by Meghan March
Fuck. I didn’t even think about that. A feeling of foreboding settles in my gut. “Shit. You’re right.”
“Maybe you ought to go see her in person and try to get that update. You’re pretty persuasive, boss.”
Rick comes out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Jesus, how long was he in there anyway? I make a mental note to stay far away.
“You ready to finally work today?” I ask Rick.
He laughs and pats his gut. “Sure am now. If I’m gonna spend a couple hours under the car replacing all the gas lines and shit, I figured I better make sure I’m not gonna be getting off that creeper every five minutes. My old lady made chili last night, and that shit is lethal.”
I shove the creeper toward him with my foot and it rolls until it stops a few inches away. “Get to it, man. I’m not paying you to spend a half hour taking a shit.”
“Got it, boss.”
“All right, you two, get to work. I’ll go track down Mrs. Borst about the interior. We need to see progress here today.”
They both salute me, and I head for the door.
* * *
I’m about to climb in my truck when I see a crowd gathering in front of the pharmacy across the street.
“What the hell?”
Figuring I can spare five extra minutes to see what’s going on, I shut my door and head over.
What seems like the entire crew of retired folks who normally spend a few hours drinking coffee at Home Cookin’ every morning gathers outside. They surround a cameraman as he records a brunette talking about Gold Haven and the recent meth epidemic.
“Can this small town recover? Or are pharmacies like this one going to continue to be targeted for the purchase of supplies to make illegal drugs?” She stops, and the cameraman lowers the camera. “Thanks, Adam. I think that’s good.”
“Do you wanna interview any of us? We got lots to say,” Rita Daws, a former preschool teacher at the Methodist church, asks.
“I’d love to make a list of your names and contact information so I can follow up with all of you if we need more background,” the reporter says. She’s probably in her late twenties or early thirties.
“I’ve got time right now,” Rita replies. “But tonight’s bingo at the VFW, so I can’t promise I’ll be available.”
The reporter’s smile tightens, but she keeps it in place. Rita can be a bit pushy, which is ironic considering her former career.
One of the three Gold Haven police cruisers pulls up alongside the pharmacy.
“Y’all should get back to your coffee. There ain’t nothin’ to see here.”
The crowd quiets, and the woman’s attention cuts to the car. It’s Ron Timmons, Gold Haven’s chief of police.
“Police Chief Timmons!” The woman steps toward the cruiser, gesturing to the cameraman. “I’m Memphis Lockwood of the Investigation Network, I’d love to speak with you about what’s happening right now in Gold Haven.”
I crane my head to the side, interested to see if he’ll actually talk to her. He’s one of those retired-on-the-job cops who doesn’t do jack. Cody would do a lot better in that position, but until Timmons decides to retire, Gold Haven is pretty much stuck with him because of his close ties with Lester Freeman, the mayor.
“I got a busy schedule at the moment, ma’am. But feel free to check with my secretary down at the station to see if she can squeeze you in.”
A few people in the crowd laugh at the obvious line of bullshit, and Timmons’s face turns a mottled shade of red, worse than it normally is from hitting the bottle on a nightly basis.
“Police Chief Timmons—” she starts, but Timmons has already rolled up his window and is driving through the blinking red light back to the police station.
“Useless piece of shit,” someone murmurs in the crowd, and the reporter zooms in on Eamon Kent, the speaker.
“Do you think that the police department is mishandling this investigation rather than trying to figure out why this town has had such a high incidence of meth-house explosions over the last several weeks?”
The camera is rolling, and Eamon is put on the spot. “I don’t know that I can say they’re mishandling the investigation so much as not doing any investigating at all. Well, that’s not entirely true. Cody Reeves is going around town trying to dig up stuff, but that’s about it.”
I back away from the crowd. The last thing I want is to show up on national news in some way that’s going to have Timmons causing trouble for me. It’s not like I have anything to add to the story anyway.
When I cross the street, I hop into my truck, and a text comes through my phone.
BANNER NYC: My box of dicks is on the way! The post office lady told me they wouldn’t deliver to Holly’s gran’s house, so I had to send them general delivery to the post office. Is that normal?
I need to take the NYC out of her contact, because as far as I’m concerned, that’s not who she is anymore. I make the change before I reply.
LOGAN: They stopped delivering out that way a few months back after some budget cuts came down. You’ll have to stop in and pick them up.
MY WOMAN: Got it. Can I bring you anything for lunch?
Now that’s more like it.
LOGAN: I’m running an errand, so I’ll grab something while I’m out.
MY WOMAN: Okay, babe. TTYL
When I slide the phone back in my pocket, it’s with a big smile on my face.
Chapter 18
Logan
I knock on the door to Mrs. Borst’s breezeway where she has her upholstery shop, and wait a few moments before she opens the door. She stares at me through the screen with a hard look on her face.
“You didn’t take me not answering your calls as a response?”
Shit. I decide to play dumb.
“I thought you might not have heard the phone ring, ma’am.”
