by Anna Argent
"Learned what?"
"That the answer to all her problems is in the next man she meets—that somehow having a penis gives men the ability to fix everything wrong in her life and then immediately screw it up again."
"Sounds exhausting."
Hanna's head hit the headrest with a thud. "You have no idea. Which is why I'm off men. I always choose poorly—a genetic trait, I guess. But I prefer my problems to be my own to create or fix as I see fit."
Nate felt something deflate in his chest. He really liked her. She was smart, funny, hard-working, and sexy as hell.
And completely unavailable.
She stabbed her spoon into the ice cream, as if punctuating the end of the conversation. "What about you? What's it like having a family that doesn't suck sweaty donkey balls?"
He let out a laugh that sounded more like a snort. "I'd love to see you ask my dad that question. He'd probably turn three shades of purple before he was able to speak."
"Too crass?" she asked, grinning.
"Too vivid. And to answer your question, it's both wonderful and infuriating. I love my family and they've always got my back, but there's also no escaping them. I have two older brothers who are following in Dad's footsteps. The heir and the spare. And then there's me."
"Black sheep of the family?" she asked.
He chuckled at the idea. "More like gray. My dad is in construction—building houses, mostly. My oldest brother set out and founded his own company doing more commercial property than residential. He knew he'd butt heads with Dad too much if they worked side-by-side, but he loved the business, so on his own he went. That left Saxon, my next oldest brother to step up to the plate and began taking over Dad's responsibilities. He's great at it, but that doesn't leave a lot of room for the third son."
"So, you run the motel instead?"
"I do, but I also do construction in my own way. They build new buildings, I restore old ones."
"Way more interesting," she said, nodding.
"I think so, too, but Dad is always telling me that the profit margins are too small. My skills are being wasted. It's a bad business model in our part of the country."
She made a scoffing sound and waved her hand in dismissal. "Money isn't everything. Believe me, I know. I have none and yet I somehow still don't cease to exist."
"The motel is profitable. Sure, I spent a lot returning it to its former glory, but it was either that, or let it get bulldozed. That place has been here since the Corps of Engineers built the lake in the thirties. Who are we to say it's time is over?"
"You restored it? That was your work?" she asked, sounding impressed. "Amazing. I could have sworn that the place was brand new when I walked in—like it had been hermetically sealed in time. If that's the quality of work you do, then you should tell all the naysayers to go fuck themselves. You're doing exactly what God put you on this earth to do."
All Nate could do was stare at her. He had a whole night sky of brilliant stars to look at, but not one of them interested him half as much as Hanna.
She got it. For the first time in his life, he'd met someone who understood him—understood his drive and his passion.
Without thinking, he leaned over the console and kissed her. He had no choice. He couldn't be in the presence of someone this special and not take just a small taste.
She sucked in a shocked breath and it pulled the air from his lungs. His head spun and his blood heated in a mad rush.
In the back of his mind he knew he wasn't supposed to kiss her. They weren't even on a date. But he couldn't seem to get his body to go along with the ruse.
He wanted her. Craved her. And in some small way, needed her.
His past girlfriends had never understood his work the way Hanna did. They'd always asked him why he cared so much about old, rundown things. And why he didn't go work for the Grace Construction powerhouse. They would look at him with dollar signs and engagement rings flashing in their eyes, hoping to score a wealthy husband in a town where there was little wealth to be had.
Nate didn't want that for himself. He knew what deep, meaningful relationships looked like. Watching his parents and grandparents was proof that they existed. But the way those girls looked at him was nothing like the way Mom looked at Dad.
Nothing like the way Hanna looked at him—like his value went well past monetary, all the way down to his soul.
Her slender hand pressed against his chest, and he knew he'd gone too far with her.
Nate lifted his head, but couldn't bring himself to back away. Not yet. He'd take his punishment for going against their no date deal, but he couldn't stand to put too much distance between them. Not yet.
But rather than accusation or anger in her expression, what he saw now was desire mixed with resignation.
"I want you," she said. "I want you so much my skin aches. But I can't do this to myself again."
"Do what?"
"Make another bad choice. I've already made so many. I have to stop repeating my old mistakes, or I'm never going to find my way in the world."
He didn't want to be a mistake. In fact, the idea that she would see him as one was so repellant, it stopped him cold.
All he wanted for her was to be safe and warm and happy, and because of that, he moved back into his seat and started the engine.
"I think it's time for me to take you home," he said.
"You're not mad?" she asked, sounding confused.
"Because you wouldn't have sex with me?" He shook his head. "Disappointed, yes. Definitely that. And horny." He grinned at her to soften the blunt statement. "But not mad. You have to do what's right for you, and if I'm not that, then so be it."
She stared at him like he was speaking a different language. "It's okay if you're mad."
"Nope. You were straight with me from the beginning. It's not your fault that I think you're sexy as hell, or that your skin smells like pure temptation."
She sniffed the back of her hand, frowning. "That's ice cream."
No, it wasn't. That scent was all woman, but he didn't tell her that. No sense in making this any more awkward.
