“Savings . . . checking . . . retirement . . . IRA . . . CDs . . .”
He could sell his personal truck and just drive the work truck. If he pulled all the crap around his house together and sold it on Craigslist, he’d make a few hundred. Now that he wasn’t wasting his free time doing charity work to bring in money for his father’s campaign, he could pick up odd jobs on the weekend. Easy tile, masonry, or carpentry gigs. Handyman stuff. He could make a couple thousand a month—
No. He scratched that idea off the list. He made more money off his beer.
His mind circled back to his house, and he reconsidered the renovation and refinancing to pull some money out. If he could focus his free time on the upgrades, he could have it ready for appraisal in maybe three, four months. He could get fifty grand there.
But after adding that to the equation, Ethan still didn’t have enough to pull this damn brewpub off.
“Jeeeezus.” He closed his eyes, let his hand slide from his hair to rub his forehead, then pushed it back in and refocused. “What if I doubled production?”
He jotted the numbers that would result if he did nothing but work and produce beer with a little renovation here and a little sleep there.
Then threw the pencil down and covered his face with both hands.
His head throbbed. His heart ached. He was so goddamned . . . unhappy.
Unhappy?
What a stupid thought. He didn’t even know what “happy” was anymore. He hadn’t been “happy” a day since Ian died.
A memory flashed in his head. One of Delaney lying atop him in one of those languid moments they’d shared in bed. Of her head resting on one hand, her hair falling like a fiery waterfall, her other hand combing through his damp hair. Of the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, and the way she listened to everything he said as if he were the only man in the world.
He was wrong. He had been happy.
He’d been happy in those stolen moments with her.
His shoulders softened, his breath released in a slow stream, and he let his forehead fall to his forearms on the workbench.
How do I get her back?
And how do I keep her?
Suddenly it was all he wanted.
“What a mess.”
His murmur was punctuated by the scrape of his warehouse door opening, turning his mood from defeated to feral. This misery sure as shit didn’t want any goddamned company.
He lifted his head, ready to tell whoever had walked in to get the hell out, but his words froze when his eyes settled on Delaney.
She was scanning the warehouse, which made Ethan realize it was darker than usual inside. He’d turned on only one light.
“Ethan Hayes,” she yelled, her voice an eerie blend of fury and . . . fear? “I know you’re here. Get your butt out—”
“Delaney.” He spoke softly, but she still jumped and backed away. The look on her face pumped ice into Ethan’s heart and pushed him to his feet. “I’m right here.”
She bumped into the corner of a workbench, reached out to steady herself, and knocked a box of just-cleaned bottles to the floor. Ethan bolted off his stool as her shriek was swallowed by the smash of breaking glass. Delaney stumbled to avoid the shards and rolling half bottles and pitched sideways, right into Ethan’s arms.
“Whoa.” He held her to him and lifted her off her feet to step back and out of the mess before he set her down. That’s when he realized how badly she was shaking. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“No.” Her hands pried at his arms, and she pulled away. She turned on him, and her expression was a mess of raw, painful emotions he’d never seen before. “It’s not okay. You told Austin—” Her words cut off, and she tried again, her face twisted in a sick kind of agony. “You told Austin we slept together?”
“What? No. Never. I would never—”
“He knows, Ethan.” She was breathing hard, and when she lifted her hand to her face, Ethan realized there were tears glistening there. “I sure as hell didn’t tell him, so tell me how he knows.”
Ethan lifted his hands out to the side. “Are you sure he knows?”