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“What the hell is your problem with her?” Ronan demanded.
Bella gave him a dark look. “Fine. If you must know…” She dragged a hand over her face, frustration bleeding through. “She reminds me of Raegan.” Her voice faltered, just slightly. “That first time I saw her … for a second, I thought Raegan was back.”
That gave Ronan pause.
Raegan. Beau Stirling’s ex-wife. The woman who had walked out on him, never to be heard from since.
He studied Bella with a beat. “And that’s why you don’t like her?”
“Raegan broke my brother, Law.” Her voice caught, just slightly. “I don’t want the same thing happening to you.” She shook her head. “You’ve had enough hurt in your life.”
Ronan held her stare. “I appreciate your concern. But it doesn’t give you the right to decide who she is,” he added, calm but firm. “Or what she’s done.” His gaze moved around the group of adults, resting on Sunny for a brief moment — the woman’s backstory was both powerful and tragic. “We’ve all got things we don’t advertise.” Then he shifted his attention back to Bella. “So maybe … give Felicity the benefit of the doubt.”
*
The back of the house still held the day’s heat, the kitchen thick with it, sun slanting low through the window over the sink. Ronan shoved the window up with more force than necessary, but the breeze pushing in did nothing to cool the temper riding him hard and mean.
Benefit of the doubt.
He’d said it like it was easy. Like it didn’t sit in his chest now, heavy and unwelcome.
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, wincing at the sting of sunburn, then turned his attention to the narrow section of wall beside the old stove. He’d been eyeing it for weeks — boxy, poorly finished, out of place.
Pantry, maybe. Or a dumbwaiter shaft.
Whatever it was, it didn’t belong.
“Alright, Gertrude,” he muttered, already reaching for the pry bar. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
The first crack of wood splitting echoed sharp in the quiet kitchen. He worked fast, shoulder into it, temper in every movement. Nails screamed as they gave way. Plaster dust puffed into the air, dry and choking.
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t think. Didn’t look.
Another hit and the paneling buckled inward with a sound that didn’t match what he’d expected.
Ronan stilled, frowning.
He jammed the pry bar in again, levering carefully this time, peeling back a section of warped board. It came away in a splintered groan, exposing—
Color.
He blinked.
Shifted closer, wiping a forearm across his face, smearing dust and sweat as he crouched. With slower hands now, he pulled loose another section.
More color.
Deep blue. Burnished cream. A line of intricate patterning that hadn’t dulled with time so much as it had been … buried.
He set the pry bar aside and used his hands instead. Piece by piece, he stripped the rest of the paneling away, easing it loose, careful where before he’d been reckless.
The shape revealed itself.
A fireplace.
A fucking fireplace.
Victorian tilework, pristine beneath decades of concealment. The surround framed in detailed ceramic — floral motifs winding through geometric borders, the colors still rich, still alive. Even the firebox, though dark with old soot, stood intact.
