by Meghan March
It pisses me off that some of the women in this town have given her hell, but after the bowling alley incident with Tricia and the box of dicks with Emmy, I’m hoping it’s over. Banner’s made friends with Julianne and Nicole, but she could use a few more, especially if I’m going to ask her to make Gold Haven her permanent home, preferably by moving in to my place.
I know what it’s like to be an outsider here, and there were plenty of times I questioned my decision to come back rather than make a new start somewhere else. Banner doesn’t have the roots that I do. She just has me.
Am I enough to keep her here?
For the rest of my drive, I rack my brain about how I can make Gold Haven out to be the best choice for her. Banner could go anywhere, but I want her tied here.
I put my thoughts on hold when I drive into the lot of Pro Interiors and park my truck near the door.
When I dropped the seats off on Monday, I headed home as quickly as possible. Today, I need to go over all the work to make sure it’s exactly what I want for Boone’s car. The guys here know who the end customer is, so I’m hoping they did a top-notch job.
The owner wasn’t here last time, so when I approach the counter and see a different man with dark hair pulled into a short knot behind his head, I wonder if I’m finally going to meet him.
“Can I help you?” the man asks when I walk in.
“Logan Brantley. Here to pick up the interior pieces for the Olds 442 I’m redoing for Boone Thrasher.”
His eyes light with recognition. He’s definitely heard of me.
“You’re the one who got his ass saved with a bunch of favors being pulled in. I’m Del. This is my place.”
I’m not a fan of how he describes me, even though it’s the truth. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Sweet design, brother. You’re lucky we were able to pull it off. I had people pulling all-nighters on it since you brought it in.”
“I appreciate that. This is a big project for me, and my normal person couldn’t handle it.”
The man laughs. “Oh, I heard the whole story. Bowling fight and some injured female pride.”
I jerk my head back in shock. Banner. “I guess you don’t need me to explain then.”
“I don’t pull out all the stops in this place for no reason. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full with that woman. She must be a good one, because she made sure your ass was covered.”
“She’s the best there is.”
Del nods. “I bet. You wanna see what we did? We just finished up an hour ago, and it’s all waiting for you in the back.”
“Hell yeah.”
He waves me back, and I slide around the counter to follow him into the shop where a dozen people sit behind sewing machines designed specifically for upholstery. He leads me to a corner, where all the seats sit on canvas tarps.
“What do you think?”
The red-and-black seats with contrast stitching and brass-knuckle accents turned out better than I could have ever imagined.
“Holy shit. That’s incredible.”
“That’s why we get the big bucks. Helps that your design didn’t suck.”
His “big bucks” comment seems off to me considering the price they quoted me could have been much higher and I would have paid it.
“I’ll get a few guys to bag them up in plastic, and we’ll load them in your truck for you.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You and I can settle up the bill, and you’ll be on your way.” Del walks back toward the counter, and I follow him. “You gotta let me know when you’re going to be in town with the finished car. I want to make sure to get pictures for my marketing materials.”
“Yeah, sure. This Saturday, you can see the Olds in all her glory.”
“Glad your girl called, because there’s no way anyone else could’ve pulled off this project but us on this short of notice. We’re the top-of-the-line auto-interior experts for restoration in the South.”
“Shit, it sounds like I might have to bring more of my business your way,” I tell him as we reach the counter and I pull out my wallet. “What’s the total damage?”
Del types something in on the computer. “Let me pull up this invoice and make sure. I can’t remember off the top of my head. All I know is that your woman covered a chunk, so there’s not much left for you.”
Just like that, all the good feelings I had about this place crumble.
“What did you say?”
He looks up at me from the computer and then back down at the screen. “Never mind, man, that’s not important.”
“What the hell are you talking about? That my woman covered a chunk? She told me what the price was, and that was that.” Suspicion and anger come to life.
Del hits a key, and the printer spits out an invoice. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
I reach across the counter to snatch the paper off the printer tray.
The only amount on it is what I figured would be due. There’s nothing about a deposit or any other payments being made. I don’t know what Banner did, but it’s going to be undone. We’re going to have a come-to-Jesus talk about this.
I pull out my wallet and toss my company credit card on the counter. “You can charge me for all of it. And you’re gonna tell me how much she paid, because she needs to get refunded.”
“Dude, I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I swore I wouldn’t.”
I wait in silence because the alternative will burn this bridge faster than a Hellfire missile strike.
Del finally speaks again. “Do you really think any shop would take on a project and have employees pull all-nighters and not charge you some kind of premium? Come on, man.”
“How much?” I ask through my teeth.
“The rush fee was triple the normal cost. Your woman paid it so you only had to cover our regular price.”
“So you’re telling me I’m paying you a total of four times what you’d normally charge for this job? The regular price plus a triple rush fee?”
He nods.
“Fucking hell.”
“We’re booked out four months in advance right now, so we don’t do shit like that unless it’s worth our while.”
