The Right Stuff (Love in Brazen Bay Book 2)

by Brill Harper

  I PAUSE, MY HAND ON the door. Then let it drop again. Honestly, I’m being ridiculous.

  It shouldn't be this hard. It's just a door. I’ve had enough of them slammed in my face over the last six weeks that I know it can’t really hurt me.

  Physically.

  I read the stenciled logo on the window again. Ironwing.

  Ironwing is a dive bar.

  Ironwing is in the middle of nowhere.

  Ironwing is the only thing I have left in the world that doesn’t fit in my car.

  My secondhand car. With a questionable radiator.

  I curse my husband...ex-husband...no...non-husband...one more time.

  I have a lot of questions for Richard. And if I ever find him, I’ll be sure to ask: Why did you steal my inheritance? Why did you marry me when you were already married to someone else? Why did you invest 60 percent interest of my money in a dive bar in the middle of nowhere?

  Of course, the question that burns my soul every night would go unasked: What is it about me that made me such an easy mark?

  Because I don’t particularly want to know.

  I’ve never pretended that he loved me. But I always, always thought...no knew...that he cared about me. I trusted him with everything—my money, my reputation, my grief. The man fleeced me and humiliated me, but I hurt the worst for my grandfather. My grandfather loved Richard. He left this world assured that I was cared for, my inheritance protected, his good name unsullied. I can accept responsibility for what Richard did to me—it was my own fault for being naive—but I will never, ever, ever forgive what he did to my grandfather's memory with this betrayal. And I will never forget.

  The old Tru is dead to me. Never again will I rely on a man to take care of me. Never again will I be naive and uncurious about my own life. I’m not handing the wheel over to anyone ever again.

  But I don’t pull the door open.

  I breathe in the slightly tangy salt air. The middle of nowhere is actually quite pretty here on the water. And quite well fortified with snacks. The cupcake I ate for breakfast was delicious. It’s no fault of the baker that I might throw it up.

  To the corner and back. That's all I need, and then I’ll go in and see what is to be done with the rest of my life now. Yes, once more to the corner and I’ll—.

  “Are you protesting something?”

  I jump out of my skin, whirling around with poor Fifi bouncing around in her carrier. In the doorway, holding the door to the bar open with his back, stands a tall, beastly almost, man. His dark mussed hair looks freshly raked through, and his arms are crossed in front of him in that way men have of looking relaxed even if they aren't. It certainly showcases the way his t-shirt stretches tautly over his shoulders.

  And he is handsome. Too handsome.

  And that means trouble.

  “What would I be protesting?” I ask, determined not to let the slight tilt of his lips fluster me. Let him smirk.

  “I don't know, but I'm about to make you a picket sign if you pass by the windows one more time. If I could figure out what you're protesting. Maybe instead you can wear a sandwich board and bring in some customers.”

  “You work here, then?” I ask.

  “I do.” He looks me over, top to bottom, assessing me. His gaze feels hot, leaving little trails of warmth over my skin. “Would you care to come in?”

  I don’t like the way he raised his brow at the end there. He is flirting. I don’t have much experience with flirting, but I know when a man is doing it. And I know he couldn't possibly mean it, based on the fact that men who look like him are not interested in women who look like me. Unless they are after my inheritance, of course.

  I look around the empty street, unsure of what I’m waiting for. I do care to go in. That's why I’m here, after all. But at the same time, I don’t want to enter that pub. I don’t want to go in more than I have never wanted to do something in my life. Because that will make all of this real.

  “I suppose.”

  He raises his brow at the defeat in my voice.

  The interior is dark, which was not surprising. It's not like people need a lot of natural light to drown their problems in a beer. I tried that myself one night. But after two beers, my stomach felt bloated and sour and I couldn't hold onto the fleeting buzz before the headache came. And then all I had were problems and a hangover. Not really worth the price of admission.

  The bar itself is glorious. I run my hands over the glossy wood as I take a seat on a stool. Handcrafted. Well cared for. The bar is a piece of art.

