Page 28 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

Moving forward. Like it’s that simple. Like we can just bulldoze the past and build something shiny and new on top.

“I can fight this,” I say, mind racing through options.

“How?” Dominic’s voice turns dismissive, almost pitying.

“I’m the executor, Cal. Mom’s will gives me full authority to liquidate assets as I see fit for the benefit of the estate.

I don’t actually need your signature. Or anyone’s.

You have no legal standing to challenge this.

And even if you did, you have no money to match their offer. ”

My mouth goes dry. “What?”

“It’s ideal to have everyone on board because we’re family,” Dominic says, straightening the stack of papers on the table. “Believe me, I would love a unanimous agreement. Make things cleaner, emotionally speaking. But legally? I have full authority. I could have done this months ago.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can. I have. We close after the memorial.” He starts gathering his papers. “I tried to include you, Cal. But you made it clear you didn’t want to be involved in the messy details. So I handled them.”

“By lying to me. To Jack.”

“By making the best decision for everyone,” Dominic says. “Five hundred thousand each after debts and costs. That’s life-changing money for all of us.”

“It’s blood money.”

“It’s reality,” he says. “And it’ll be done whether you accept it or not.”

Theo looks miserable but doesn’t argue. He knows Dominic’s right about the legal authority. They’ve probably already discussed this.

“This isn’t over,” I say, heading for the door.

“Yes, it is,” Dominic says with finality. “You just haven’t accepted it yet. And Cal? Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Especially not to Maren.”

The threat in his voice is clear. I leave without responding, Theo calling my name, but I don’t stop.

Back in the truck, I grip the steering wheel, mind racing. He’s right. As executor, Dominic has broad powers, especially if the will is written that way. I could challenge it in court, but that takes time and money I don’t have. The memorial is in a few weeks.

The rage is still there, but now it’s mixed with desperation. I need leverage. Something to force Dominic to reconsider. Or another buyer. Something.

The Black Lantern isn’t supposed to be occupied this early in the afternoon. It won’t open for another few hours. But Maren’s car is in the parking lot, and next to it, that fucking Audi with the vanity plate: POETLV4.

Adrian Lowe.

I should keep driving. Should go back to the cabins and figure out my finances.

Figure out how to stop the sale. Do something productive instead of whatever this is.

But my foot’s already on the brake because I don’t trust that asshole as far as I can throw him.

Not alone with Maren. Or maybe I’m just a jealous bastard who can’t stand the thought of another man making her laugh.

Either way, I’m already turning into the parking lot.

I pull in three spots away and sit there for a moment, engine ticking as it cools. Through the bar’s front window, I can see them. Adrian’s got his hip against the bar, gesturing with his hands while he talks. Maren’s behind the bar, nodding along, that polite smile she uses on customers.

Or maybe it’s not polite. Maybe she’s actually interested.

What the fuck am I doing?

But I’m already out of the truck, afternoon heat hitting me like a wall after the air conditioning. The door’s unlocked when I try it. The familiar smell of the bar wraps around me as I step inside. Wood polish and the ghost of last night’s crowd, undertones of citrus from the garnish station.

Adrian’s voice carries in the empty space. “—next Thursday. Very intimate venue. They only do about fifty seats, so it sells out fast. But I can get you on the list.”

“Sounds nice,” Maren says, but she’s already seen me. Surprise flickers across her face, then something else I can’t read. “Calvin.”

Adrian turns, and his expression shifts from charming to calculating. He’s wearing all black despite the heat. Fitted t-shirt and jeans that look painted on. His hair’s doing that artfully messy thing that probably takes him forty minutes to achieve.

“Professor Midnight.” He doesn’t move from his position against the bar, claiming his territory. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early. Maren and I were just discussing Seattle’s poetry scene.”

“How nice. I was driving by and saw the cars,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Thought I’d stop in and say hi.”

Maren’s wiping down the already clean bar, that thing she does when she needs her hands busy. “Adrian stopped by to invite me to a reading.”

“Several readings, actually,” Adrian corrects, his smile widening. “There’s a whole fall series. Though the Thursday one is special. Sarah Martinez is performing. She just won the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.”

I’ve heard of the prize. It’s a big deal. Fifty thousand dollars for young poets. I move further into the bar, noting how Adrian doesn’t step back. How he maintains his position like he belongs there.

