I stare at her skeptically, thinking that could be good advice, or she might be willing to let me lose a hand in retaliation for storming her office that first day. Frankly, it could go either way.

  Having spent so much time isolated from people the last few weeks and refusing to develop relationships while I was down in the minors, my comfort level will be stretched by accepting the invitation. I’m an introvert by nature, whereas Brooks was always the outgoing one.

  I really don’t give a fuck about meeting my neighbors, and I don’t feel like tangling with that beast of a dog, but ultimately, I nod in acceptance.

  The true reason I step over the threshold is because Harlow intrigues me. She’s the key to the mystery of my brother, and perhaps the mystery of my family’s dysfunction.

  But if I’m honest, she’s also fucking gorgeous and sexy, and I’m attracted to her. Knowing she and my brother weren’t a thing means she’s not off-limits due to the bro code.

  Not that I’m looking for a relationship. That’s totally not my jam. But a hot-neighbor fuck buddy isn’t a bad thing to strive for. If she’s interested, of course. I’ll have to judge that over time.

  For now, I want to keep her close in case I decide I want to learn more about my brother.

  “Hey, everyone,” Harlow announces to the group as we enter. “I want you all to meet our new neighbor, Stone Dumelin.”

  I look around and note that her unit is the exact flipped layout of mine, but her décor is far more casually comfortable. Brooks’s house—rather, mine—looks like an art museum. Harlow’s looks like a mishmash of styles that range from quirky, a harlequin-checked moose head over the fireplace—to the downright weird, a painting going up the staircase of a dragon in a tutu doing a handstand on a gymnast’s balance beam.

  Her furniture seems to have been chosen for comfort, with thick, deep cushions that look perfect for settling down to watch a movie. The floors are covered with lush rugs of varying colors and patterns, but they seem to complement each other.

  “Hey, man,” someone says, and I blink to find a guy standing there with his hand held out. “I’m Bart, down in unit one. My wife, Shannon, is an emergency room doctor. She’s on duty tonight. You’ll have to meet her some other time.”

  I shake Bart’s hand, manage a smile. They all come up to introduce themselves.

  The blond who answered the door is Marcia of the famed meatballs that will apparently win Odin to my side. Marcia is a lawyer, like Harlow, and Bobby is a financial planner. They’re in unit three.

  Lastly are Liz and Natalie Finder, a lesbian couple who are newest to the building before me, having moved in a few months ago. Liz is a pharmacist and pregnant with their first child through a sperm donor but using Natalie’s egg. Natalie is a headhunter specializing in global marketing, whatever the fuck that is, and I’ve learned more about them in a fifteen-second introduction than I knew about my brother in the last two years.

  “What do you feel like?” Bart says, clapping me on the back. “We’ve got Smithwick’s or coffee with Irish cream liqueur. So essentially, beer or coffee. We’re not very multidimensional, but we’re keeping it holiday related.”

  “Smithwick’s would be great,” I reply, and Bart heads off.

  Harlow reappears, a small plate of meatballs in hand and Odin by her side. I swear he’s glaring at me, but in all honesty, it could be that he has two angled brown eyebrows against the black fur that make him look humanly expressive.

  She hands me the plate, which I have no choice but to accept, and gives me very specific instructions. “Take a meatball and tell him to sit. Be very clear in your command while showing him the meatball.”

  I do as she says, and to my relief, the dog’s ass hits the floor as his eyes lock on the treat pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Now, lower the meatball,” Harlow says, her tone like a warning. “And say the word gentle as you offer it.”

  My head snaps her way. “What happens if he doesn’t heed the word gentle?”

  “You might lose a finger,” she quips, eyes sparkling with amusement. Which means she’s joking.

  I think.

  I wait for the real answer and finally, Harlow rolls her eyes. “He’s got a very gentle mouth, but he’s really not allowed people food, so he could get a little excited. I’m making this exception to help you bridge the divide with him. You might get a little slobber on you, by the way.”