  There are two older men at the other end of it watching me very closely. I’m glad to see they have coffee cups in front of them and not beer glasses, so I ask for coffee when Sir Smirksalot gets behind the bar.

  He leans over the bar toward me, bracing himself on two very sturdy forearms. He’s not invading my space, he’s edging on it though. My first instinct is to shrink back. But that’s old Tru. “Are you sure?” he asks in a very serious tone despite his laughing eyes.

  A warm flush spreads through my body. An awareness that I’ve never felt before about a man spreads that flush lower.

  “Yes, I'm sure.” I am also sure I’m going to fire him. He’s smirking at the customers and second-guessing their drink orders. That can’t be good for business.

  Although the way his cinnamon eyes flash when he does it might attract more women to the bar.

  If they like that kind of thing. I don’t. Not really. Not much.

  He puts a cup of coffee, creamer, and sugar in front of me. Also a shot glass of something.

  “What is this for?”

  “You'll see.”

  My hands shake as I prepare my coffee, but the bartender just watches me while he polishes a glass. I should ask him for information about the owner. Maybe after some caffeine.

  I sip gently, hoping it isn’t too hot. But then something strange happens. The vile liquid actually attacks my taste buds. It isn’t a fair fight. I shudder and push the offending mug away from me in case it comes back for more. My eyes water and bile mixes with my saliva. The bartender pushes the shot glass toward me and I down it quickly. Anything to get rid of that horrible taste.

  The alcohol burns as it goes down, and I cough, hoping not to retch because I know beyond a doubt that the coffee would taste even worse on the way back up.

  “What was that?” I ask when I catch my breath.

  “Jet fuel in the white mug. Tequila in the glass.”

  “Wha—why?”

  “I wish I knew. The only people who ever order coffee are those two sitting down there, and they like it for some reason.” The men raise their cups to me.

  “It was awful. It was more than awful. I majored in poetry, and I can't even think of a way to describe how literally terrifying that coffee was.”

  “You majored in poetry?”

  I stiffen. “Yes.”

  It seemed a good idea at the time. Funny thing is, my degree isn’t very helpful in my current situation. It didn't really prepare me for tax evasion, bigamy, and employment.

  He leans over the bar, again not quite in my space, but close. Close enough that I notice his brown eyes are flecked with gold. “What does a poetry major do?”

  “Teach. Write. Barista if they can get it.”

  He smiles in a non-smirk way. He has a dimple. How is that fair?

  “Which of those do you do?”

  “Nash, more coffee down here!” One of the men yells.

  Nash? He is Nash? Well, that settles it. My life has not magically turned around.

  “In a minute, you old geezer.” He turns his attention back to me. “Now, where was I...”

  “You're Nash? Nash McKendrick?” Of course he is. I’d been hoping for an older man. I do better with older men. Well, no. That isn’t exactly true.

  “Guilty.”

  I glance down at the customers he is ignoring. “Maybe you should help them?” And give me time to formulate what I’m going to say because all
I have on my mind now is that damn dimple.

  “It's just my dad. He can wait.” He nods his head at the men. “Say hi to the nice lady, Dad.”

  His dad doesn’t look old enough to be his dad. But he does look awfully familiar.

  “Hi, nice lady,” the man says. And then he smiles and my knees weaken a bit. Wow. How do I know that smile? Wait a minute...He is...he is...

  “I'll save you some mental gymnastics,” Nash says. “That down there is Brandon McKendrick and sitting next to him, Jacob Stone. Formerly of Ironwing, the band. Currently the Cliff and Norm of Ironwing, the pub.”

  “Your dad is a rock star?” I don’t know a lot about current music or rock music in general, but even I recognize the name Ironwing. Why I hadn't put it together earlier, I don’t know. I just assumed there really was such a thing as a bird or something called Ironwing.

  “Was a rock star. Now he's just a barstool warmer.”

  “Why?” I look around again. The place doesn’t exactly scream “cool.”

