Page 22 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

CODY

Brooks didn’t exactly ask me to dress him after the bath. He just stood there with his towel wrapped around his waist, looking at the neatly pressed shirt and slacks laid out on the bed like a surgeon preparing for an operation, and said, “They won’t put themselves on.”

So I did what any self-respecting boyfriend-in-training would do: I played valet.

First came the underwear, which I tugged up his thighs slowly enough to earn an eye-roll. Then the slacks, which he stepped into with military precision. The shirt was next—crisp, white, and ironed so sharp I could have cut myself on the seams.

Finally, the bow tie.

I held it up, dangling it between my fingers. “Right-o. Now I’m stumped. How the bloody hell do I… ?”

Brooks sighed like a teacher about to explain algebra for the fiftieth time. “It isn’t complicated at all.” He positioned me in front of his mirror, put the tie around my neck, and began a slow demonstration. “Just a simple case of cross, tuck, loop. See? It’s merely—”

“Complicated as hell,” I cut in, grinning. “Looks like origami had a baby with a shoelace.”

He gave me a long-suffering glare, then pressed the tie back into my hands. “Here. You try.”

I stood behind him and placed the bow tie around his neck, my fingers fumbling as I tried to mirror the folds. I bent close, my mouth brushing his ear as I muttered, “Cross… tuck… loop… Still think this isn’t complicated?”

His breath caught, though his voice stayed prim. “You’re pulling too tight.”

“You’re supposed to pull tight… and long… and hard.”

He groaned—not with pleasure, but with exasperation—and tried to shove me away. But then I kissed the back of his neck, right where the collar met skin, and he stilled.

I finished the knot badly, the bow sitting lopsided, but I didn’t care. I spun him to face me, admired my handiwork, and kissed him full on the mouth. He let out a muffled sound of protest, but it melted quickly, replaced by a low, contented hum.

When we broke apart, I brushed my thumb over his jaw. “It’s time I leave you to your books, handsome. But before I go, I’m taking a little souvenir with me.”

“What’s that?”

I pulled the plug out of the tub and winked. “This little guy’s gurgling days are over.”

Brooks inhaled excitedly. “Fix that, and you really will be my knight in shining armor.”

I pushed open the front door of the BnB and found Benji wobbling on a stepladder in the foyer, holding a framed painting of Mulligan’s Mill at sunset. Bastian stood below, holding the ladder, tilting his head back and forth like he was judging a gallery exhibition.

“A little higher,” Bastian said.

“It can’t be above eye level, not if anyone wants to truly appreciate the artist’s vision!” Benji snapped, trying to balance the frame with one hand while waving the other in frustration.

“The artist being you ,” Bastian replied.

“And what’s wrong with that? Every hotel in Paris hangs a Monet. This town should hang a Benji.”

I laughed at how bloody cute they were and my knapsack dropped off my left shoulder and hit the floor with a thud, making Benji wobble. “Whoa, careful there,” I said. “Don’t break your neck over interior decorating.”

Both of them looked at me in unison—Benji red-faced on the ladder, Bastian smirking at the base.

Benji wobbled on the step, clutching the frame like it might save him. “You’re alive!”

Bastian cut in. “He means, how was camping in the beautiful, serene, postcard-perfect surrounds of Mulligan’s Mill?”

I grinned. “Memorable.”

“How so?” Benji asked, clambering down from his not-so-lofty heights, giving up his hanging task and still clutching the frame against his chest like a shield.

“Well, for one thing, we met Obadiah Crane.”

The frame tilted dangerously in Benji’s hands. “What? You met him ?”

“Face to face,” I said. “Tea, clocks, the whole bit.”

Bastian let out a low whistle. “Not many people in town can say that.”

“I think the only person who has any contact at all is my mother,” Benji offered. “She sends him a Christmas card every year.”

“Lonnie sends everyone in Mulligan’s Mill a Christmas card,” Bastian reminded him. “But she’s never once heard back from him.”

I gave a casual shrug. “Well, he seemed nice enough to me. Offered us tea, made a few odd remarks, but the whole conversation got steamrolled by his nephew.”

“You met his nephew too?” Benji and Bastian said together.

“Uh-huh. He seemed pretty defensive. Or maybe ‘protective’ is a better word. Said he’s moving here permanently to look after his uncle, so I guess he’s not all bad.”

