Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 141951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
It reminded him of the Smiths’ place. The home of a family.
“And if I found you something decent to replace the truck—with a set of studded winter tires in case you do come back to the area at this time of year?” Malachi counter offered.
Like he had already said, Lucas didn’t have emotional attachment to the truck. And if he came out square in a deal with something better at the camp to drive than the old Chevy that ate gas like crazy?
Fine by him.
“You could take it,” Lucas said. “Nothing older than fifteen years. Ten’s even better.”
“Perfect,” Malachi returned, clapping.
He stuck a hand down the table for Lucas to take for a shake, and the two settled the agreement with that, and nothing more.
A word was all a man had, after all. Lucas didn’t mind finding out if Malachi was a man of his, too.
Malachi rested back into the captain chair with his hands folded at the back of his head, a wide smile saying he was pleased at how the interaction turned out. His stare focused back on Lucas, and for a split second, his smile slipped.
“Dalton,” Malachi muttered.
Lucas arched a brow, refusing to fill in silent details. People tended to assume things about those they believed were wealthy or powerful in some way. He refused to be a stereotype; and especially not another statistic that his parents shoved out into the world.
He wasn’t just a Dalton, and frankly, his financial portfolio said nothing about him as a real person.
That wasn’t the man Lucas wanted people around him to know.
“Lucas Dalton,” Malachi mumbled against his hand that he rubbed across his mouth. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Probably.”
Malachi drummed his fingers against the side of his jaw as he pondered the familiar name. “Mitchel, you said?”
Lucas sighed. “Yeah.”
“Not the beer baron Mitchel Dalton,” he pressed.
There it was.
“Yeah,” Lucas echoed.
At the confirmation, Malachi’s brow lifted noticeably higher in surprise. “Shit, we’re just sitting here talking about trading a pair of beaters like you can’t head to the nearest dealership and buy two of anything to have for a couple of play toys to use on the weekend, man.”
“If I spent money like that,” Lucas returned, “would I have a lot of it?”
“Fair enough.”
Lucas lived a modest life.
He didn’t care for frivolity.
For the most part.
Malachi shrugged, adding, “But I bet there’s a good chance you could comfortably live off whatever interest comes out of that old money, too.”
That old money wasn’t worth the sacrifice Lucas had paid in the form of broken, estranged relationships with his parents, and the privilege of a renowned family name and business sitting on top of a crumbling mountain of pain and heartache.
It cost him to be a Dalton.
Too much.
He didn’t expect Malachi to understand, though.
“I’d rather work,” Lucas eventually offered. “It gives me something to do.”
“I suppose you can’t drink too much beer while you’re working, huh?” Malachi asked, reverting back to his previous good nature and smile.
Lucas chuckled. “You know, sometimes, that might make things easier at the plant. If I could, of course.”
Or at least, it would make working with his father a hell of a lot easier. Something he struggled the most with that would surely get worse for Lucas over the coming months. If his companion’s next words were any indication, Malachi had heard the big news for the Dalton family business, too.
“Didn’t I just read in the paper how your father announced he’s returning to Saint John and expects to have the transition done by spring?”
Lucas smiled tightly. “He dropped that bomb on me at about the same time everyone else learned it, too.”
Malachi didn’t miss the tension. “Shit, I found a nerve?”
“No,” Lucas returned, forcing a charm on his face and the indifferent wave of his hand away from the coffee mug. “Just stuff I’m trying to keep my mind away from, you could say.”
“Ah,” came the understanding reply.
Yeah.
It wasn’t Malachi’s fault.
Surely, because Ronald wasn’t a complete monster, the man hadn’t meant for his announcement about returning to the Maritimes that he made to the brewery on Monday morning, to coincide with his youngest son’s overdose. Either way, both things had slammed into Lucas like separate tons of bricks falling from the sky one after another.
He barely had time to get back up.
Hell, he couldn’t find a reason not to leave the city after all that.
Lucas didn’t want to revisit any of it now.
“Delaney said you guys had a wood shop set up between the barn and garage?” Lucas asked, hoping the two of them could resituate the conversation to a better place.
Malachi didn’t seem to mind. He nodded. “We make furniture with some epoxy work like river tables and sets on commission if someone wants something specific.”
“How’d that happen for you?”
The other man laughed, but the sound came off wistful like his far away stare. “My skills with wood were limited to construction, at best, when I first met Gracen. I got into the finer details and then we kind of stumbled into a middle ground we both liked, and she and I learned along the way together. Honestly, she spends more time in the shop with me—especially if she’s playing with epoxy—than working in her salon, but I like that, too. The days are better when she’s with me.”