Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

CLAY

The man yells something at me while I drive off, and I swear under my breath as I press the gas.

Hell of a way to arrive to Buffalo. I drive all night from Missouri, then get myself lost when I'm in striking distance of the city. With everything I own packed into the back of the truck, it's killing me to burn gas, driving around aimlessly with no signal on my phone.

I cruise down the highway, wet and a little miserable.

All I did was pull over, and that guy panicked and threw himself into a ditch like I was Frankenstein's monster. Shit like that is why I like to stick to myself. I'm awkward around other people, and I come across like an asshole without meaning to. I feel bad that I scared that guy, but what the hell am I supposed to do?

Sure, my truck is loud. And maybe I had a weird response when I saw him. It was the same smiley guy from earlier, dressed in clothes that don't fit him and bright-eyed so early in the morning. This time, though, he was holding a basket of bright purple flowers.

Something about that surprised me, and I reacted.

Not in a bad way. The sudden burst of color just caught me off guard. I don't know.

And possibly in that moment, I pressed on the gas without meaning to. But even if I did, I hit the brake immediately, and I was nowhere near ramming him.

Whatever. My plan is to drive to Buffalo, sell the building I just inherited, and never think of any of this again. I've finally had one stroke of good luck in my life, and I'm going to take the damn money and run.

When I get to town, I quickly find my new building. It's right in the middle of a fairly busy street, and the weekday crowd is coming alive. The red brick fa?ade is like in the pictures I saw online, except more weathered. The roof clearly needs some attention, too.

Definitely a fixer-upper. I'm officially a journeyman carpenter now, and a fixer-upper would be a treat, except this one is in Buffalo. Despite having a grandpa who lived here, apparently, I know nothing about this place except that it's cold as hell.

And I can't stick around anyway. After I cash out, I've got big plans back in Missouri.

I rumble down the block, a mix of residential and businesses, surprised by how happy everyone seems.

It's actually not right that so many people are smiling before ten in the morning.

There's nowhere to park and no driveway at the building, so I end up a couple of blocks away. Suspicious of new places, I tighten down the tarps and check the locks on the back of my truck, ensuring there's no easy way to access my worldly possessions, all crammed together in cardboard boxes and heavy-duty trash bags.

Grumbling to myself and exhausted from the ride, I walk first into a coffee shop, needing fuel if I'm going to fight off sleep a few more hours. There's meditative music on the speakers and city people in expensive clothes hurrying around like they think they're so goddamn important, and I stare at the ground until I order my large black coffee.

Should have changed out of my dirty t-shirt and mud-splattered jeans in the truck. I'm sticking out like a sore thumb.

I hitch my backpack over my shoulder, take the coffee, and haul my ass back outside.

This is not my world.

Unfortunately, my world isn't my world anymore either.

A week ago, it all looked so clear. I finished my apprenticeship, and I passed the last union exam, making me a journeyman. After four years apprenticing as a rough carpenter with my crew, though, my boss blindsided me, telling me they won't be taking on a new journeyman after all.

Meaning he just wanted me as long as I was cheap labor.

Right as I was supposed to move into a new rental house, an upgrade to go along with my expected raise. And my old place was already rented out to someone else—good job me in turning down the lease renewal.

I grumble to myself about how terrible this world is. After working my ass off for years, I should have known I'd just get tossed aside again in the end.

The red brick building rises up in front of me, squat between a ramshackle antique store, its wood exterior painted white, and a new-construction condo with three sleek floors. In the window of the brick building, my building, I see a riot of color, flowers that seem to be overflowing the interior, threatening to spill out. The word Blossom is written on the glass in pink curly script, and there's a little wooden bench by the door with hearts carved onto it.

I drink my coffee and stare, trying to take it in.

Bet that flower guy this morning would love this place.

I wonder if the people who rent the flower shop want to buy the building. They must have known my grandpa if he lived upstairs. Unless he was a total recluse.

Maybe I should be a recluse. Sounds relaxing.

As a general rule, I don't worry myself about my family. My dad left when I was a toddler, and from what Mom told me before she passed, he wasn't in contact with his parents, either. That road just leads to a bunch of closed doors, and there's enough to feel shitty about without ruminating over people who ditched you.

Except my grandpa apparently knew something about me. At least that I existed. And I guess I'm about to learn something about him. Given he left me this building, he must not have had other family, so I reason his stuff is still upstairs.

There's a slim alley between the brick building and the antique store, wide enough for two people to walk down and closed from the street with a black wrought-iron gate. As I stand there, examining the building with my eyes, a shorter woman, probably in her fifties, emerges down the alley. She opens the gate and pauses as she looks at me.