"Put on your seatbelt, Hanna. It's a long way down."
Chapter Fifteen
Hanna woke up at dawn the next day, still reeling in confusion.
Nate wasn't mad. She'd pushed him away, killing any hopes he'd had about fucking her in the cab of his big, comfy truck.
And he hadn't gotten angry with her.
Hanna didn't know what to do with that. If he'd yelled or thrown a fit, she would have been completely at ease. She was used to men who yelled and threw fits. But that easy acceptance of her decision…it had freaked her out.
She'd spent hours last night trying to understand him, and still hadn't come up with anything.
He wasn't like the men she was used to. And as much as she wanted to believe that made him better than her past romantic partners, she knew not to buy into the fairy tales.
She'd once thought Jack was different, too.
Then again, he had been, but not in a good way. He'd simply been better at hiding his true nature from her than the rest, pretending to care and being so charming she hadn't bothered to look past the mask.
As always, the thought of him brought with it a shiver of apprehension. Jack was erratic. Unpredictable. He'd never actually hit her, but he had hurt her. And twice, his easy charm and heartfelt apologies had driven her back into his arms, making her the winner of the Stupidest Female Alive Award.
Fool me once….
Thinking of Jack and his relentless insistence that they belonged together gave her a chill. She knew he was so far behind her she'd never see him again, but that didn't make what he'd done any less painful.
Rather than dwell on it, she threw herself back into the Yellow Rose and finished cleaning out more rooms while the morning was still cool.
She finished the room she was in, then went downstairs where she kept a cooler filled with bottles of water.
With a cold bottle in her h
and, she sat on top of the cooler and studied the mantle while she drank.
It really was a masterpiece. Even through the congealed layers of old paint, she could see the craftsmanship of the hand carved roses—no two alike. The scrollwork was symmetrical, but the floral motif was more organic, flowing around the edges as if the roses had actually grown up along the mantle's frame.
There were places that were damaged—one where a section of rose petals was missing—but she knew she could fix it. She could already see the finished product glowing in her mind, its warm, wooden tones gleaming in the light of a fire as it had when it was first carved decades ago.
Before she realized what she was doing, she set her water aside and went to work with a brush, applying a thick layer of paint stripper to a small test section where the roses were already damaged.
Hours flowed by like seconds. She'd made good progress, but there was so much more to do.
Nate's sister Flora came by at some point and brought food. She mentioned something about Nate having a crisis at the motel and him being unable to get away, but Hanna didn't register more than that. She was too consumed by the first tiny rosebud that had finally been fully revealed, free from its painted cage.
Sunlight faded from the room, making it hard to see what she was doing. She found some work lights and ran an extension cord to the garage apartment where the power was still on. Once she could see again, she went back to digging paint from intricate crevices with the tip of a tiny dental tool.
At some point only a couple of hours before dawn, her hands shook too hard for her to keep going. She trudged to the garage apartment, showered off the sweat and grime of the day, and then fell face down into an exhausted sleep.
When she woke the next morning, she realized that she'd forgotten to finish her initial job of clearing away the trash in all the rooms. She'd been so distracted by the mantle, she'd completely disregarded the fact that Nate needed to start work on the house, and she hadn't yet cleared the way.
She scrambled from bed and rushed to get the job done before Nate showed up and was pissed she'd gotten distracted.
She didn't know how he'd react to anger, but she'd known enough men to know that it could be bad. Very bad.
Hanna was slower today than she'd been yesterday. Physical exertion and lack of sleep had taken their toll on her strength and speed. She kept trying to push herself to hurry, but all it did was make her weaker and less steady on her feet.
Her arms were wrapped around the giant trash can, which she'd been using to haul debris down the steps. The loads were smaller and lighter now, because she was no longer able to lift the can when it was full, but at least she was making forward progress.
Fatigue made her balance precarious, and with her arms full, she was unable to steady herself.
Her body tilted sideways, landing hard against a gaping hole in a plaster wall. A protruding nail caught the skin over her shoulder blade and bit deep.
Stabbing pain shot up her arm and down her ribs.
She dropped the can and bit her lips to cap off a yelp. The loaded trashcan tumbled down the steps, clanging like a gong and spewing dust and debris as it went. Her heavy breathing echoed in the stairway as she shoved herself away from the wall, dislodging her skin from the nail.
Blood dripped off the sharp metal spike. She felt the coppery liquid soak the fabric of her T-shirt, spreading fast enough to alarm her.
She wasn't one to freak out—accidents came with the territory when working in old houses—but this was definitely a bigger problem than a mere paper cut.
She hurried to the closest bathroom and stripped off her shirt to see the damage.
It wasn't pretty. The wound was about two inches long, ragged, bleeding heavily, and deep enough that she worried she was going to need stitches.
Hanna let her head fall in defeat.
She'd finally made some progress on paying for the truck repairs—thanks to this job—and couldn't afford to divert funds to something as stupid as simple bad luck.
Then again, she couldn't risk an infection now, not when she was about to start a new job and couldn't miss days because she was sick.
