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Bradley, once again, ignored him. Instead, he moved further into the room, his gaze lingering on the bed—although not from any amorous intent, since he was wearing that same appraising look he got when he was reviewing the linen and tableware choices for the restaurant. His gaze shifted to the bedside table, the one Kenny had delivered Casey’s first day in Home.
He ran a finger along the lustrous surface. “Who’s the artist?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“The woodcraft artist. The one who created this nightstand and the bedstead.” He turned to view the armoire. “This.” He nodded toward the desk. “And that.”
“I don’t think they were built by the same person. Or they might have been originally, but they were restored by the man who runs the repair shop here in town.”
Bradley stood and looked down his nose at Casey. “I know that you’re naïve, but anyone with a modicum of knowledge about antiques could tell that these are recently constructed, and by the hand of a true master.” He flicked a finger toward the window that overlooked the summer kitchen. “That oak and tin monstrosity in the cooking school was as well, unless I miss my guess, and I never do.”
“The pie safe? No, Sylvia said Kenny found it at an estate sale and refurbished it for her.”
Bradley’s smile somehow hit an equal balance of condescending and avaricious. “If everybody in this place is as ignorant as you and this… this Sylvia, then it’s clearly my duty to…”
His smile faded and his eyes widened in the closest to shock Casey had ever seen on his face. “That’s a Rafe Wetherell. An original Rafe Wetherell. What in blazes is it doing here, of all places?”
Casey followed the direction of Bradley’s gaze. “The painting?”
“Yes, the painting,” he said testily. “Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know. There’s an artists’ collective in town, so maybe he’s part of it?”
Bradley gave him a withering look. “Really, Casey, I know you’re naive, but no artist with Rafe Wetherell’s stature would be part of a backwoods artists’ collective. The last privately held Wetherell sold at auction last year for nearly three hundred thousand dollars. Most of them are in museums. No new canvases have surfaced for at least two years.” His expression altered, turning decidedly sly and smug. “This puts an entirely different spin on things.”
The knot in Casey’s stomach was back, because while he didn’t trust Bradley at the best of times, he really didn’t trust him when he got that look—like Randolph Scott after he’d stolen a trout from Pete’s fishing creel. Casey was surprised he didn’t rub his hands together and cackle.
As though thinking about Randolph Scott had conjured him, the cat poked his head over the edge of the armoire and peered down at Bradley with slitted golden eyes. He reached down with one six-toed paw and slowly, so delicately that Bradley didn’t notice anything, hooked a claw in Bradley’s perfectly arranged quiff, and pulled up one lock so it stood like a question mark atop Bradley’s head.
Casey choked back a laugh. He looks just like the Tastee-Freez guy. Should I say something? I should say something. Casey opened his mouth, but then Bradley cast another proprietary gaze around the room.
“Since you’re determined to act like a child, I’ll tender your regrets to the developer who’s even now awaiting us at the resort and hope that I can convince him that our enterprises deserve his serious consideration.” He nodded, causing the little loop to bob jauntily.
Nah.
He let Bradley parade out of the room and then grinned up at Randolph Scott. “Good kitty.”
Running later in the day was a royal pain in the ass.
The weather had warmed enough now that the sun was almost too hot on his head and shoulders, whether he was wearing a shirt or not. But if he wanted to avoid Casey—and Dev had been on a mission to do just that for the two days since the fiancé bombshell—he had to make sure Casey was already ensconced in the summer kitchen with Sylvia before he headed out.
With every pace, every thwap of his trainers against the asphalt, Dev’s inner litany was damn damn damn. He’d always prided himself on his ability to judge a person’s character. It was a Harrison family trait. They all had it, although Ty preferred to exercise his abilities on animals, not people.
Dev had never been so wrong before. For instance, he’d spotted Nash’s inner self-centered asshole from the moment they’d met, but his voice and stage presence had been worth it at first. Their relationship had been secondary to the music for Dev as well, so he could hardly fault Nash for his reaction when Dev left the band.
He’d always suspected that Nash felt that betrayal, his abandonment of POV, more deeply than their own breakup. If Dev were honest with himself, he hadn’t been that different. He’d missed the band more than Nash, but both those aches had been buried under the loss of Garlan and Grandfather.
So why had Dev picked up his guitar last night for the first time in months and started picking out a song—an unrequited love song, for fuck’s sake—about Casey?
Damn damn damn.
Dev had been certain—as certain as he’d ever been about anything—that Casey was a stand-up guy. Loyal. Honest. Hopeless in the kitchen maybe, but a good man.
How could I have misjudged him so badly? So far from being a good man, Casey was a guy who’d cheat on his fiancé, who’d had no trouble putting Dev in the position of being a dirty little secret.
He slowed his punishing pace outside the Market, resting his hands on his thighs. Okay, so I’m a dirty big secret.
The Market door banged open. Shit! Had Casey figured out his avoidance strategy? Dev forced himself to rise slowly and grabbed one foot to stretch his quads. Nothing to see here. Just an average run. At an average pace. On an average route. At the wrong time of day.
