Brook’s control is also starting to fracture, her voice going up a notch. "I've filed every permit correctly and followed every regulation to the letter. You can't just—"
“Even anonymous complaints require investigation.” Henderson interrupts, pulling out a form that looks suspiciously like a stop-work order.
An approaching vehicle pulls in and heads our way. We all turn toward the road with the instinctive wariness.
“Whitmores,” Brook hisses under her breath.
I narrow my eyes. The black Mercedes SUV that pulls into the gravel lot has timing that's too perfect for it to be a coincidence. Eleanor Whitmore emerges first, every silver hair perfectly styled, and her linen suit pressed. She surveys the scene with calculating blue eyes that seem out of place in her otherwise grandmotherly appearance. This is what evil looks like when it learns to wear pearls.
Ford gets out of the driver's seat. I thought this day couldn't get worse—Brittany's photo, Henderson's threats, the weight of everything riding on this event—but somehow Ford manages to prove me wrong just by showing up. Seeing him again sends a cocktail of old wounds and fresh anger through my system.
Could he be the one sending those texts? I study his expression as he approaches, looking for some sign. There’s nothing but I can’t stop wondering if he moved from ignoring me to harassing me.
He's wearing elephant leather boots and a pressed shirt that’s starched all the way to Sunday. Twenty-seven years of wondering what was wrong with me that my own father could walk away, and here he stands—successful, confident, and not one spec of the shame he should wear. It’s a cruel twist of fate that he hasn’t morphed into an ogre by now.
"Dave, what's all the commotion?" Eleanor uses the inspector's first name with casual familiarity that speaks volumes about her influence in this town. It’s a power move, meant to show us that she’s in charge.
I huff and turn away from Ford. I can’t look at him anymore.
Henderson straightens. "Mrs. Whitmore. Just conducting an inspection based on an anonymous complaint."
"How thorough of you." Eleanor's smile could send a wolf into a panic attack. She steps closer to examine our architectural plans with interest. Brook steps between her and the tailgate, blocking her view.
"How ambitious," Eleanor murmurs. "Was that an apartment I saw?"
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I could smack this woman.
"It's a bridal room," Brook explains with professional precision. "Completely within commercial zoning regulations."
Ford makes a noise that sounds like he doesn’t believe her. Henderson glances at him out of the corner of his eye and takes a careful step away from him.
Eleanor's eyes sharpen. "Of course. Of course. … Although …”
She is so obvious I almost want to laugh.
“I imagine it must be quite convenient, having somewhere for overnight guests now that Kinsley's settled into the cottage so... permanently." Her eyes cut to me.
My stomach clenches with unease. I do not like the idea of anyone in the Whitmore clan knowing where I sleep at night. The idea makes my skin crawl.
The violation of my privacy hits me in waves. I gulp and turn to Ford. “Are you stalking me? Are you trying to scare me off? Because your threats won’t work on me, old man.”
Ford's expression doesn't change. "Small towns talk, Kinsley. People notice things."
"People don't notice where someone sleeps at night unless they're specifically looking for that information." My hands are trembling now, and I shove them into my pockets to hide the shaking. "What kind of man spies on the daughter he's spent twenty-seven years ignoring?"
Brook makes a surprised noise, and I cringe. She didn’t know Ford is my father. I can’t believe no one told her. I mean, the only person I told was Wyatt and it seems likeWyatt kept my confidence. That says something about him, but I can’t unpack it right now.
I continue to glare at Ford. For the first time since he arrived, he looks uncomfortable. But not ashamed. Never ashamed.
Brook manages to pick her jaw up off the ground. I owe her an apology, and she’ll get it as soon as we take care of the inspector.
Eleanor lifts a shoulder. "Well, I'm sure Dave will do his job thoroughly," she says with gracious satisfaction. "These regulations exist for good reason, after all and his enforcement of them is how he keeps his job." She turns on her heel and heads toward her SUV.
Ford’s gaze slides over me, assessing me. Weird. I almost feel like he’s making sure I don’t have any bruises or physical damage. It’s almost like he cares. Which is ridiculous. The man cares more about his horse than he does for me. I'm not sure what to make of that look. Is it a warning? I have no idea, and I feel like I'm crossing a river on wobbly stones.
Henderson, emboldened by Eleanor's threat to get him fired, straightens his clipboard with renewed authority. "Stop-work order stands pending further investigation," he announces, tearing off an official form and thrusting it at Brook.
I want to hate him for it—but the only thing I can hold against him is that he’s a coward.