Chapter Twenty-Two

Dev checked his phone for the tenth time since he'd awoken to an empty bed. Casey's text—especially the promise that he'd see Dev later and the heart emoji—had eased Dev's disappointment a little. Still, he had to admit this morning was the first time he'd woken refreshed since the accident.

Therapeutic cuddling for the win.

When he'd gotten to his office, though, his mood had crashed and burned spectacularly. Every single vendor had canceled except Curiosity, Home's own antique store, but they were never charged registration or commission fees anyway because they were part of the town. Now Dev would be put in the position of telling Fabiola that one of her regular income streams had completely dried up. That would definitely be a hardship for her. Would it be bad enough for the business to fold? For yet another longtime resident of Home to move away because what was once a haven was now a financial sinkhole?

The longer Dev looked at the numbers, the lower his heart sank. He'd have no choice but to sell to that Pillsbury prick unless he could pull a rabbit out of his ass in the next six weeks to cover the negative cash flow.

"Fuck," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands. "Maybe I'll set the Port-a-Potties in the front yard and call it an art installation."

"Let's not go quite that far."

At the sound of that voice, its tone fond, Dev shot upright, a smile cracking his face. "Casey."

Casey walked around the desk and stood behind Dev's chair, wrapped his arms around Dev's neck, and planted a kiss under Dev's ear. "Hello, there."

"Mmmm," Dev hummed. "I missed you this morning."

Casey let go and spun the chair. He cradled Dev's face between his hands. "You saw my text, didn't you? You didn't think I'd just run out on you?"

"Yes, I saw it. I wouldn't have thought the worst of you, but I appreciate that you took the time to let me know why you'd gone." He drew Casey down into his lap, sighing contentedly when Casey nestled closer, tucking his head under Dev's chin. More therapeutic cuddling. I could get used to this.

Dev reached toward the monitor. He didn't want the bad news staring him in the face, not with Casey in his arms. But Casey caught his wrist gently.

"You were stressing about finances again, weren't you?"

"How could you tell?"

"For one thing, when I walked in, you were muttering about Port-a-Potties. For another, your monitor is littered with cancellation emails."

Dev rested his cheek against Casey's soft curls. "It's done, Casey. Our major town fundraiser is dead in the water."

"I'm so sorry, Dev." He pulled back. "This is all my fault."

Dev drew him back against his chest again. "Since you've only been here since the end of May and Home's finances have been teetering on the brink ever since I got back to town, this isn't on you. If anyone's at fault, it's me, for not staying more engaged with things. I was so caught up with the band, with music, that I left everything to Garlan and Grandfather. If I'd come back to Home more regularly, responded to their invitations more often, maybe I wouldn't be so fucking clueless."

Casey planted his palms against Dev's chest and pushed far enough away to glare. "Stop that. Stop that right this instant. You aren't the only Harrison in Home." When Dev opened his mouth to protest, Casey held up an admonitory finger. "Ah! Nope. I don't want to hear about how Ty isn't in the line of succession, or whatever stupidly archaic patriarchal tradition you've got bouncing around in your head. Saving Home is not solely your responsibility." He sighed and laid his head on Dev's shoulder. "However, the issue with the antique fair is really and truly my fault."

"How do you figure?"

"Bradley," Casey said darkly. "He's a controlling, manipulative, vindictive shithead. He's the one who arranged the rival fair at the resort expressly to get me to toe the line and come back to Manhattan and marry him." Casey shuddered. "Ugh. I wouldn't put it past him to have a BDSM dungeon in his penthouse, and that is not my scene." His brow wrinkled in thought. "If it's on the top floor of a thirty-seven-story building, would it qualify as a dungeon?"

Heat pulsed behind Dev's eyes. "Did he threaten you?"

Casey's expression softened. "No, dearheart. He threatened you. He threatened Home. Even if he'd stood a ghost of a chance with me before—which he didn't—the little chat I had with him this morning would have ensured that I booted him to the curb."

"He told me he always gets what he wants."

"Yeah, he told me that too." Casey grinned. "Guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in Evian, because he's not getting his way this time." He scrambled out of Dev's lap. "Come on."

Dev took Casey's offered hand and stood. "Where?"

"Not far. Just outside."

Dev let Casey lead him out of the office. The picnic basket still sat on the vestibule floor, but it contained more than the remains of their meal. Randolph Scott was parked on top of the gingham cloth, his paws tucked under him and his eyes closed.

Casey paused, looking down at the cat. "Did you let him in?"

"No."

"Then how does he get in here?"

Dev shrugged. "Randolph Scott writes his own rules. I'm sure even if I found his means of egress and blocked it, he'd find another way in."