Benji hugged the painting tighter against his chest, eyes shining like I’d just delivered gossip hotter than fresh pie. “Defensive or not, that’s still remarkable. You’ve met more Cranes in one day than most of us have in a lifetime.”

Bastian nodded slowly, though his expression was more measured. “If he’s moving here, people will notice. A Crane showing up in town isn’t exactly an everyday event.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, picking up my knapsack again. “I’ll leave the Crane family mysteries to the locals. I’ve got other missions.”

Benji leaned forward eagerly. “Such as?”

I dug into the bag and held up the culprit between two fingers—Brooks’s battered old bath plug, its edges warped and swollen.

“This,” I declared. “Is Brooks Beresford’s enemy number one. The poor guy’s been soaking in a bathtub with a plug that sounds like it’s choking on a mint. It has to go.”

Bastian chuckled. “Does Brooks know that bath plugs are replaceable? When one dies, you go to Harry’s and buy a new one.”

Benji leaned in, eyes bright. “More to the point, how do you know it makes that noise?” He glanced from the plug to my face like he’d caught me stealing cookies. “Have you been in Brooks’s bath?”

I fought a losing grin. “Okay, okay. There were bubbles.”

Benji’s mouth fell open. “ In the bath?”

“Benji,” Bastian warned, though he was smiling too. “Boundaries.”

Benji ignored him completely. “Was it… romantic? Or did the noise ruin the mood? Because if the plug was gurgling while you—”

“Benji,” Bastian warned. “Let the man have some privacy.”

“Privacy? This is Mulligan’s Mill, not witness protection. We thrive on details.”

Bastian waved his finger at Benji. “You’re spending far too much time with cousin Connie. She’s rubbing off on you.”

Benji said, “Actually, she’s rubbing up against me.” He turned to me and by way of explanation said, “She can’t keep her feet to herself under the table. But that’s another story.”

“And she’s your cousin?” I asked.

“Don’t go there,” Benji and Bastian said in unison.

I held up both hands. “Fair enough. That sounds like one family tree I don’t need to go climbing up.” With that, I tucked the plug back into my knapsack. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change out of my camping clothes and head off to… where was it you said stocks new plugs?”

“Harry’s Hardware,” Benji said. “He’s the size of a bear, but sweet as honey.”

“If Harry’s out doing a delivery, ask for Gage,” Bastian added. “He sometimes works a shift there. Just make sure you don’t ask Old Walt for help.”

“Why’s that?”

“And that’s when Doc Morgan—that cranky old know-it-all son of a bitch—told me it wasn’t my hip at all, it was my catheter hose twisted like a licorice strap. I swear he did it on purpose. That man is out to get me.”

I blinked. “Uh… right. So, about that bath plug. Is Harry working? Maybe I could speak to him. Or maybe Gage?”

Old Walt waved me off, squinting at the shelf of plumbing parts.

“They’re both off doing a timber delivery.

I’m in charge, and I don’t like to be rushed, young fella.

Now, where were we… plugs, plugs, plugs.

I tell ya, I know a plug when I see one.

Question is, do you? Most folk come in here thinking a plug’s just a plug.

Wrong. That’s Doc Morgan thinking. Lazy thinking.

You should see the things he’s tried to plug my holes with over the years. ”

“Um… actually… all I want is to get a replacement—” I said, holding up Brooks’s worn little plug.

Walt didn’t even glance at it. “Replacements, pah. World’s obsessed with replacements.

New hips, new knees, new teeth. Nobody fixes anything anymore.

You know what I fixed last week? My own damn roof.

With tar and grit. None of this silicone muck they sell now.

That stuff’ll give you cancer or gout or halitosis at the very least.” He suddenly thought to test his own breath, blew into the palm of his hand and screwed up his nose.

“Jeepers, maybe tar and grit ain’t good for you neither. ”

I cleared my throat. “Right, but this is just for a bathtub, so—”

“Bathtubs!” he snapped, swinging around like I’d insulted him. “They don’t make those right neither. Thin as tin, flex under the weight of a baby and squeak like a mouse every time you shift your ass so the blood don’t pool.”

I nodded tightly. “And pooling blood is nobody’s idea of a good time. Still, what I’m really after—”

“And drains!” he barked, jabbing a finger at the floor.

“Don’t even get me started on modern drainage.