“Refund her card and then charge me all of it.” Fuck, this is going to set me back on the profit I figured I’d pull in from the job, but it has to be done.
Del hits a few more keys on the keyboard. “Unless you’ve got her card handy, I can’t do that.”
Fuck. “If she calls with the number, you’ll refund it, though?”
He looks up. “Only if you’re right there with another card to charge it to. I don’t do this shit for free.”
“Not a problem.”
“Maybe this isn’t my place, but you ever think about accepting her goodwill gesture and just move on? She pulled in favors to cover your ass, and you don’t sound all that grateful about it.”
The last thing I need is a lecture from a stranger. “I’m grateful; don’t get me wrong. But I’m also the kind of man who pays for his own shit, regardless of how I got in that position.”
Del shrugs and grabs my credit card off the counter to run it for the remaining amount. “Fair enough.”
After I sign the receipt, we head outside where two of his guys are ready to load the seats into the back of my truck.
“Appreciate your help.” I shake both guys’ hands once they’re finished and turn to Del. “Appreciate yours too.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. It was my fuckup that you ever found out to begin with.”
We shake hands, and when I release his, I respond. “Yeah, but she’s the one who asked you not to tell me, and that ain’t cool. I’ll deal with that myself, though. Thanks again.”
I climb into my truck and turn the key. As I’m pulling out of the parking lot, my first instinct is to pick up my phone and call Banner to ask her what the hell she was thinking, but this can wait until I see her.
It’s a long ride home to Gold Haven.
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Chapter 29
Banner
I rush around Logan’s kitchen, darting between the oven and the stove and the microwave and the fridge, hoping like hell I can actually pull off my supposedly simple dinner of home-style baked pork chops, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and cherry cobbler.
Women who do this every day should be rewarded with a boatload of medals, because it is not easy. The shopping, the prep, the planning, and sweet Jesus, the timing.
If Logan comes home late and all this turns to crap or ends up cold, I might sit down at the bar and cry into my wine.
Wine. Maybe that’s the answer. I pour another glass of the red I picked up at the store, and take a sip. Okay, I can do this. I feel good.
At least until the kitchen timer goes off, and I have to scramble to remember which thing I was actually timing. The broccoli is last, so it has to be the potatoes.
A giant pot is boiling on the stove, and I pull up the recipe on my phone again and reread how to test to see if they’re done.
Stabbing them with a fork doesn’t seem all that hard. I attempt to stab into a potato on the top of the pile, but it evades me.
Shit.
Reaching for a big spoon, I fish a potato out and stab it. The fork slides in and out easily.
That means it’s done, right?
I bet this is where people with normal families would be able to pick up the phone and call Mom for further instructions. But I don’t have a normal family, and the only person I could call to ask would have been Mrs. Frances. A pang of sadness brings the burn of tears behind my eyes along with a reminder that I need to call Sofia and check in on both her and Jordana.
After I left New York, I decided there was no point in the apartment staying empty, so I asked if Sofia would live there with Ms. Jordy to house-sit for me. From her response, you would have thought she inherited the thirty million. All in all, the perfect solution.
Which reminds me: I need to talk to my financial adviser guy to make sure he took care of setting up payments to her as well.
Sofia refused to let me pay her for house-sitting and insisted that she didn’t want to stop working with elderly people in the city who needed full-time in-home care, and I had to respect that decision. But that doesn’t mean I can’t put money in her bank account and tell her it’s from Jordy’s pet trust and she’s entitled to it. I think Frau Frances would approve, so I’m doing it anyway.
I look back down at the potatoes and hope they’re done. I’m in the process of straining them in the sink and trying to avoid third-degree burns when another timer goes off.
Shit. Which one is that?
I dump a few potatoes into the sink by accident, but toss them back in the pot anyway before setting it down on a cold burner. Whatever. I rinsed Logan’s sink. It’s fine. Five-second rule, right?
I check my phone to see which timer is wailing now. The cobbler. It said something about needing to cool for an hour before eating. I return to the oven and open it. The red cherry glaze stuff that I bought, because there was no way I could make that filling from scratch, oozes down the side of the white dish and lands with a sizzle on the bottom of the oven.
Shit. That’s going to be a mess.
I grab two pot holders and slide the dish out of the oven, then carefully set it on the counter with one of the pot holders shoved underneath.
Sweat beads on my forehead and neck as I stick my face in the oven again to assess the pork chops. Stuff is bubbling around them. That’s quite literally all I can tell. A chef, I am not. The timer is still set for another fifteen minutes, so I hope, for the millionth time, that Logan gets here around when I calculated. A few minutes either way isn’t going to ruin things, right?
I close the oven and grab my wineglass while I dig through the drawers for a meat thermometer. I’ve never used one in my life, but I don’t want to take the chance of poisoning either of us with rare pork chops.
