“Ah,” Bonita murmurs with exaggerated recognition. “Breaker of chairs and potential dog food.”
I tamp down my temper—I probably deserved that. I mean, it’s totally disrespectful to a potential client, but somehow I doubt Harlow Alston would fire her for impertinence.
“I need to make an appointment with Ms. Alston,” I say, my tone polite, which is really hard because anything dealing with my brother’s death induces a simmering irritation.
“Of course, you do,” she says merrily, and I hear her clacking away on her keyboard. “I know how busy you are, Mr. Dumelin. What’s convenient for you and your game schedule?”
I wasn’t expecting that level of consideration, given that I pretty much barreled past her into her boss’s office.
“I have a home game tomorrow, so that’s out. Friday, we’ll have a mid-morning meeting and light skate, so I could do Friday afternoon, if she’s available.”
“Hmm.” More clacking on her keyboard. “She can see you at three p.m., if that works.”
“That works.”
“Dress warm,” she says.
I blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“It’s going to snow, and she likes to have fun with her clients. She insists on making snow angels out on the sidewalk.”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stare stupidly at it before putting it back. “Snow angels?”
“Just kidding,” she chirps, laughing at my bewilderment. “But I know she wants to take you to your brother’s condo, which is only a few blocks away, so it’s easier to walk. In other words, wear something you can walk through the snow in.”
“Um, okay.” I still have that feeling like I’m in the Twilight Zone with this woman, a bit on edge she might spring something else weird on me. But then I remember something more important. “The chair.”
“Ah, yes,” she says, voice dropping low in sorrow. “Poor chair. Poor Harlow, her legacy destroyed.”
I wince, not knowing if she’s exaggerating the personal loss. “I’d like to have it fixed.”
“That’s wonderful!” she exclaims joyfully. “I’ll call up Mr. Hepplewhite to let him know and… oh, wait… he died in 1768.”
“Now listen, lady,” I growl.
“Hourglass Restoration,” she cuts in over me.
“Hourglass Restoration,” I repeat, it dawning on me that’s the name of the company that does such things.
“I did some research yesterday after you left.”
I take that to mean she’s got the repairs well in hand, and it would be very easy for me to direct her to send me the bill. But while my guilt-riddled conscience would never let me take any affirmative steps toward reaching out to my brother, it’s pushing me to do something more than just pay for the Hepplewhite’s damage.
“I’ll take the chair with me on Friday and handle the repairs.”
The woman seems dumbstruck, because she doesn’t say anything. The silence is so extended, I say, “Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry… had to pick my jaw up off the floor.”
I roll my eyes, and I have a feeling I’ve awoken her inner sarcasm monster, and it’s not going into hiding with me. “See you Friday at three,” I mutter.
“Can’t wait,” she quips, and I can almost envision the joy on her face in giving me a hard time. “It will be all I’ll think about until then.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Instead, I just hang up.
CHAPTER 7
Harlow
Glancing down at my laptop clock, I note that it’s getting close to three. I’m drafting a Complaint against a slumlord who refuses to fix the heating units in several apartments, asking the court to grant immediate relief. In other words, tell the landlord to get off his cheap ass and give these people some heat.
Three of the families just hired me today, and I’ve been researching and working on nothing but this case since. I’ll have Bonita run over to the courthouse to file the Complaint, and I’ve asked the court to set a hearing for Monday. I hate that I can’t do anything until then, but the justice system closes down on weekends.
I save the Complaint and shoot it over to Bonita via email with instructions to get the accompanying documents and filing fee ready. She’ll have it for me to sign on my way out the door to show Stone the condo Brooks left him. No matter what he decides to do—keep the properties or give them to charity—those will require the most work, and I want to start on that first. Thus, the reason I want him to see the condo today.
Bending over, I rub my hand along Odin’s hip as he snoozes. It wakes him, and he stretches his legs, lifting his head to give me a bleary but lopsided loll of the tongue, which I equate to a smile.
“You going to be good and not eat Mr. Dumelin today?” I ask him.
He pants happily as I scratch his butt, then lets his head flop back down.
The intercom on my phone buzzes, and I tap the button. Bonita’s voice rings clear. “Your three o’clock, Mr. Dumelin, is here.”
“Send him in,” I reply, and she disconnects.
I stand from my chair, tugging down the hem of my Fair Isle sweater I wore today over fitted jeans. Because I knew it was going to snow, I have on a pair of weatherproof boots with shearling inside.
My office door opens, and Stone Dumelin walks in. Bonita had called him a hottie, but I couldn’t appreciate any of it. But as I take him in—walking calmly rather than stomping—I can definitely see the resemblance to Brooks. Same dark-golden hair that somehow looks sun-streaked, longish all over and messy in a styled looking way. They definitely share the same hazel eyes that are on the lighter side, and the propensity to not shave. He’s got a good three days’ growth on his face, which he wears very, very well, but I don’t think it’s intentional. He doesn’t seem the type who gives a shit what he looks like. Overall, it’s a gruff, masculine aura he presents, but whereas Brooks always had a perpetual light in his eyes, Stone’s seem a little dead.
Walking around my desk, I hold out my hand. “I’m glad you came back.”
As we shake, his eyes cut to my left. I glance back to see that Odin has risen and is staring intently at Stone. He’s not growling, and his ears aren’t pinned back, but he radiates a little hostility, if I’m reading my dog right.
“He won’t hurt you.” My attempt to reassure Stone is met with a skeptical look as our hands separate.
Damn, his eyes really are pretty up close. Lighter than Brooks’s were, and I swear, his lashes are downright thicker.
“Have a seat,” I say, motioning to the two placeholder chairs Bonita brought in from the small conference room. I have no clue what she did with my Hepplewhite pair, but she said she’d take care of finding the best repair place.
Stone glances at the new seating before giving me what appears to be an earnest look of apology. “I didn’t mean to break your chair. I’ve arranged with your receptionist to take it with me today, and I’ve found a good place that will restore it.”
I blink in surprise. Bonita hadn’t said a word to me about it, and it’s far more than I expected from him. I didn’t even expect an apology, to be honest. I don’t think Stone is inherently a dick, but whatever his emotional malfunctions, he’s clearly acting out poorly. I decide to give him a little grace.