Last night, after too many beers at The Willow Tree, he’d been spinning his mug around on the bar top, trying to figure a way out of this mess. It’d been in the haze of alcohol and commotion that the idea had come to him. Every time he went into the bar, someone stopped him to comment on the joint work he and Rory had done in the place. There was no denying it—their personalities might not mesh well, but their work sure as hell did.
And that was how he found himself easing down the long dirt road that led to Rory’s new home. He hadn’t been to Old Man Marley’s place for years—not since Nash’s pops had replaced the front porch. That had been almost two decades ago, and well before Miss Rory Haven had taken up residence.
Nash rolled to a stop in front of the dilapidated house. Not exactly the lap of luxury he’d pictured Rory living in, but he had to give her props for holding her ground and not giving in to her daddy. If Richard Haven had his way, she’d be living on his land in a brand-new house he’d wanted Nash to build for her. The Havens had more land than they knew what to do with. Mac already lived on the property—along with Will, before she’d moved in with Finn a couple months back—and Daddy Haven had wanted Rory to join in the tradition.
Apparently she’d put her foot down, because after Richard’s initial inquiry for a quote, Nash hadn’t heard anything more about it. Much as he could’ve used the paycheck from a job like that—now more than ever—he couldn’t say he wasn’t happy about how things had turned out. He hated the idea of Rory swapping out one controlling man for another, especially when she was perfectly capable on her own.
The front porch obviously hadn’t been worked on again since the last time Nash had been there with his pops. He climbed the steps, careful to avoid the rotting boards. Music poured from the open windows of the house, and the rustic screen door banged against the frame in time with the breeze.
“Son of a bitch! This stupid fucking thing! Just stay. Put.” Rory’s voice came from inside, but instead of going on in, Nash just stood there, stunned stupid.
The only time he’d ever—and he meant ever—heard Rory swear was the night last year when she’d been lit at The Willow Tree. The night she’d found out exactly what kind of man her ex-husband was and exactly what kind of extracurriculars he’d been getting up to. The night she’d told Nash how attractive she found him.
“Listen to me, Aurora Jane,” she said. “You’re gonna put up this godforsaken thing, and you’re gonna do it all by yourself. Why? Because you don’t need any damn help. And because it makes for a gorgeous design aesthetic and will turn this shithole into a semi-decent home, even if puttin’ it up is akin to slappin’ lipstick on a pig. ’Sides that, there’s no one else to deal with this shit but you, so suck it up, buttercup.”
Nash grinned at her little self-directed pep talk, amused by the fire in her tone. He pulled open the screen door, irritated that she hadn’t locked up. She shouldn’t be out here in the middle of nowhere with the doors open so just anyone could walk in. He was proof enough of that.
The house had a fairly open floor plan, which meant he could see her from where he stood just inside the door. She teetered on an old wooden chair in what he figured would soon be the dining room. Holding up a long piece of crown moulding in one hand and a cordless nail gun in the other, she was attempting to keep it level before nailing it in. Seamless crown moulding meant it was a two-person job—no ifs, ands, or buts about it—but damn if Rory wasn’t dead set on doing it all by herself.
“Need some help?” he asked.
Rory screamed, spinning around to face him and letting go of the piece of crown moulding in the process. Nash jerked forward, though there was no way he could get there before it crashed to the floor.
Holding the nail gun at her side, she clutched her chest with her other hand, her eyes narrowed on Nash. She lifted the nail gun and shook it in his direction. “I’d think you, of all people, would know better than to scare someone holdin’ one of these. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you with it! I don’t know why you’re dead set on givin’ me a heart attack, but I’ve had just about enough of it.”
She stepped down from the chair and bent to retrieve the fallen moulding. “And, no, I do not need any help. I’m a perfectly capable, independent woman who can take care of herself. If that tiny thing on HGTV can rehab houses all by herself, I can certainly put up some stinkin’ crown moulding.”
He pressed his lips together to stop a grin from spreading. She’d just sworn like a sailor, and now that she had company, it was back to stinkin’? “You sure about that? ’Cause if you did need help, I’ve got some time in my schedule, and I’d be willing to offer my services.”
Ignoring the daggers she shot him through angry eyes, he strolled over and held up one end of the moulding, pulled out a small level from his tool belt to double-check that everything was straight, and gave her a nod.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her hesitation over accepting help as obvious as if a pink elephant were perched in the corner. He just wasn’t sure if it was his help in particular she wasn’t fond of receiving, or if it’d be the same if anyone had offered. Finally, she lifted the nail gun, pressed it against the moulding, and pulled the trigger.
They didn’t speak as Nash continued to hold the moulding up while Rory nailed it in place, even when she stood so close, he could smell the hint of floral coming from her hair. The Rory he saw in public was enough to haunt his dreams, but this Rory? She was going to haunt him every single moment for the rest of his life.
