All Wrapped Up (A Pine Mountain Novel) (25 page)

Her heart sank like the anchor on an ocean liner. “You can’t run this story, Gary.”

“Well, you’re finally right about
something.”

Hope flickered, sweet and low in Ava’s chest. But then Gary stomped it out with a thin, humorless smile.

“You have twenty-four hours to get me a story on this guy that will
sell
papers. I want all of this”—he gave the report in Ava’s fingers a hard tap—“included as part of the deal. And believe me when I tell you your job
is
on the line here.”

“I won’t do it.” The words vaulted
from her mouth automatically, and Ava backed them up with her stare. She’d just signed her own walking papers, she knew, but she didn’t care. Yes, she believed Brennan’s story deserved to be told. But not like this.

Not when it would do more harm than good.

“What did you say?” Gary asked, but no way was she backing down now.

“I said, I’m not writing the article. A firefighter from Station
Eight died in this apartment fire, and it tore the whole house apart. I refuse to sensationalize a tragedy for the sake of selling papers or saving my job.” Ava gripped the report in her hand hard enough to put a dent in the pages, her entire body filling with strength she’d had no clue she possessed. “I did all the research. I know all the facts. And I won’t write it.”

“Oh, I think you will,”
Gary said, slithering in for the deathblow. “Because if you don’t,
I
will.”

Panic stole the breath from Ava’s lungs. “You can’t.”

Of course, they both knew she was wrong. Gary hissed, “I can, and I will. Granted, it’ll be a monumental pain in the ass to root through all your goody-goody research to find anything I can really use, but one way or another, this story is happening, Mancuso. And
it’s happening today.”

He stalked past his desk, serving up a stare that marked his words as all truth and no bluff, and in that moment, Ava knew she had no escape.

“It’s up to you which one of us gets to tell it.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brennan stared holes at the touch-screen on the Double Shot’s bar register without seeing a damned thing. He’d been back in Pine Mountain for just over twenty-four hours, working without pause for nearly half of them, yet he couldn’t calm the restless ache at the bottom of his gut. He knew this place like his own reflection, could run the front of the house from a sleep
state, even in a busy dinner shift. The work was a constant barrage of go-go-go, just the way Brennan wanted it.

So why the hell couldn’t it calm him?

“Who pissed in your Post Toasties?” Adrian’s question took Brennan by surprise, although judging from the big guy’s comfortable lean against the alcove behind the bar, he’d clearly been there for a minute or two.

“Straight to the point, as
always,” Brennan said, his attempt at sarcasm sprawling flat on its face between them.

“And you’re dodging the question. As always.” Adrian folded his arms over his parking lot of a chest, and damn it, Brennan really wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Now that the dinner rush is over, I’m going to check on inventory.” He ducked his head to slip out of the alcove, only to meet an immovable expanse
of chef’s whites and surly attitude.

“You already did that twenty minutes ago. You want to try again?”

Damn it. It figured Adrian had seen Brennan check the walk-in as soon as the shift had slowed. “For the record, it’s kind of creepy how Big Brother you are in this place.”

Adrian rolled his eyes, waving his meat hook of a hand in a
give it up
type motion, and Brennan caved.

“Fine. I’m
just trying to stay busy, okay? It helps me sort shit out.” Usually, anyway. Tonight, the whole routine was just making him restless.

“Why don’t you stay busy by bringing your reporter a refill? She’s working really hard, and it looks like she’s had a rough day. Bet she could use the sugar rush.”

Brennan followed Adrian’s gaze to the spot where Ava sat, halfway across the restaurant. She’d
passed up her regular spot at the end of the bar in favor of a private booth off the beaten path, explaining her change in location with a tough deadline and a tougher article. Her beautiful face was shadowed by weary frown lines as she dropped her chin to read the notebook in front of her, and Brennan’s conscience slapped him with a double serving of guilt.

She might be lost in work right now,
but Ava was also as tough as they came. Just because she hadn’t admitted that he’d hurt her feelings yesterday didn’t change the fact that he’d probably done so.

Brennan hadn’t meant to push her away when she’d suggested he work things out with Alex and Cole. The knee-jerk reaction of trying to forget the past had just shoved the response right out of him. His frustration over not being able
to change any of it had done the rest.