She folded her shirt so the cleanest part was facing out and placed the thick pad against the wound. She leaned against the wall to hold the makeshift dressing in place and pressed as hard as she could to slow the bleeding.
Thankful for the phone Nate had left her, she pulled it from her pocket and opened the contacts.
Nate was the only name there.
She hated to call him, but she hated even more to pay for an ambulance bill if she dialed 911.
"What's up?" he asked. "I was just heading your way to start working."
"I hate to bother you, but can you pick up something for me?"
"Sure. What do you need?"
"Rubbing alcohol or peroxide. Some sterile bandages."
In the background, she could hear his truck's engine rev up. "Are you hurt?"
"It's just a cut."
"How bad?"
"Not bad," which was true only because she'd lived through worse. "I have a first aid kit in Rex, but that doesn't do me much good here."
"I'm ten minutes away. I'll bring my kit."
"Thanks. I'll be in the apartment, washing off the blood."
***
Nate made it to Hanna in five minutes. Maybe less, seeing as how time expanded when he was worried.
Washing off the blood.
The thought of her blood made his run cold.
He raced over the country roads, bouncing hard on the ruts and kicking up a trail of dust behind him. His tires spun as he sloshed into the driveway, and only when he came around the house to the garage behind it did he slow down enough he wasn't risking his life behind the wheel.
His steps were hard and quick as he entered the garage apartment without knocking. The first aid kit he carried in his truck seemed heavy in his grip.
The apartment was dark, with few windows to let in any natural light. The light that did make it inside was immediately sucked up by the dark paneled walls and furnishings.
"Hanna?" he called as he scanned the space for her.
"Back here."
He heard water running. When he cleared the bathroom doorway, all he could see was the bright red bloom across her shoulder blade.
She'd used a towel tied around her shoulder as a bandage, but it hadn't done much good, if the blood soaking through was any indication.
A wad of bloody fabric lay on the floor of the shower, and he realized after a second that the pale blue cotton was her shirt. It was soaked, too.
She was definitely wounded—and not just a little.
Shock grabbed him by the throat for a second and choked off his air before letting go.
He moved toward her, wanting to touch her but worried that he might hurt her more if he did.
It struck him that she was shirtless, wearing only a bra, but he didn't have time to take in what might otherwise have been a lovely sight—not when she was in pain and bleeding.
"That's not a little cut," he said, moving into action.
"You haven't even seen it yet."
"I don't have to. There's way too much blood for it to be little."
"I'm having trouble reaching it to stop the bleeding, that's all."
He untied the knotted towel and slowly eased the fabric away from the wound.
Her skin was a ragged mess, the cut gaping like a bloody maw in an otherwise perfect, smooth expanse. As he watched, more blood seeped out, and he knew then that this problem was too big for him to fix with a simple first aid kit.
Nate pressed the towel back in place and applied strong pressure to stop the bleeding. Her slender body swayed slightly against the force, but then she stood firm, pressing back against him to help his efforts.
With one hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed.
"This is Nate. Tell Mom I'm bringing Hanna in for some stitches. She needs to clear a spot for her in about f
ifteen minutes."
"She's really booked up, Nate," said Mrs. Willis, the woman who answered the phones at the clinic and kept things running smoothly.
"I don't care. This is…" he almost said an emergency, but those words meant more to medical professionals than his intent. If he uttered those words, an ambulance would be called, and there was no need for that, despite how much Nate wanted Hanna fixed.
He tried again. "It's important that Mom see Hanna right away. Just give her the message, okay?"
Nate didn't wait for Mrs. Willis to agree. He simply hung up and turned his attention to Hanna.
Her arms were braced against the sink to give her leverage against his constant pressure on the wound. Her head hung low, and loose stands of hair escaped her bun to fan around her face. Her whole demeanor was one of weary resignation.
"Is it really that bad?" she asked, her voice a near whisper.
"It's not good."
"Can't we just duct tape it closed?"
"Sorry." Then, after a second. "How bad is the pain?"
"I'm okay. I'm more worried about the pain in my checking account."
"You don't have to worry about that. You're on the job. I'll pay for the medical expenses."
He felt her stiffen. "Like hell you will. It was my fault, not yours."
"I'm not going to argue with you about this. Come on, let's get you in the truck."
She let out a single bark of laughter. "First the rain water, now blood. Your poor leather seats will never be the same after me."
In the back of his mind, a small thought fluttered through the haze of adrenaline and worry.
Neither will I.
Chapter Sixteen
Nate's mom—Dr. Bonnie Grace—was a goddess. It was the only explanation for what Hanna saw when she entered the Whisper Lake Clinic.
She stared up at the stunningly beautiful woman in awe. She was tall, with a build that would have been athletic a few years ago and was now softening with age. Hanna would have guessed her in her forties, but the diploma on the wall indicated she had to be at least ten years older. Silver strands danced through her warm brown hair, twinkling in the fluorescent lights like fairy dust. Her face was lovely, reminding Hanna of those old black and white movie stars with their dark lips and huge, expressive eyes.