“I heard it. I have that caller ID thingy, so I was screening.”
Not a good sign. Time to cut to the chase.
“What do I need to do to get this interior and upholstery finished on time, Mrs. Borst? You going to up the price on me after we already made a deal?”
She shakes her head, her steel-gray curls not budging an inch. “Not for all the money in the world am I touching those panels or seats until your little hussy of a girlfriend apologizes to my cousin and second cousin for what she said about my godson being inbred. That wasn’t Minnie’s fault. She didn’t know she and Lyle were related until after she was pregnant.”
Fucking hell. “With all due respect, ma’am, that has nothing to do with the job you said you’d finish for me.”
She crosses her arms, thimble still on her bony finger. “That’s where you’re wrong. No apology, no job.”
I want to grab the old woman by the shoulders and shake her, but there’s no way I’d ever put my hands on a woman in anger. If I didn’t believe in that right down to the marrow of my bones, I would have decked Tricia myself for the shit she was spewing at Banner.
“The job for the apology. That’s your stipulation?”
“That’s right. And since you said you need this stuff pretty danged quick, you don’t have a lot of time to waste screwing around.”
“I’ll take everything I brought you back right now, and we’re done.”
Her jaw drops open.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to ask Banner to apologize to Tricia, especially not with the black eye Banner had to work hard to cover up this morning.
“What?” Mrs. Borst’s tone isn’t nearly as forceful as it was only moments ago.
“You weren’t there, and I’m sure the story you got from Tricia wasn’t the whole truth. If it was, you’d realize you’re burning a bridge that doesn’t need to be burned.”
Her brows wing down into a deep vee. “You need me more than I need you, Brantley. Don’t forget about that. Who else do you think can upholster your fancy car seats and fix up those interior pieces in this short of time for this pri
ce?”
“I guess I’m about to find out, ma’am, because I’ll no longer be needing your services. I’ll take my property now and pay you for what you did, but we’re done.”
“Five hundred dollars and you can take them.”
“Let me see how much you finished first.”
She steps aside, and I walk into the breezeway to see the pieces of the car interior all over the breezeway workshop.
I cut my gaze to her. “You did the panels and one seat? And you want five hundred dollars?”
She shrugs. “I did the dash too. Don’t forget that. The rest is for sunk costs.”
Keeping my temper in check, I pull out my wallet and peel off the cash. It’s a hit to my budget, but the project is too important to risk.
Mrs. Borst tucks the bills away. “Go on and get your crap out of my workshop.” She spins on the heel of her house shoes and leaves the breezeway to head inside the house.
I load all the pieces into the back of my truck before covering them with a tarp, all the while cussing her up and down in my head. So much for being a professional, Mrs. Borst.
And now I’m out an upholsterer, and I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do.
Chapter 19
Banner
I pull into the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly, desperate to refill my fridge with food after Logan cleared it out for me while I was gone so nothing spoiled. I’m not really excited about small-town grocery shopping today, but I refuse to let the chance of running into anyone nasty get between me and food.
I grab a cart from the parking lot and push it through the automatic doors. As soon as I’m inside, I realize I misjudged my timing. I figured late afternoon on a Monday would be dead, but Piggly Wiggly is as busy as I’ve ever seen it. Apparently, a lot of the people in this town are already out of work at ten after four.
I make my trip quick, pushing around the perimeter and up a few aisles before making my way to the liquor section. Unfortunately, as soon as I turn the corner, I spot one of the ladies who I tangled with right after I got to Gold Haven. At least this time, that bitch Tricia isn’t with her. The brunette grabs a bottle of cheap vodka, and I park my cart right in front of hers and reach for the good stuff on the top shelf.
I don’t say a single word to her or even make eye contact, but that doesn’t stop her from running her mouth as soon as the bottle touches my cart.
“You just have to rub it in, don’t you? That you think you’re so much better than us. Wasn’t this weekend enough for you?”
It doesn’t surprise me that the story of what happened at the bowling alley has already made the rounds, and even more, that whatever story is being told makes me look bad.
“You weren’t there, so you might want to get your story straight before you decide to talk about it.”
“I didn’t need to be there to know that you’re more trouble than you’re worth to Logan Brantley.”
That stings, because I’ve thought that more than once myself. Regardless, there’s no way I’m going to let this woman think she hit a sore spot.
“Again, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” For good measure, I grab another bottle of vodka and push my cart around her, but my exit isn’t quite as graceful due to the squeaking cart wheels.
From behind me, she keeps talking. “I know that Logan Brantley is working his butt off on some big project, because Jock was talking about it this morning at Home Cookin’. And I also know as soon as Tricia told her mama’s cousin what happened, Mrs. Borst decided she isn’t going to finish that upholstery job Logan hired her for until you apologize to both Tricia and her mama for what you said about her brother.”
The vodka bottles tip over in my cart with a clatter when I freeze in mid-step.
Slowly, I turn around to face her. “Excuse me?”