  Our eyes stay locked for a moment, and I know that this could be a pivotal point where I decide to trust her.

  Looking back to Odin, I say in the softest—perhaps a bit pleading—tone I can muster, “Gentle.”

  Odin licks his chops—for my hand, for the meatball, who knows—but I go for it and hand him the food.

  Surprisingly, not a single tooth grazes my skin as he daintily nips the meatball from my grasp and swallows it whole.

  Odin stands, takes a step closer, and sits again without me having to ask. His eyes are pinned on the plate, his meaning clear. Feed me the rest, or I’ll kill you.

  I hand him the remaining two meatballs with the request for him to be gentle, and he takes each one without injuring me.

  I had thought that might make us friends, and I even consider petting his head, but once he sees the plate is empty, he pads away as if he has no further use for me. I watch as he goes to Liz, sitting on the couch. Odin steps right up onto the cushion next to her and lays his big body down with his head resting on her lap. She strokes him without missing a beat of her conversation with Marcia and Natalie.

  Bart returns with my beer as well as a fresh mug of coffee for Harlow. “Just the way you like it,” he says as she takes it from him.

  She sniffs and takes a sip, a tiny moan of appreciation. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “Liqueur in coffee,” I say, glancing down at her cup. “Good combo?”

  Harlow smiles and shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Never tried it before, but I don’t drink now.”

  I blink at her, slightly embarrassed by my off-handed comment. Her saying that she doesn’t drink now means that she did at one point. There could be a hundred reasons why she doesn’t, but I don’t ask because I don’t know her all that well. Hell, even if I did know her well, I wouldn’t ask. None of my business.

  She seems nonplussed, though, and Bart doesn’t seem to think there’s anything weird about it either.

  “You played great in Phoenix and Houston,” Harlow says, changing the subject.

  “You and Gage Heyward are really clicking,” Bart adds, and then launches into a speech on his thoughts regarding the viability of a winning season. Harlow pipes in, and I find myself offering insider knowledge. It’s clear that both Harlow and Bart are die-hard Titans fans.

  Neither one of them mentions anything about some of our obvious problems. Maybe it’s uncouth for them to point out that Coen Highsmith has no more consistency in his play, and there’s no talk about the emotional devastation the plane crash brought out onto the ice. It’s all stats and strategy and trash-talking other teams.

  It’s… fun. No, not fun.

  But a nice way to spend a bit of time having a beer and meeting the neighbors.

  CHAPTER 11

  Harlow

  While we still might get another snowfall, I’m taking advantage of this beautiful mid-March day to run to work. Last week’s snow has fully melted, and there’s only a few spots of wet sidewalk left behind.

  The three-block jog between my condo and the office is too short to do me any good, so I take off through the hills of Allegheny West with Odin and follow a route that will give me almost three miles by the time I make it to work. During the warm spring and summer months, I do this at least four times a week, usually running between five and six miles, making full use of the private bathroom and shower I have in the back of the building and the extra clothes I keep there.

  But Odin hasn’t been running during the winter, unless you count trips to the dog park and my parents’ house, so I go easy on him. I still use a treadmill at home, so I’ll do something extra this evening to make up for the shorter run.

  I’m breathing hard by the time I enter the reception area, bending to unclip Odin’s collar and leash. I look up to Bonita in greeting. “Good morning.”

  Bonita’s eyes cut to my left as Odin trots off to my office where his water bowl is kept. I straighten, turn that way, and see a man sitting there looking irritated.

  “Harlow,” Bonita says, a hint of forewarning in her voice, “this is Mason Dumelin. He wanted to see you, and I explained you didn’t have anything available this morning, but he insisted on waiting.”

  In other words, Bonita tried to get rid of him until such time that she could set an appointment where I’d be prepared to deal with him. Because I’d want to be prepared to sit down with Stone’s father, who I’m sure is here to argue about Brooks’s trust and what was left to Stone.