After draining the wineglass, I find the thermometer and locate a hand mixer to mash the potatoes. I don’t know how other people do it, but I looked up making mashed potatoes for idiots, and it pulled up a super helpful site. I then had to google potato ricer and food mill, and came to the conclusion that Logan didn’t have either. But he did have a good old-fashioned hand mixer, and after digging through more drawers, I found the little attachments.
I set out the milk and butter and pull my hair up into a bun. All I need is some gangster rap to fit my favorite meme. I can handle this.
I measure the milk and butter and wait until the pork chops only have seven minutes left before I get the broccoli steaming. Then I start mashing.
The mixer might be from 1972, given the avocado-green color and the racket it makes, but it mashes just fine. At least it does until someone taps me on the shoulder, and I scream and spin around, mixer still in hand.
Oh. Fuck.
Mashed potatoes fly everywhere, landing in globs, including right on Logan’s face.
My heart pounding, I panic and push all the buttons on the top, which only turns up the speed, making an even bigger mess.
Logan reaches around me and yanks the cord out of the wall.
His long-sleeved black thermal shirt is covered in potato splatter, as are his face and hair. The dark look on his face doesn’t signal good things for me.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Lie to me about how much the upholstery work was gonna cost, and let me walk into it thinking I got a great deal?”
Shit. I shove the mixer back in the pot with the potatoes, and grab a towel.
“I just wanted to help. It was my fault that you couldn’t use your regular lady anymore. You shouldn’t have to pay that price. That was on me, so I fixed it.”
Logan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a beat before he meets my gaze. “Was that upholstery for my business?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do I step in the middle of your business and do shit without asking you?”
“No, but—”
“I’m done with the buts, Banner. You’ve got more money than I’ll ever make in a lifetime. I didn’t ask you to throw it at my problems to make them go away. That’s not how this thing between us works.”
He takes the towel I’m holding and wipes the mashed potatoes off his face while I process his words. I understand where he’s coming from, but he’s missing the point.
“So you’re saying if you pissed off the factory to the point they wouldn’t make my product anymore unless you apologized, but I wouldn’t let you apologize, you wouldn’t pull out all the stops to figure out how to fix the problem? Or would you just let me deal with it myself and somehow be able to sleep at night?”
His hard expression softens. “I’d move mountains for you, Banner. I’d do anything in my power to make your life easier.”
I was all fired up to throw down my next argument, but it fades away. Logan isn’t just a good man, he’s the best.
“Then how can you expect me to do any less for you? I love you, Logan. I wouldn’t just move mountains; I’d build ships to cross oceans if that’s what it takes. That money is a tool, and if there’s a time when I need to use it to make either or both of our lives easier, I’m going to do it.”
Logan pulls me against his potato-spattered chest. “Jesus, woman. You make it fucking impossible to be mad at you when you say things like that.”
The tension in my shoulders drains away and I pull my head back. “Even though I covered you in mashed potatoes?”
“Is that what you were making? I couldn’t tell while it was flying at my face.” He reaches out a hand, and before I can ask why, he brings it back to his mouth and sucks the mashed potatoes off his finger.
“They’re not totally done.”
His lips curl up into a smile. “But they’re really fucking good.”
I open my mouth to say something else, but my final timer goes off. “That’s the pork chops and the broccoli.”
; Logan’s eyes widen. “Damn, babe. You cooked a feast.” He pauses and tilts his head to the side. “What’s the occasion?”
I grin. “My favorite one—because I can.”
Logan laughs and releases me to pull the pork chops from the oven.
Chapter 30
Logan
I had a big speech prepared about how I wasn’t going to let Banner spend her money on my business ever again, but I put it to rest when I realized something else.
This woman is a gift in my life, and although she might not do what’s conventional, she acts with her whole heart, and it’s hard to fault her for that.
Shit, it’s hard to do anything more than fall deeper in love with her.
Plus, seeing her in my kitchen when I came home? Call me a caveman if you want, but I like it. I don’t expect her to cook for me, but seeing she made the effort when she didn’t have to was a good surprise.
An even better surprise? The food is phenomenal. I don’t have to pretend to want more, because my second helping goes down just as quick as the first.
“You know there’s cherry cobbler too, so you might want to save room for dessert.”
My fork stills in midair. “Did you say cherry cobbler?”
She nods. “I haven’t tried it, so I don’t know how it turned out—”
Banner trails off when I stuff the last bite of pork chop into my mouth and stand up to move around the bar.
“Whoa, you would’ve thought I told you I buried the keys to a Ferrari in that thing. I didn’t even mention the vanilla ice cream in the freezer.”
I glance back at her as I reach for bowls. “I’m gonna get fat living with you if you keep cooking like this.”
Banner’s eyes go wide, and I realize what I just said.
“We’re not exactly living together.” Her voice is quiet.
“For all intents and purposes, we are. Might as well make it official.”
“You . . . you want to live with me? Like move in together?”