"Remind me to chat with you later about childproof locks on everything in my bedroom." He pushed open the screen door and dragged Dev across the porch, down the steps, and across the driveway onto the lawn. He dropped Dev's hand and spread his arms, turning in a circle. "Look around, Dev. What do you see?"

Dev frowned. "Same stuff I always see. A house that needs a coat of paint. Oaks that are gonna drop a shit-ton of leaves in a few months. Lilacs in dire need of a trim."

"No, silly. You're seeing the trees. Maybe even the bark and the leaves. Look at the forest."

"Casey, I have no idea what you're talking about."

He planted his hands on his hips and gazed up at Dev, his expression fond but exasperated. "They say familiarity breeds contempt, but really, Dev. You've let saving Home blind you to the reasons it deserves saving."

"Are you kidding? I know why it needs saving. The people. The legacy. The community."

"Yes, all those things. But you're missing something that it has in abundance. Charm. It's a completely charming, quirky little New England town that doesn't have a strip mall or billboard anywhere in sight."

"Billboards are illegal in Vermont, anyway."

Casey glared at him. "Good to know, but will you please listen? You're so used to Home that you don't see how truly remarkable it is anymore, but I guarantee you Bradley didn't miss it. That's what he wants to exploit." His expression darkened. "And if we let that happen, he'll destroy the whole reason he wanted it in the first place, because Bradley may have a kinky side that he keeps hidden behind his preppy blazers, but it's like his life's goal is to mash down anything odd or different or interesting. Homogenize it until each item in his portfolio looks exactly like all the others, decked out in high-end Pillsbury sameness."

Dev nodded slowly. "You know, when he was talking about buying Harrison House, he harped on things that had to change."

Casey tapped his fingers on Dev's chest. "Exactly. And what makes Home so lovely is that it celebrates differences. Nobody who lives here is expected to change to meet some arbitrary yardstick of acceptability." He smiled up at Dev. "Only to be their own unique selves. Only to be happy. Only to belong."

"Okay, I get that. But what has that got to do with—"

"I know how to solve the Port-a-Potty problem," Casey blurted.

A tiny sprout of hope poked through Dev's misery. "You got the company to cancel the order?"

"Are you kidding? I'd be tempted to hold on to them and follow up on your art installation idea just so Bradley will have to hire them from Paramus or somewhere"—his grin turned mischievous—"because if it worked for the world's biggest ball of twine or biggest prairie dog, why not? But no. My thought is to put them to their original use. In fact, we might actually need more."

"By turning Home into a temporary rest stop between Hartford and Burlington? We're not exactly on the main route."

He shook his head, eyes sparkling. "By holding another event."

Dev's hope died like he'd spritzed it with weed killer. "How? The resort's cornered the market on antique vendors, and Curiosity will hardly draw enough tourist traffic to justify one Port-a-Potty, let alone two dozen."

Casey waved Dev's words away. "Not another antique fair. Not an instead-of event, because we don't want to punish the vendors. They're our friends and they're just trying to make a living, the same as we are."

Again, Casey's use of we sent a spike of joy coupled with despair spiraling through Dev's middle. He cleared his throat to dislodge its lump. "Then what?"

"An addition-to event, a draw for the antique crowd plus. A crossover event that'll benefit Home and the resort. Make us partners, not adversaries."

Hope, that herbicide-resistant bastard, sprouted once more. "What did you have in mind?"

Casey clasped his hands under his chin. "A food and music festival."

Dev blinked. "Wait a sec. You want to cook for people?"

Casey rolled his eyes. "Of course not. We don't want to turn Home into the murder capital of Vermont. But think about it. I may not be a chef myself, but over the years, I've met dozens of people in the restaurant industry. Sylvia's got connections, too, and Kat's network of local growers and suppliers is intense. One of my friends from business school got into food trucks, and I'll bet I can tap her resources."

Dev could almost see it in his mind's eye. "That… might actually work."

"Of course it will. You were in a band, right?" Casey wrapped his arms around Dev's waist. "Did you keep up any of your connections?"

"Some," Dev said cautiously. The only bridges he'd actually burned were with Nash and POV.

"Fantastic! At this late date, we'd probably need to focus on the local music scene, but that's all to the good, right? We can call it Home Grown Tastes and Tunes."

That does it. Game over.

Dev toppled straight off the cliff and into full immersion love. He picked Casey up and planned a kiss on his mouth.

"You may never be a chef, Casey, but you're brilliant. I'm all in. What do we do next?"

Before Casey could answer, Randolph Scott uttered a muffled mew. The two of them looked down in time to see him drop a dead mouse next to Dev's foot.

Casey let his forehead fall onto Dev's shoulder. "I don't suppose we can prevent him from killing rodents for the festival?"

"Don't press your luck, babe. One miracle per summer is the best we can hope for, and if we pull off the festival, that'll fill our quota."