  Or more importantly, what was not left to his father.

  As it stands, he’s caught me off guard in my running gear, covered in sweat. I haven’t read the trust since my first meeting with Stone and before I emailed Mason and Nancy Dumelin a letter outlining their share of the estate. I’d at least want a few minutes to peruse it again because while the outcome was straightforward, there was a lot of legalese in between I’d have to explain.

  “Mr. Dumelin… this is unexpected,” I say, removing one of my gloves and walking his way with my hand extended.

  He rises, shakes my hand, and sneers at me. “Surely you must’ve expected I’d want a better explanation than the letter you sent.”

  “Perhaps,” I reply smoothly, but my tone is censuring. “But politeness dictates you’d set an appointment rather than show up unannounced.”

  The man’s face flushes red, not with embarrassment but with entitled anger. Before he can open his mouth to lash into me, I cut him off at the knees. “However, since you’re here and have clearly traveled a long way, I’ll be glad to spare you a few moments.”

  I cut a look to Bonita that says, Don’t bother offering coffee. He won’t be here that long.

  She gives a barely perceptible nod, and I motion Mr. Dumelin into my office.

  I watch him carefully as he walks past me. I’ve seen pictures of him before while hanging out with Brooks. He’d shared some he kept on his phone, but he had no framed photos of his parents in his condo. That space was reserved for the people he felt loved and secure with, and I was fortunate to count myself so lucky to be in that group.

  Mr. Dumelin gave his boys his height, his brawn, his golden hair and hazel eyes. Brooks’s easygoing personality clearly did not come from his father, and I don’t know Stone well enough to know what he got from the man. He certainly likes to show up at people’s offices unannounced, but whereas Stone merely irritated me, Mason Dumelin strikes up intense dislike. That’s because I know the mental manipulation game he played against Brooks and how negatively that affected him.

  I motion to a guest chair as I pull off my running jacket and knit cap. While unseasonably warmer this morning, it was still a little chilly out. Mr. Dumelin sits and casts a disapproving look at Odin, lying beside my desk.

  Taking my own seat, I spin toward my credenza to grab the file with Brooks’s trust in case I need any of the supporting documents to explain things.

  Facing him again, I ask, “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “You can explain to me why my son left the bulk of his estate to his brother who he’s not had contact with in years.”

  I stare at the man in disbelief. I know that isn’t exactly true. The brothers actually did communicate, just infrequently. But to reveal that would reveal my friendship with Brooks, and I’m not about to give this man any insight into his son’s life. He treated Brooks like a meal ticket and nothing more.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dumelin, if that’s the information you want. I didn’t draft Brooks’s trust documents. Another law firm did, so I’m not privy to his reasoning.”

  “Bullshit,” he snarls. “I might not be a high-and-mighty lawyer, but I’m smart enough to know he wouldn’t have appointed you to handle his trust unless he knew and trusted you. Now, he had no reason to leave everything to Stone. His mother and I were his full support system since he joined the Titans, and I know he wouldn’t forsake us and keep away what’s our due. Stone has done something illegal. I’m sure of it, and I want to know what my remedies are.”

  “I’m not your lawyer, Mr. Dumelin. I can’t advise you—”

  “Cut the shit, lady. As the trustee, it’s your job to know the ins and outs of the trust, and I know there’s got to be some wiggle room.”

  My patience with this man has almost worn thin, but I take one more stab at civility. “I’d be glad to call the attorney who drafted the trust, if that will help—”

  “What will help,” Mr. Dumelin growls as he stands and slams his palms on my desk, “is for you to get your pretty ass in gear and tell me what I need to know.”

  It’s no surprise that at this point in the conversation, Odin decides to have his say. He lunges to his feet, hackles raised, his lips peeled so far back, he’s all gums and teeth. This is a far different Odin from the dog that gave Stone a bit of a warning when he stormed into my office.

  This Odin is prepared to attack at a moment’s notice, and I’m not sure I can restrain him.