He might not be able to change what had gone down, but talking about it with her wasn’t really the worst idea. Maybe that’s what would help him move on, once and for freaking all.

Brennan snuck a glance across the Double Shot’s sparsely populated dining room. The dark circles smudged beneath Ava’s normally sparkling eyes betrayed her, and he exhaled,
hard. God, he was an ass. An ass who owed her an apology and an explanation. Which Adrian had clearly picked up on, even though he didn’t know the particulars.

“Thanks for the advice, you old softie,” Brennan said, one corner of his mouth lifting in the approximation of a smile. Adrian returned the favor, clapping him on the shoulder before taking a step back.

“You’re welcome. But if you ever
call me soft again, I’ll end you, brother.”

“And they say you have no heart.”

Adrian muttered a semi-audible suggestion involving different body parts, but Brennan caught the guy’s smirk as he turned to walk back toward the kitchen. Grabbing a clean pint glass from the shelf next to the register, Brennan poured the now-familiar combination of iced tea and lemonade.

“Oooh, are you taking
that to Ava?” Annabelle made her way behind the bar, keying in an order at the register while fishing a bottle of Budweiser, then another from the cooler at her hip.

“Sure am.”

Annabelle’s bottle opener clinked against the glass as she treated each lid to an expert lift and flick. “Can you drop these with Jackson and Shane at table seventeen first? I’ve gotta run to the kitchen to see if their
wings are up. Last
Monday Night Football
game of the year, you know?”

Brennan shot a gaze at the oversized flat screen on the far wall. “Can’t let the natives get too restless,” he said, taking the bottles from her fingers. “I’ve got your back.”

Seventeen was only two tables away from Ava’s booth, and anyway, just because he owed her a sorry-I’m-a-knucklehead-I-screwed-up didn’t mean his work
ethic could take a complete hike.

He delivered the beers and a couple of hey-how-are-yas to the pair of regulars with polite efficiency before excusing himself to finish his rounds with Ava’s drink. The detour had put him at her back, her dark head and the knotted line of her shoulders the only thing visible as she hunched over the papers on the table in front of her.

“Hey,” he said, pulling
up with a sheepish smile when her head whipped around and her eyes went as round as dinner plates. She closed the notebook in her fingers with a downward tug of her brows, and hell . . . he had some making up to do. “I thought you might like a refill.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She dropped the book to the stack of papers in front of her as if the fabric-bound cover had scorched her fingers, and screw it—he
wasn’t a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy.

“You’re welcome. Listen, I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t.”

A fresh layer of unease flashed over her features, making him all the more insistent. “Yes, I do. I know you were just trying to be helpful yesterday. I shouldn’t have shut you out. The stuff with Alex and Cole . . . I guess it just gets to me.”

“Brennan, really. You don’t have to
explain. It’s fine.”

Her choice of words sent a prickle of dread down his spine. “It’s not fine.” Impulse screamed at him to reach for her, kicking his hands into motion. He realized just a breath too late that he’d been so intent to get his apology out and talk to her honestly about the guys at Station Eight, that he’d forgotten about the drink still wrapped in his grip.

“Ava . . .” Brennan
shifted his torso to put the pint glass across from her at the table, but at the same time, Ava planted her feet to stand. His free arm bumped hers in an awkward tangle, and he looped his hand beneath her elbow to steady her.

“Whoa! Hang on.” Brennan plunked the glass on the pine tabletop to avoid dropping it, but the move upset his already questionable balance. Scrabbling for purchase, he tried
to guide her back to the safety of the bench seat behind her, only to knock her book and a bunch of papers to the floor in the process.

“Damn it. Ava, I’m sorry.” Brennan knelt down low to scoop up the pages, and Ava catapulted into action beside him.

“No! No, no, it’s fine, just . . .”

Not even her panicked tone could rip through the confusion taking root in his brain.

“What is this?”
He stared, unblinking, at the printout in his hands even though the bold-lettered title beneath the horribly familiar city seal couldn’t possibly be right.

C
ITY OF
F
AIRVIEW
. . . O
FFICE OF THE
F
IRE
M
ARSHAL
. . . O
FFICIAL
I
NVESTIGATION
, F
AIRVIEW
L
AKES
A
PARTMENT
F
IRE
.

