Home.
Normally, the smell resets me. But today it’s competing with something else that’s been sitting in the back of my skull since I snuck out of that hotel room: her scent.
It’s a trackless ghost of a fragrance, but it’s still clinging, very faintly, to my skin and the threads of my ruined shirt (the only reason I haven’t thrown it out).
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
I need to find her. The second I have a minute, I’ll call the hotel front desk, see if they can give me a name or a number for the guest in Room 314. But right now, the orchard is waiting, and I have to look my brothers in the eye and tell them the very reason I went to that resort in the first place was a bust.
The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull around the back of the cottage, cut the engine and sit for a second. I breathe out slowly, rubbing a hand over my face, and stepping out.
I cross the yard toward the cottage, skip the third porch step and pull the handle. The screen door groans, a familiar metallic screech, and I push inside. I look past the pile of mud-caked boots kicked against the wall, past the worn plaid sofas and the stone hearth, my eyes locking onto the kitchen island at the far side of the space.
Bram is standing there, one hand flat on a spread of papers, the other holding a mug of black coffee. He’s in a flannel with the sleeves rolled up, jaw set.
To his left, Reed is leaning against the sink, slowly tossing a small green apple from hand to hand. He grins the second he catches sight of me, his dark green eyes flashing.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Reed says, dropping the apple and running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Nice shirt, Ash. Did you lose a fight with a lawnmower, or is buttonless the new hot thing in resorts?”
Bram glances up, his deep brown eyes, heavy, tracking the torn threads of my shirt before locking directly onto mine.
“Long story,” I say, dropping my keys on the counter.
Bram sets his mug down. “So, how did it go?”
There it is.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, the venue was beautiful. I made some solid contacts, had a few promising conversations—”
“And the investor?” He cuts in.
I freeze. His eyes are still locked onto mine, holding a desperate flicker of hope that twists a knife into my gut.
“The investor passed.” My voice drops.
Bram looks down. He exhales, a long, deflating breath that rounds his shoulders, dropping his head.
“He said the market’s tight, that he’s overextended on two other ventures, and that he’d reconsider in a few months,” I say, doing my best to keep a straight face. “I pushed. Gave him the projections, the five-year outlook, the whole deck. He liked it. He just didn’t bite.”
“Fuck, we needed this,” he says. Low. Tired. “The press is shot. The bottling line is held together with duct tape. We’ve got three months of operating capital, maybe four if we cut the seasonal hires, and that means we’re running harvest with a skeleton crew on equipment that should’ve been replaced two years ago.”
Each word hits my chest.
“I know,” I say.
“If we don’t get an investor by mid-October, we’re looking at selling the south parcel. And you know what that means... once you start carving pieces off, it’s just a matter of time before—”
“Iknow, Bram.”
The kitchen clock ticks in the silence. Bram straightens, running a hand through his light brown hair.
“Hey. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to come at you. You made the pitch. You did the work.”
Yeah. And I still came back empty-handed.
I shift my weight, staring at a grease stain on the linoleum.
My value to this pack is built on the close. I’m the one who reads the room, finds the angle, and walks out with the signature. It’s the one thing I’m supposed to be good at. I went to that resort to keep our lights on, and walked out empty-handed. If I can’t carry my weight when the orchard is on the line, what good am I?