She has about the same haircut as mine, number six with the clippers, and a blue collared work shirt that's paired with jeans. The woman slightly tightens her brow as she considers me, suspicious, and I frown in response.

I'm too tired for a hard time right now.

She turns and walks back down the alley, stalking to the rear again, probably back to the antique store.

I scrub my hand over my face. No use delaying. There's a side door that seems to lead upstairs, and when I try the key, it works.

As expected, some of his stuff is left, although on closer look, it's clear someone has been through. There are shadows and nail holes on the wall to show where pictures once hung. Wooden shelves sit largely empty, and when I step into the kitchen, there are random items scattered among the largely bare cupboards, some of which are open.

The lights work, which is a relief, and I turn them all on and open the windows as I take proper stock. I cleaned myself off as best I could with a towel in the truck, but I'm still damp from the ditch, so I get in the shower, lingering in the hot water.

I never knew my grandfather, but now he has died and I'm in his house, which I own.

Fantastically weird.

I walk around in a towel.

The place is large, with two bedrooms and a small office. Bigger than anywhere I've lived. It's got old wood flooring and some fixtures that look original, and wide windows that overlook the busy street below as well as the backyard and the neighbor's house. I put on some pants and check the pipes and guts, and open up all the closets and cupboards.

I find plenty of needed repairs, but they aren't too disastrous.

Nothing that remains seems to betray anything personal about my grandpa, and I push aside the curiosity that comes with being in his place, focusing on what matters.

This is going to sell for a lot of money.

I lay my hands on my belly, and I start chuckling. A warm, soothing feeling eases through me, a lifetime of financial stress beginning to melt away.

In a busy city neighborhood like this, with a brand-new development right next door, I have no doubt buyers will line up. The building needs some work, clearly, but that doesn't matter. I'm going to walk away from this with a fat wad of cash in my pocket.

Maybe I'll enjoy a little time off, a vacation somewhere warm. But then I'm taking that money back to Missouri, and I'm using it to start my own business. Something that will provide for me and my crew for the rest of my life.

Real security. Not having to rely on anyone else but me.

As I walk around examining the rooms, my eye catches on a photograph. It looks like it's been dropped under the bed, and when I bend, I see a man that looks like me.

So much like me that I startle and have to sit back on my ass, plopping on the hard floor.

Dark hair, heavy eyebrows, and no smile for the camera. He wears a T-shirt and raises up a can of beer.

Before I can think, I throw the photo back under the bed. My heart pounds.

I can deal with that later.

I've got business to do before I can crash and sleep off this drive. First, I find the folder that the bank left me. It's apparently got more information about what they called "the particulars of his estate." There's one kitchen chair left, wooden and wobbly, and I sit in it as I take a quick look, curiosity helping me clear my bleary eyes.

The documents are filled with technical talk, but I decipher mention of multiple tenants on the deed. Another form shows someone named Susan and another, Nancy, but maybe they're not here anymore.

There can't be anyone in addition to the flower shop. Where would another apartment even fit?

The financial documents frustrate me, indecipherable, so I push them aside. I'm ready for sleep, but first I need to go downstairs and introduce myself to the florist. Otherwise, they might hear me taking a piss and call the police or barge in themselves.

Hell, they might not even know I exist.

Downstairs, a little bell dings over the door as I step inside. The sweet scent of flowers is heavy in the air, and I blink as I inhale it. Blooming green plants surround me, crowding from every angle, and a sappy old love song hums through the speakers.

There's a man in a stylish blue suit walking out, and he's got a full bouquet in his hand. "Thanks, Nicholas. You're a lifesaver," he calls over his shoulder.

"Don't worry. I never forget your date night," a familiar voice replies. "It's been regular for almost six years now!"

I'm accidentally blocking the door, and when the man smiles at me, I offer an apology grunt and step aside. The door dings and swings shut, and I turn. Behind the counter, I see the man from this morning.

The world tilts at a strange angle. My brain refuses to process the information.

He's wearing a pinstripe suit jacket with a T-shirt underneath, and he has the same wide eyes that I recognize from the ditch, flashing with hazel, and smooth, honey-toned skin. Round-cheeked and carefully poised, he could almost be a statue, frozen as he stares back. His light brown hair is messy, and his pink lips are pursed to the side.

"What are you doing here?" I bark out, confused.

"What are you doing here?" he asks with a warm laugh, finally moving as he crosses his arms over his chest. "I own this shop."

Motherfuck.

"About that," I tell him. "Now I kind of own it, too."