Page 45 of Brewbies
“Don’t much get along with anybody, do you?”
A rebuttal rose instantly in Darby’s throat but was blocked by a word that had been stuck there for the last seven years.
Estranged.
From her mother. From her older brother, Daniel, who had once watched over her as carefully as a manic hen. To know he was out there in the world waking up every morning putting on his suit and tie, going to work in the Dunwell law firm, fully aware of her presence but deciding his life would be better without it, opened an ache in Darby’s chest that threatened to swallow her whole.
The distance that her refusal to let her parents stage-manage her illness had created had been firmly cemented by her lifestyle choices in the wake of her recovery.
Ethan cleared his throat, snapping her out of the unpleasant memory.
“Did you say something?”
“I asked you if you wanted me to put a new top piece on this,” he said, holding up her shoe. “Looks like the other one’s worn down to the nails.”
Though she had no idea what a top piece was, she deduced by context that it was the bit on the bottom of the heel. She’d known one had gone missing from this pair, as she sounded somewhat pirate-like when she’d been walking across the marble floor of Townsend First National Bank earlier this afternoon.
“Sure.” Darby shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
“I’ll need your other shoe. Don’t want them to be uneven or it could potentially impact your gait.”
Darby leaned down and scooped her other vintage peep-toe pump from beneath the swing’s bench. “Catch,” she said, lobbing it toward Ethan’s head. He got his hands up just in time, she was only somewhat sorry to note.
Ethan planted the heel of the shoe on his workbench with slightly more force than may have been strictly necessary and set to work.
Darby watched as he pried the top piece off and applied the resin to the stump, his long fingers quick and sure. She could feel her eyelids getting heavier with each stroke of his brush. Without meaning to, she began to drift off, lulled by the steady creak of the swing as it glided back and forth.
Daylight was failing when Darby woke, the shadows cast by Ethan’s pieces stretching long purple fingers across the floor. Sunset light poured a honeyed glow through the windows, making the wood shop look like a storybook illustration. Her freshly polished shoes perched on his worktable’s gleaming surface like something left by a helpful elf in a fairytale.
Only when she shifted on the bench did she register that a flannel shirt had been draped over her like a blanket.
Stealing a guilty glance around the empty shop, Darby fisted a handful of the supple fabric and pressed it against her nose. Her eyes fell closed as she inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of Ethan out of its fibers. Damned if the sheriff wasn’t some kind of man-brosia, forever emitting a pheromone speedball that hit her hormones like a cattle prod.
“It’s Downy.”
Darby nearly leapt out of her skin at the sound of Ethan’s voice. Jerking the flannel away from her face, she quickly swung her legs off the bench to turn herself.
He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips as he regarded her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
He’d changed from his dirt-streaked work clothes to well-worn jeans and—oh sweet Jesus—a plain white undershirt.
Her very own sartorial kryptonite.
Alarm bells clanged in her head.
If she didn’t get out of here, and fast, she was in imminent danger of chipping one of her caps on his abdominals when she tore that t-shirt with her teeth.
“How long was I out?” she asked, smoothing her hands over her dress as she scooted to the edge of the bench.
“Half an hour,” he said, walking back to his worktable. “Found the time to do a little more on your shoes.” Lifting one of the pumps, he aimed the bottom toward her. “The outsoles were pretty shot, so I replaced them with a weather-treated leather and hit it with a little PVC sealant. Should provide better traction come winter.”
Darby cocked her head at him. “You seem to know an awful lot about women’s footwear. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone has a fetish.”
Something in his expression shifted, the playfulness abruptly evaporating from his features. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” Darby asked.
“Know better.”