The brunette gives me the evil eye. “You heard me. You messed with the wrong family, and now Logan’s paying the price in a big way.”
And he hasn’t told me about any of it.
Refusing to give her any more ammunition to gossip about with her friends, I tell her, “There’s absolutely nothing that’s going to stop Logan from finishing his project, let alone a bunch of small-minded bitches.”
“I guess we’ll see about that,” she says before turning in a huff and tipping over her own bottles in the process.
I head directly to the checkout lanes. My phone is already in my hand when I join the line, and I text Logan.
BANNER: Did your upholstery lady quit? Because of me and the bowling alley bitch?
When he doesn’t respond right away, my attention drifts from the lady in front of me with a dozen cases of Dr Pepper on the belt to the rack of tabloids.
I grab the one with a familiar face on the front page.
Cavanaugh Westman Cozy with Billionaire’s Sister
Sure enough, there’s my best friend, Greer, and her man, Cav, sitting side by side at a sidewalk café somewhere.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
MY SEXY MAN: Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.
My thumbs fly across my screen to reply.
BANNER: So that’s a yes?
MY SEXY MAN: It’s not your issue. I’ll handle it.
BANNER: It is my fault. What do I need to do to fix it?
As much as I hate the thought of apologizing to that bitch, if I have to do it to save Logan’s project for Boone, which I know is crazy important for him, I will.
MY SEXY MAN: You’re not doing anything to fix it. I fucking forbid it.
Whoa now.
BANNER: You forbid it? Really? You’re going there?
MY SEXY MAN: Bruce, leave it alone.
BANNER: We’re talking about this tonight.
MY SEXY MAN: I’ll call you when I finish up.
That’s not an agreement that we’re going to talk, but I have a feeling it’s all I’m going to get out of him right now.
My mind starts flipping through options. I don’t know anyone who upholsters shit, but someone I know has to.
The woman in front of me pushes her cart out of the checkout line.
“Ma’am, are you ready?” the cashier says, clearly waiting for me.
“Sorry.” I unload my cart on the conveyer belt and toss the tabloid on it too. Maybe I’ll make a scrapbook for Greer and give it to her someday.
As soon as I’ve paid and the groceries are loaded up in my rental, I give her a call. She answers on the first ring.
“Hey, B, what’s happening? You back in Kentucky?”
“Yes, and don’t get me started on the bitches in this town. You need to tell Hollywood that small towns aren’t like they portray them in the movies.”
“You’re more than capable of handling them.”
“Of course I am, but it’s the repercussions on Logan that’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
I fill her in on everything I haven’t already told her, including the bowling alley situation, and the upholstery fallout.
“Good God. Only you, Banner. Only you.”
“My life might not be as interesting as yours, Ms. Tabloid Queen.”
She groans. “Oh no. What did they print now?”
“Nothing bad. Just you and your hot man.” An idea strikes me. “By the way, does he know any of those car show guys? Like the ones that do restorations on TV?”
“You’re trying to fix the upholstery situation without having to apologize, aren’t you?”
I shrug, but she can’t see it. “You know I would in a hot second if Logan asked me to, but I don’t think he will. Actually, he forbade it.”
“Wait, Logan Brantley forbid you from doing something, and you’re actually going to listen to him?”
“Normally I only take orders while I’m naked or cock is involved. I might make an exception for this one, but only if I can’t find a way to fix it.”
Silence follows.
“Greer? Are you still there?”
“
Sorry, I’m trying to wrap my head around what you just said. I never knew you liked it when guys told you what to do in bed. I feel like I don’t even know you right now.”
“Shut up,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat.
“Logan really is different, isn’t he?”
I take a deep breath and tell her something I’ve never told her before. “I’m in love with him.”
Greer squeals into the phone. “I knew it! I freaking knew it! I love this so much for you.”
“Calm down, chica. You’re acting like I just cured cancer. It’s just a guy.”
“But it’s not. It’s the guy. The one who changes everything. You found yours, and that makes me so happy for you.”
“Don’t get too happy because if I screwed up the most important project he’s ever had, things might not be awesome for long.”
“Stop it. It’s going to be fine. I’ll ask Cav. He knows a ton of people, and if he doesn’t know someone, he knows someone who knows them. Let me go work this Hollywood connection stuff, and we’ll get it figured out.”
“I swore I wasn’t going to come to you to clean up my messes anymore, G.” My tone is quiet, and Greer answers the same way.
“That’s what friends are for, babe. Love you.”
“Love you.”
We hang up, and the knots that formed in my stomach in the liquor aisle loosen a degree.
I’m going to fix this. I will not let Logan’s business suffer because of something I did.
Chapter 20
Logan
As I pull into the gravel drive of Holly’s gran’s house, which I still can’t think of as Banner’s for some reason, the front room is lit up enough that I can see her silhouette through the lace curtains in the front window.
Oh sweet Jesus, it looks like she’s standing in front of the stove.