  “He created the name, the bar owner, and handcrafted the actual wood bar. I guess he feels squatter’s rights.”

  I rub my hand along the wood. “It is a lovely bar.”

  “Thank you. We spent a long time on it.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, Dad and I. There was a time I thought I’d go into woodworking just like him. Instead, I heard the siren’s call of the pub.”

  The pub is a tribute to his father. It is written all over his face. He is proud of his dad. Of the wood bar they handcrafted. Of the pub. I’d really been hoping that Nash McKendrick would be more of an investor like me, with no personal ties to the place. That would make my life much easier. But easy doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me lately.

  “What's your name, sweetheart? And what brings you to Brazen Bay to picket my establishment?”

  Double damn that dimple. And that charm. I hate charming men.

  “My name is Tru.”

  “I like that,” he says, leaning on the bar and waiting for me to finish. “And what brings you to Brazen Bay, Tru?” God, he smells like the sea or something. I shake my head.

  Don’t get distracted, Gertrude.

  “I own this bar.”

  Nash

  SO SHE'S A FRUITCAKE.

  I back away from the counter, putting distance between myself and the unhinged one.

  “Actually, we both know that's not true, Tru,” I say carefully. “I own this bar. Me and a sweet little old lady named Gertrude Finnegan.”

  She raises her delicate hand. “I go by Tru Stanhope. Tru is short for Gertrude, for obvious reasons.”

  Gertrude Finnegan, my silent partner, suddenly isn’t so silent anymore and unease creeps up my spine.

  “We've been ...downsizing my properties, and I've come here to maximize the potential of the establishment.”

  I hold my face very still, trying not to overreact. “How do you get Finnegan from Stanhope?” It isn’t my biggest concern, of course, but I need time to think.

  She straightens like she suddenly remembers she has a steel spike for a spine. “Stanhope is my maiden name.”

  My eyes immediately go to her ringless hand. “So where is Mr. Finnegan?”

  “He's out of the country. I’ve looked at the numbers. We need to turn Ironwing into a successful business venture. I can't sell it—”

  “Sell it? Wait just a minute here.”

  “And you can't afford to buy me out, so I am going to fix it.”

  I balk. It's my bar. Technically she owns 60 percent of it. But it’s my bar. “What do you know about running a bar, Wordsworth?”

  She looks around and shrugs. “How much worse can I do than you are?”

  What an uppity little...

  “I also own 60 percent of the apartments upstairs. I’ll be staying there until we get this place in tip-top condition.”

  “We have a tenant in #2.”

  “Then I’ll stay in #1.”

  “I don't think so. I live in #1.”

  She’s trying to act tough. It’s not really working. She crosses her arms over her chest, which plumps her breasts up nicely, but doesn’t make her look any tougher, if that is what she is after. “It's a two-bedroom. I don't have many personal items. Anymore.”

  I lean down, get in her space. “I see. You’re going to move into my apartment. Live with me. A man you don’t know.”

  “Should I be afraid of you, Nash?”

  Well, I was going to try to intimidate her, but that would be a dick move. Of course she shouldn’t be afraid of me. But for fuck’s sake. She can’t just move in with me.

  “I think I'll spend the day settling in to the apartment, and tomorrow we can go over some numbers.”

  “Listen, lady...” I’m interrupted by the beer distributor and when I look up, my dad is handing her a key from the drawer under the bar. “Dad, no.”

  She smiles sweetly at him and waves at me before she goes through the door to my house.

  Chapter Three

  Tru

  I CANNOT BELIEVE I just pulled that off. I go upstairs after being assured by Mr. McKendrick, who told me to call him Pops, that Nash would be happy to bring my things up when he was done getting the delivery.

  I am sure happy is not the right word for it, but I gave Pops the Popstar my car keys.

  The apartment is surprisingly clean, and it’s easy to pick out which bedroom belongs to Nash and which is, conveniently for me, already a guest room. Nash’s room smells like him. Robust, spicy, a little dark. The guest room smells like Pledge.

