a heart emoji and hit send.

When he crept back into the bedroom to return the phone, Dev was still asleep, his face nestled into Casey's pillow, and Casey nearly abandoned his plan and climbed back into bed. But if what he suspected was true, he didn't have any time to waste.

He slipped out of the cottage, softly closing the door behind himself, and trotted across the field. He hesitated between the Uber or Lyft apps, but then just called Pete directly.

"Ayup?"

"Pete, it's Casey. I need you to put on your ride share hat, whichever one you like. I need a lift to the resort and I want to leave before Dev gets up."

"Mmmphmmm."

Casey caught the edge of judgment in the multipurpose Home grunt and hurried to say, "I'm not bailing, if that's what you're thinking. But I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who can fix this particular problem, and it can't really wait. Pick me up in front of Harrison House?"

"Three minutes." Pete disconnected, and Casey had to laugh. Never one for idle chitchat, our Pete.

Casey debated whether to run upstairs and change clothes, but given that his room was still tainted with the ghosts of mice past, he abandoned the idea. He might be rumpled from tossing his clothes on the floor in his hurry to comfort Dev last night, but at least he didn't smell like sex.

He lifted the hem of his shirt, pressed it to his nose, and inhaled. No. I smell like Dev. And that was more empowering than Excalibur, Mjolnir, and the Lasso of Hestia combined.

Pete rolled up in his pickup rather than the hybrid Escape he used for his ride share gigs. Casey climbed in.

"Which app should I fire up?"

"Neither." He pulled out of the drive in a crunch of gravel and headed up Main Street.

He didn't say another word on the way to town, and Casey, gnawing his lip until it was probably raw, didn't attempt to break the silence. But when Pete pulled under the porte-cochere in front of the resort's enormous main doors, Casey turned to him.

"I'm not sure how long this will take. You don't need to wait."

"Need a ride home when you're done?"

"Well. Yes."

"Mmmphmmm."

This time, the grunt held definite approval. Casey waited a moment, but no additional words were forthcoming, so he climbed out of the truck. Pete pulled into a guest parking slot right next to the doors.

You've got more faith in me than I do, my friend.

The sun had cleared the treetops, its amber rays sending Casey's shadow stretching out in front of him as he marched toward the club wing. He knew which room to aim for—Bradley had texted him the number, announcing it was one of the top suites, when he'd ordered Casey to meet him the day he'd barged into the summer kitchen. Naturally, Casey had ignored the text.

But as he stood in front of the door, belly in knots, he remembered Bradley offering to buy Harrison House, Bradley cruising past the vet clinic like a creeper, Bradley refusing to take no for an answer every time ever, and hoped like hell that he wasn't the catalyst for Bradley's decision to take aim at Home.

Rather than knock—it was early, and the other guests didn't deserve to be awakened—Casey pulled out his phone and called Bradley's number, something he'd never done before, and frankly had never expected to do ever.

Bradley answered after the second ring, so either he was already awake or a light sleeper. "Casey. While I trust this means you're ready to behave like an adult, I have a conference call in five minutes that—"

"I'm at your door."

Bradley didn't respond, but Casey heard his footsteps in stereo from the phone and from inside the suite. When the door opened to reveal Bradley in his normal pressed-chinoed, Lauren-button-downed, hair-producted take on casual morning wear, Casey disconnected the call and tucked his phone away. "We need to talk."

"I've been saying the same thing for days, but you've picked a highly inconvenient time. Call down for room service and have breakfast sent up. After my meeting—"

"I'm not here for breakfast."

Bradley frowned. "Then why the devil are you here at this hour? Really, Casey. I thought you'd finally come to your senses and were ready to—"

"Are you behind all the vendors pulling out of Home's antique fair?" If Casey had expected Bradley to look guilty or even self-conscious, he was wide of the mark. If anything, the expression on Bradley's face was smug satisfaction. "I knew it. You are." He barged past Bradley into the middle of the suite's living area and whirled. "Why the hell would you do something like that? Home is nothing to you."

"Precisely. Home"—Bradley sounded as though he'd unexpectedly taken a swig of curdled milk— "is nothing. But it could be something with the proper upgrades, positioning, and rebranding."

"The people who live there don't want to be rebranded. They like the way things are now."