Shed an eyelash in your shower and the damn drain blocks straight away.

Back when I was a boy, they used cast iron.

You could drop a brick down those pipes, and the water would still drain away like Moses parting the Red Sea. Do you know Moses?”

“Not personally,” I mumbled under my breath. “But you probably did.”

“Hey? What was that?” he asked, half offended but cupping his ear so he could better hear me repeat myself.

“I said, I just need a bath plug,” I told him, as clearly as possible.

Walt grunted, still pawing through a box of odds and ends. “Hmph. You talk funny.”

I frowned. “Funny how?”

He finally squinted up at me. “Like you swallowed a trumpet. Where the hell are you from?”

“Australia.”

He straightened, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t we fight you in the war?”

I blinked. “What?”

“The war,” he said firmly, as if there had only ever been one.

“Which war?”

“The one I fought in!”

“Which was… ?” I prompted.

He frowned, the lines on his forehead folding into deep creases. “Could’ve been Korea. Or the big one. Doesn’t matter. Point is, we fought you and we won.”

I shook my head. “Pretty sure Australia and the United States have always been on the same side.”

“Not when Hitler crossed your borders.”

I stared at him. “That’s Austria.”

“Exactly!” he barked, as though I’d just proved his point.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Different country. Different continent. Different hemisphere.”

“Convenient excuse,” Walt muttered darkly.

I tried again. “Look, all I need is—”

“A bath plug!” Walt barked, slapping a random box into my hands. “There. That’ll shut your Austrian mouth.”

I looked down. “This is a box of toilet flush valves.”

“Same thing,” he growled.

“It’s not.”

“You just don’t know how to use it properly. Typical foreigner.”

I was about to argue when a calm voice cut through the aisle. “Walt, what did we say about terrorizing customers?”

Walt spun around, indignant. “He’s not a customer, he’s an Austrian!”

A large guy with pecs bulging under his T-shirt appeared at the end of the aisle, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on a rag. He gave Walt a look that was at once firm but calm. “Go count screws.”

“I already counted them last week.”

“Count them again,” Harry said evenly. “They might’ve multiplied.”

Walt grumbled something under his breath and shuffled off, leaving me clutching the box of toilet flush valves.

Harry turned to me, smile warm and steady. “Don’t mind him. He’s been mad at the world since 1924.”

“He’s that old?”

“No. But some days it feels like it.” He relieved me of the box of toilet valves and put it back on the shelf. “You’re the Australian in town. Cody, right?”

I blinked. “That obvious?”

“Not to Walt, apparently. I’m Harry,” he said, offering a hand. His grip was firm, reassuring. “My boyfriend Dean and I saw you at Bea’s the other night, talking to Brooks.”

My ears warmed. “Oh. Right. That.”

Harry chuckled. “Relax. It was nice to see. We’ve all been waiting a long time for Brooks to break out of his shell a little. He deserves it.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I held up the battered old plug from my bag. “Speaking of what he deserves, this thing needs replacing.”

Harry took one look and winced. “Good lord. That belongs in a museum. Come on.” He walked me a few steps down the aisle, pulled a small box off the shelf without hesitation, and handed it over. “Solid seal, proper weight, chain that won’t snap. Exactly what you need.”

Relief hit me harder than it should have. “Perfect. Thanks. He’s gonna be so happy.”

Harry smiled. “I hope so. Brooks has his quirks, you probably noticed. He gets set in his ways. He doesn’t do change very well.

” He pointed to the old plug in my hand.

“ExhibitA. Some things he refuses to change because consistency calms him. Some folks mistake it for fussiness, but it’s not.

It’s how he steadies himself in a world that doesn’t always make sense. ”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m starting to see that.”

Harry’s smile deepened. “Don’t let it scare you off. Underneath all that, Brooks is loyal, kind-hearted, as dependable as they come. If you’ve got his trust, you’ve got something special. And if he’s letting you in—even in the smallest ways—don’t underestimate what that means.”

I pulled the new plug out of its box and ran a thumb over it. “Thanks. That… actually helps.”

“Good.” Harry gave a satisfied nod. “And despite the fact that change annoys him, I dare say that plug annoyed him even more. He’s gonna thank you for replacing it. Now go seal up that young man’s leaks. He’ll feel so much more relaxed.”

I smiled back. “I think so too.”