  I open Fifi’s carrier and let her explore the apartment while I try to catch my breath and calm my racing heart.

  I have never spoken so decisively to a man before as I did with Nash. I have never just said, “This is what I want and this is how it is, deal with it.” But now that my adrenaline is evaporating, I realize I now live with a man. A stranger. A very sexy could-be-dangerous stranger.

  I couldn’t have imagined the woman I have become two months ago. I’m surprised every day that I’m still here. Still breathing, still fighting, still feeding my dog and breathing air and just living. Nothing in my life experience has prepared me to be broke or deal with business or even people I don’t know. I’ve never stood up to anyone before. I never had to. Now I just barged into this man’s life and moved into his house. I am making a pot of coffee in his, our, kitchen, when I hear him enter the apartment and drop my things on the floor.

  He stares at me like he didn’t expect me to really be here. “The dog has to go.”

  I shake my head. “Fifi is all I have left.”

  His eyes soften, but I don’t want his pity. “Listen, Gertrude...”

  “Tru.”

  “Tru. This isn’t going to work. You know it as well as I do.”

  “It has to work, Nash. I’m out of options.”

  He sighs. “I’m going to have my lawyer look over all this, you know.”

  “You can give your lawyer my lawyer’s number. In the meantime, this is where I am staying. With my dog.” My heart is racing so fast right now. I can’t let him see how scared I am.

  “I haven’t had a roommate since college.”

  I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t intend to get in your way. I plan to go to business school by the fall.”

  “It’s barely spring.”

  “The sooner we sell, the sooner I’ll be gone.”

  His gaze narrows and that square jaw lifts toward me. “I’m not selling Ironwing.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Woman—” Fifi growls at him when he raises his voice to me. “Easy, Cujo. My blood pressure is in more danger than your mom.”

  I pick her up. “She’s had a rough couple of months.”

  “Oh, she has?” he asks, knowing I’m talking for the both of us. He takes a step toward us, and I back up. He cocks his head. “You don’t trust me to pet your dog? You’re going to live with someone you don’t trust to
pet your dog?”

  I swallow hard when he makes another approach. He scratches Fifi behind the ears and I make the mistake of inhaling that pure masculine scent that probably lures mermaids to their death instead of the other way around. My God, my toes curl so hard in my shoes that I have to keep reminding myself that I’m frigid.

  “Everything okay, Gertrude?” he asks in a low, teasing voice as my dog melts against his hand. Can he tell that I’m out of breath around him? That he makes me dizzy? He smiles, throwing me further at sea. His eyes, when they land on mine, are hard to read. He slides his hand down to my wrist, rubbing his thumb over my wild pulse. “You seem a little wired.”

  I slide my wrist out from his grip. “It must be the jet fuel from downstairs.”

  His lips kick up on one side. “Look, I need to get to the bar. You can stay here tonight, but we need to talk about your plans. You can’t just move into my house.”

  “Our house. It’s more mine than yours. You can’t make me leave.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “We’ll talk later.” He’s doing well controlling his temper. When he walks away from me, I study the way his butt fills out his jeans and find myself blushing. I’m really incorrigible.

  It doesn’t take me long to unpack. My lemon-fresh room is comfortable. The quilt on the bed handmade in a star pattern of pastels, the curtains a creamy lace, and the dresser empty. The only thing in the closet is a suitcase.

  I check out the rest of the place. I don’t think he spends a lot of time here. It’s all very utilitarian in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. So different from the dark antiques I’m accustomed to. I take another peek into his bedroom. That’s a little more like him. Maybe just because it smells like him. The room is done in navy and gray, and there are a few framed photos on the dresser. Without stepping in and really making a nuisance of myself, I can’t make them out. One looks like Nash and his dad with a fish.

  It doesn’t take long for me to feel restless, so I go back down the stairs into Ironwing, Fifi in tow.

  There’s nobody at the bar or any of the tables. Nash is standing at the bar reading a newspaper. He startles when I clear my throat.