Bradley scoffed. "They couldn't possibly. No one could. No accommodations for overnight guests. No restaurants. No liquor license within twenty miles. Southern Vermont is a prime target for leaf-peepers and hard-core skiers, but Home"—there was that sour-milk tone again—"isn't equipped to handle the tourist trade even if they could attract it."

"Maybe they don't want their town overrun at all seasons. Ever think of that? They like its quieter pace. They like having it to themselves most of the year. That's why the antique fair is biennial. It suits them and their needs."

Bradley shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure what they taught you in that business school of yours—"

"You mean Columbia? That business school?"

"—but the economy of every town in or near a tourist destination depends on tourist dollars. Since the people in charge aren't fulfilling their mandate to capitalize on opportunities that should be obvious to anyone with a modicum of insight, new management is clearly needed to bring the town up to its full potential."

Casey frowned. "You make it sound as if Home is nothing more than a commodity."

Bradley lifted his eyebrows. "Isn't it?"

"No. Not entirely. Home is its people. It always has been. Tell me, Bradley. The Market, Make It Do, Mountain Laurel nursery, the vet clinic, all the other Home businesses. Where do they fit in your rebranding plan?"

"I'm sure the investors will have some input, but any business that wishes to remain will obviously be expected to conform to the upgraded town model."

"What if they don't want to change?"

"Then I'm sure the corporation will offer them reasonable terms to relocate."

"Corporation? You're going to incorporate Home?"

"It's the most efficient business entity for what we expect to accomplish."

Casey ran his fingers through his hair. "But why? There are other places, other targets, other projects you can add to your portfolio. Why Home?"

Bradley's gaze tracked Casey's fingers and his tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip. "Because it's ripe for the picking. Unspoiled. Pure potential."

Casey froze at the avaricious glint in Bradley's eyes. "Are we still talking about Home?"

He took a step toward Casey. "If I were to be offered something of equal value, something that would fit perfectly with my own brand, I might be willing to… negotiate."

Casey took a step back. "What kind of something?"

"Casey." Bradley's caressing tone sent a spike of alarm down Casey's spine. "Don't you think it's time to accept the inevitable? I've arranged a private tutor for you back in Manhattan. You'll come back with me today. Move into my penthouse while you perfect your kitchen skills. Then, we'll christen Chez Donatien's grand reopening with our wedding reception. After that, you can transition into executive chef and we'll promote the sous chef."

"So all of this—scuppering the antique fair, trying to buy Dev out—it was all just maneuvering to get me back in line?"

He shrugged. "I want Chez Donatien to succeed. And I always get what I want."

Okay, that tone wouldn't be out of place in a serial killer. "So I was right. You only want me for the optics. For the hype."

"Is that what you think?" Bradley reached out and twined a finger in one of Casey's curls. "Ripe for the picking," he murmured. "Unspoiled. Pure potential. How could I resist?"

Casey grabbed Bradley's wrist and squeezed until Bradley's fingers twitched and he released Casey's hair. He let go and wiped his palm on his shorts. "So if I go back with you, you'll let Home be?"

"If I must. I'll even cancel the replacement antique fair." He shrugged. "It might cause me some minor inconvenience, but nothing I can't absorb."

"But what about the vendors? You promised them a free venue."

"They ought to know better. Nothing is ever free. Maybe Home can lure them back, although if I were the town manager, I'd refuse to take them. Disloyalty must be punished." He swept Casey with the same proprietary gaze he used on his Lexus. "Something you'll have to learn."

"But then the vendors lose sales, and Home is out a revenue stream. That doesn't benefit anyone."

"On the contrary. It benefits me." Another up and down sweep of his cold blue eyes. "And once I've schooled you, you'll be begging me to close the deal. Among other things." He ran a finger back and forth along his leather belt. "It's time, Casey. Time to face reality. Compared to what I can offer, there's nothing for you here." He tongue darted out to lick his lower lip. "And if you don't fall in line, I'll make sure there's nothing here for anybody else either."

Casey swallowed thickly. "Fuck you, Bradley." He brushed past Bradley and flung open the door. "There's everything for me here, and I refuse to let you destroy it."

Bradley laughed. "That's so… precious." Ugh, he sounds worse than Gollum. "You actually believe you can stop me. You're even more naive than I thought."

"Maybe I am. But you've forgotten one important thing."

"Is that so? What might that be?"

Casey forced a smile. "I'm not alone."