  Luckily, his presence is enough to penetrate Mr. Dumelin’s thick skull as he immediately scrambles back, his ass slamming into the chair he just vacated. Arms outstretched, he says in a quavering voice, “You better get control of that dog.”

  “And you better get out of my office, Mr. Dumelin. You are no longer welcome here, and the next time you step foot on my property, I’ll call the police to escort you off.” I reach a hand out to stroke Odin’s back. “Or maybe I’ll just let my dog take a piece of you.”

  I fully understand now when Brooks used to tell me his father was a master manipulator as I witness the change come over his expression. Mr. Dumelin offers a chagrined smile, ducks his head, and holds out his palms. “Now, wait a minute… we got off on the wrong foot. I’ve just been so devastated since Brooks died, and now my only other son has forsaken me. He won’t return my calls when all I want to do is check in on him.”

  I know, without a doubt, this is a lie. I saw just how worried Stone’s father was for his only remaining son at the funeral. He wanted nothing to do with him. The man was too busy preening for the TV cameras to be so much as bothered with comforting his own family.

  Hell, I actually shook the man’s hand and expressed my condolences, and I don’t even think he recognizes me. He barely spared me a glance that day as well, instead focused on someone behind me that he was pandering to with fake tears.

  “You really need to leave,” I say politely, standing from my desk to indicate the conversation is over. “I sent you the details of how and when you’ll receive your portion of the estate. If you believe something is wrong, you may hire your own attorney to help you figure it out.”

  Mr. Dumelin stands and practically whines. “Brooks would want you to help me.”

  Something inside me snaps, that this man would dare to even suggest he knew his son well enough to know what he would’ve desired. “You know nothing of what Brooks wanted,” I say softly, but my voice is laced with ice. “You didn’t know him at all.”

  Eyes flaring with shock, Mr. Dumelin opens his mouth, but I cut him off, rounding my desk. “You never once tried to be a true support to your son.”

  I walk up to him, stand toe-to-toe. “You merely jumped on his coattails and wrapped your arms around his throat hard to hang on. You rode his star because it made you feel good, and you never offered him anything in return.”

  Mr. Dumelin’s mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water gasping for oxygen.

  And while I don’t know exactly how Stone feels about his father, I know how Brooks felt about the way their father treated Stone. “And while you were so obsessed with your son playing in the big leagues, you forgot all about your other son who was struggling down below in the minors. And now that he’s got stardom again, and the bulk of Brooks’s estate, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before you try to hop on that train, if you haven’t tried already.”

  The man finally seems to get his wits because he draws himself up and glares at me in outrage. “How dare you talk to me like that! How dare you assume those things when you know nothing of my son.”

  “I know your sons better than you do,” I hiss.

  “We’ll see about that.” Mr. Dumelin brushes past me, casts a wary glance at Odin standing there, and heads to my door. Glancing back, he growls, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney. And I’ll be lodging a complaint against you for unethical behavior. And I’m calling animal control on that dangerous mutt.”

  I smile pleasantly at the man. “Have a good day, Mr. Dumelin. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

  The door slams so hard, my law degrees on the wall rattle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stone

  I turn onto my left side, tucking my hand under my pillow. The nightstand clock says it’s almost four a.m., and I haven’t been able to sleep yet. I’ve dozed a few times, brief snatches where I almost go under, but then my thoughts wake me back up. I never sleep well on the road, and this is a four-day trip, given we’re playing both New York teams.

  I should’ve gone out with the team to celebrate. I played fucking amazing tonight against the New York Phantoms, racking up a goal and an assist, and still… I feel like a fraud.

  Like I don’t belong.

  Which is why I passed on celebratory drinks and came straight to my room. This trip, I’m sharing hotel accommodations with Coen Highsmith. Team Services has us rotating through road roommates in an attempt to speed up the process of us getting to know one another. I roomed with Gage in Phoenix, and I’d prefer that because at least he doesn’t attempt to force conversation.