Page 94 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

“Absolutely untrue. That’s like comparing a physicist and a chemist, or a vet and a human doctor. Technically, there’s overlap, but I could never do what they do.”

“Sure you could! You make amazing bread.”

I snort. “I can make a simple peasant bread. But if you ask me to make a complicated French pastry or, god forbid, a wedding cake? It would be a fucking disaster.”

Brinley considers. “How about a box brownie mix?”

“Perfect. Much more my speed.”

We watch as the bakers present their creation to a baffled Alton Brown, and I inhale the scent of Brinley’s shampoo. In this moment, I’m more settled and content than I’ve felt all day. I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell Brinley the good news, but I might as well do it now.

“I think I solved your landlord problem,” I say.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I bought the building.”

Brinley stiffens in my arms. “Why would you do that?”

“So you don’t have to worry about your lease. Nobody can push you out for writing Peppermint articles or anything else. It’s handled.”

She pulls back, looking up at me with furrowed brows. “You didn’t even ask me. You just dropped a few million on the building, just like that.”

“It’s fine, Brinley. I have the money, and my business advisor confirmed that it’s a good investment, even if you decided to leave the space for any reason. It was actually easier to buy than I thought. Whit wants to retire, and he accepted our first offer.”

“I don’t care about the money!” She pulls away from me, standing up and crossing her arms. “I care that you decided what happens to my business without you asking me. That’s not protection, Beau—it’s control.”

I shake my head. This isn’t how I thought things would go. I was trying to take a problem off Brinley’s plate, since she’s already facing so much. “I swear, Brin, I’m not trying to control your business. I was trying to do what was best for you.”

“How did you know it was best for me?” she snaps. “Do you think I would ever do something that would affect Terrace or Velvet & Vice without talking to you first? Would I ever interfere in your businesses?”

“No. You wouldn’t.” It would never even occur to her. She knows how important it is for me to feel in control of my restaurants.

“I built the Copper Cup by myself. It’s the thing I’m the most proud of, and now my boyfriend owns the walls around it. Now, it’s just another Beau Bishop project.”

“That’s not true. It’s still your business, Brin. I’m just⁠—”

“The man who owns it.” She sighs. “I don’t know if I can stay in the building if you own it.”

The room feels like it’s tilting underneath me. Trying to save Brinley’s business might have cost me our relationship—the only relationship I have left. “If it’s about the rent, we can work that out.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about you unilaterally deciding what’s best for me.” She uncrosses her arms and looks down. She looks less angry than sad now. “I know you had good intentions, but—I think I need some space.”

My chest aches. Brinley is the only thing holding me together, and now she’s stepping back. Without her, I’m unmoored.

She must see the devastation in my face because she touches my hair again, a soft brush of fingers. “You don’t have to go home,” she murmurs. “Just let me sleep on it alone, okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

There’s no way for me to fix this right now. I can’t undo buying her building, not tonight. She needs time to let the rift between us close—or just keep growing and growing.

I stare at the TV as the baking program changes to some show about rival winery owners. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t take any of it in. I just listen to the small sounds of Brinley going through her nighttime routine—brushing her teeth, washing her face, climbing into bed. I know without seeing that she’ll read a book for a while, then drift off.

Hours pass, and I don’t move from the couch except to turn off the overhead lights. I should go home and sleep in my own bed, but I can’t bear to go back there. Not when I know all my friends are upstairs, celebrating without me.

Sometime after midnight, the cooking shows change to infomercials and I turn the TV off. I’m not tired enough to drift off to sleep, though. Instead, I pull out my phone to torture myself with my mostly empty inbox. Only one email catches my attention—a Google alert summary for my name. Apparently, dozens of articles have mentioned my name in the past twenty-four hours.

It’s obvious why. Brinley’s final post on the Toronto Tea has gone viral, being shared and reshared on every kind of social media platform. It’s not a total surprise. She told me that she wrote it, but I was too busy wallowing in my own anguish to actually read it. Since I’m not sleeping anyway, I open my browser and find the page.