Brennan’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

The date stamp in the corner of the printout was today’s.

“Why are you reading
the investigation report on the fire that killed Mason?” Hell, Captain Westin had called in so many favors to make sure the details remained under lock and key, getting that report had to have taken some seriously creative legal judo.

Or possibly a bribe.

Brennan riffled through the pages he’d gathered, the chill in his veins reaching the center of his chest as he got to the fourth piece of
paper in the pile.

R
ESCUE
S
QUAD
H
ERO
S
TARTS
O
VER IN
P
INE
M
OUNTAIN
.

“Are you . . . is
this
the big story you’ve been working on?” Brennan swallowed back the bitter aftertaste of the question, staring at printout after printout as he snatched them from the floorboards. Archived news articles from Fairview’s local paper, reports from the fire marshal’s office, training requirements for rescue
squad applicants—
fuck
, she even had the wet-behind-the-ears file photo of him as a recruit at the academy.

Ava had been writing a story. About him. About
this
. The whole goddamn time.

“Brennan, I can explain—”

“I asked you a question.”

Ava flinched at the serrated edge he’d put to the words, but she didn’t drop her gaze as she answered. “Yes. I’ve been putting together another article
about first responders and firefighters.”

“About me?” he asked, and her stare filled with tears.

“Yes, but—”

“But what, Ava?” He exploded to his feet, anger brewing deep and hot in his gut. “I trusted you. I told you things nobody knows, not even my family. Goddamn it, I fell in love with you—again—and for what? To find out I’m just a notch in your fucking byline?”

Her shoulders snapped
against the back of the booth in surprise. “No! Brennan, this is a lot more complicated than it looks.”

“How long have you been writing this story?”

She blinked, two seconds too long. “Two weeks.”

Brennan straightened, every last flicker of hope dying out in the depths of his chest. “Then it doesn’t look complicated from where I sit.”

“Please,” Ava said. “This isn’t what it looks like.
You have to believe me.”

Christ
. All the nights she’d brought work into the Double Shot over the last few weeks, all those curiosity-filled questions he’d answered, thinking she’d been genuinely interested. All the emotions he’d unloaded on her about his past. His career. His loss.

He’d believed her when she’d said he was worthy. But she’d only said those things so she could use what she learned
in a newspaper article.

Yet again, Brennan had risked his stupid, trusting heart for a false version of Ava Mancuso.

Only this time, he wasn’t going to let her smash it into bits.

“No, actually. I don’t have to believe you.” Brennan inhaled, snuffing out every last emotion he possibly could before releasing his breath over a stone-cold stare. “When is the story going to run?”

“The day
after tomorrow.”

“And is this fire part of the article?” He held up the investigation report, every dirty little secret he’d ever wanted to bury reduced to four pages of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper.

Ava’s chin lowered in a broken nod. “Yes.”

The tears she’d held at bay finally tracked down her face, and Brennan had to admit, the timing was perfect. She really had the whole yank-on-a-guy’s-heartstrings
thing down cold.

He ran a palm over his sternum before dropping his hand to his side in disgust. “Right. So I guess we’re done here, then.”

“Brennan, please,” Ava whispered, moving out of the booth until she stood less than a foot away. “Let me explain. I don’t have a choice.”

Her wet eyes glinted with honesty, and for a single, traitorous second, Brennan paused. Hope ignited, bright and
sweet in his chest, reminding him who she was, daring him to believe, to trust her.

But he’d been burned too many times by that spark of hope. The best thing—the safest thing—was to snuff it out.

For good.

“You know, all those times you said my story was worth telling, I should’ve known you were just trying to justify using it to your own ends, and that all you wanted was a scoop. But it
doesn’t matter. You know what? Tell it to the world, Ava. Shout it from the goddamn rooftops if you want. But don’t—
do not
—sit there and tell me you have no choice. You might not like the options in front of you, but you sure as shit have them. Just like I have mine. Difference is, you’re just not tough enough to make a smart call.”

Brennan reached down low to swipe her faded blue notebook off
the floor, slapping the papers on top of it as he handed them all over without expression.

“Now get out of my bar.”