“Sounds impressive,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“It is.” His smile is practiced, the one I’ve seen him use on donors at university events. “You should come too. Though I suppose literary readings aren’t really your thing anymore.”

“Calvin’s been pretty busy with the estate,” Maren says, and I can’t tell if she’s defending me or just filling silence.

“Right, the estate.” Adrian’s expression shifts to sympathy when he looks back at her. “Maren told me about the cabin situation. That’s rough, especially after so many years.”

My stomach drops. She told him. Of course she told him. Why wouldn’t she? He’s offering her sympathy while I’m the brother of the man kicking her out.

“You should really call that lawyer I mentioned,” Adrian continues, pulling out his phone. “Jennifer Hartley. She’s fantastic with property law, especially tenant rights. Let me send you her contact.”

“That’s kind of you,” Maren says, but she’s looking at me now, something uncertain in her expression.

“It’s nothing.” He types quickly, and Maren’s phone buzzes on the bar.

He already has Maren’s number. Of course he does.

“She’s helped several of my friends with similar situations. Property disputes, unclear lease agreements, that sort of thing.” He pockets his phone. “The real estate market here is getting brutal. Everyone wants waterfront property now.”

The comment lands exactly where he intended. He’s talking about my family, about what we’re doing to Maren, without saying it directly. And the worst part is he’s right.

Maren shifts uncomfortably, glancing between us, clearly sensing the tension. Her fingers twist the bar towel she’s holding.

“I should probably get back to inventory,” she says, trying to escape whatever this is.

I want to say something to ease that look on her face. To make her stop feeling like she has to manage everyone else’s emotions while her world falls apart. But what can I say that won’t make it worse?

But Adrian’s not done. Of course he’s not. “Have you thought more about what we discussed last week? About the writing?”

What writing?

Maren’s face colors slightly. “I haven’t really had time.”

“Writing?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business.

Adrian looks delighted to explain. “Maren mentioned she used to write one night at the bar. I reached out and offered to look at some of her work. I have connections with a few literary magazines that might be interested. The editor at Tin House owes me a favor.”

“I mean we barely talked about it,” Maren corrects quickly, almost apologetically. “And like I said, it’s not... I don’t really write anymore.”

“Everyone needs a reader,” Adrian says, and now he’s looking directly at me. “Someone to help them see what’s working. You remember what that’s like, don’t you, Calvin? Having someone believe in your work?”

I remember. I remember the professor who first encouraged me. The editor who took a chance. The feeling of someone seeing something in your words worth nurturing. And I remember how rare that is, how precious. Adrian’s offering her something real.

“That’s generous of you,” I manage.

“Well, talent should be encouraged.” He finally pushes off from the bar. “Think about Thursday, Maren. And definitely call Jennifer. She’ll want to move quickly on your situation.”

He heads for the door, pausing beside me. Too close. “Calvin. Always a pleasure.”

The words are friendly. The tone is not.

After he’s gone, the bar feels too quiet. Maren’s still wiping down the same spot, avoiding my eyes. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, catching the dust motes in the air.

“So,” I say. “Poetry readings.”

She shrugs, still not looking at me. “He’s trying to be nice.”

“He’s trying to be more than nice.”

“And that’s a problem because...?” She finally looks at me, challenge in her eyes.

Because I want to be the one helping you. Because I hate that he can offer you things I can’t. Because the thought of you with him makes me want to break things.

“It’s not a problem,” I lie. The words taste bitter.

“Why are you here, Calvin?”

The question catches me off guard. Not accusatory, just tired. Like she’s too worn down for whatever this is.

“I was driving by and wanted to check if you needed anything. For the memorial planning.”

“Everything’s under control.” She moves down the bar, putting distance between us, and pulls out a notepad from beneath the register.

The pages flutter as she flips through them, all covered in her neat handwriting.

Lists upon lists. “The rental company confirmed the extra chairs. I’ve got all the alcohol ordered.

Double-checked with the distributor this morning.

Theo and Alex are on track with the food. ”

“Good. That’s good.” Say something else. Say what you came to say.

She sets her pen down with a soft click and looks at me directly. “Why’d you really stop by?”