Not only had he never heard her swear, but he’d never seen her less than perfect. She’d always been made up—gorgeous, sure, but beautiful like a glass sculpture you didn’t want to touch for fear of mucking it up. Now, though, her face held no hint of makeup. Her hair was piled on her head in some kind of knot, and she wore a pair of the tightest workout pants he’d ever seen, showcasing her ass in an obscene way. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, she also wore his shirt, tied at the back in deference to their size difference.
“Tell me, princess,” he said, his throat rough, his cock thickening behind his zipper. She was so close, her tits eye level with him as she stood on the chair, and he had to physically restrain himself from closing the distance between them. “Would your impeccable manners dictate that you strip off your shirt if I asked for mine back right now?”
She smiled down at him—the fake smile she used on everyone else, and he absolutely hated that she tried to pass it off on him. He’d take her anger over her smiles any day of the week so long as what she gave him was real. “Sorry, sugar, but I’m currently usin’ all my manners to keep from kickin’ you outta my house, so the shirt’ll have to wait.”
A slow grin spread over his mouth at her sass. “You gonna respond to my proposition, then?”
She stepped down from the chair, going to get another piece of the moulding she’d already apparently trimmed down to size. Goddamn if it didn’t get his dick even harder with the evidence that she knew how to use power tools. Especially when everything about her screamed diamonds and champagne.
“Does it look as if I’m livin’ like royalty here?” she asked, sliding her chair over to another wall and hefting the moulding over her head. “I can’t exactly afford your services.”
Without a word, he followed behind and propped up one end of the moulding, once again ensuring it was level for her. While her attention was focused on the task, Nash allowed his eyes to slide over her every inch, from her feet encased in sneakers, to the long line of her legs wrapped up in black lycra, to the tool belt hanging off hips so thick he wanted to take a bite out of them. Jesus. Christ. A sliver of her stomach showed as she shot another nail into the moulding, and he wanted to taste that too. Wanted to know what her skin smelled like…what it felt like on his tongue.
By the time he spoke, his voice was husky with need, but he didn’t bother trying to hide it. No sense in doing that after he’d run his mouth the other day and told her exactly what he thought of her. “
I’m sure we can work something out.”
She whipped her head around to face him, her cheeks flushed and her breathing coming faster than normal. “Nash King,” she said, except it came out feathery and light instead of forceful like she’d no doubt intended. Straightening her shoulders, she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re implyin’, but I’m certainly not that kind of woman. So I’ll thank you kindly, but the answer is no.”
He wondered if saying those words had been as hard for her as he imagined. As much as he wanted to, there was no denying the chemistry between them. No denying the way she looked at him—had been looking at him for months. Like he was the juiciest steak on the menu and she hadn’t eaten in a week.
“I know exactly what kind of woman you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re strong, Rory. The kind of woman who won’t take a handout. Who wants to get ahead on her own.”
She looked taken aback for a moment before snapping her mouth closed and giving a short nod. “That’s right. So you can understand why I won’t be able to accept your offer.”
“And what if my time came in exchange for yours?”
Her brow furrowed. “How so?”
“You’ve been workin’ on some homes in town. Doin’ some designs for a few people.” For free, which Nash thought was dumb as hell, but he wasn’t about to bring that up now. “And word’s gettin’ around Havenbrook that you’re the one to call if someone wants the best.”
She stood a little taller at the compliment. “That’s nice to hear, but I’m afraid I’m still not followin’. And I’ve gotta pick up the girls from Momma’s soon, so you’ll need to spit it out.”
“Ever think about why it is you feel comfortable snappin’ at me like that when you wouldn’t dream about doin’ it with anyone else?”
A flush spread over her cheeks. “Perhaps it’s because you’re the only one who irritates the livin’ daylights outta me.”
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, princess.”
She huffed, holstering her nail gun before crossing her arms. “Are you gonna get on with it or not?”
“I’m proposing a partnership.”
Her brows lifted. “A partnership of what?”
“After I finish up Miss Norma’s remodel, I’m startin’ on Mrs. Gene’s. She’s demanded I get you in to work with me on design.”
Rory’s mouth fell open, shock replacing her anger for a moment until she seemed to catch herself. “Oh. Well, that was awfully nice of her, but I’m just not sure I’ll have time. It’s already a juggle since the girls don’t start school till next month, and I’m workin’ at town hall three days a week. Not to mention tryin’ to get everything here squared—”
“We can work around your schedule for any client work. And I can pull whatever shift you need over here to help in exchange.”
She snapped her mouth shut and stared at him for long moments, her eyes broadcasting her fears so clearly, they might as well have been thought bubbles above her head. She was scared to death about working so closely with him again. There was no denying the sparks that had flown between them when they’d both been working together on The Willow Tree. And now that she was newly divorced, there wasn’t anything she could fall back on as an excuse.
Except her sister, or that she used to babysit him, or the fact that she was damn near royalty here in Havenbrook and the only thing royal about him was his last name.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she finally said, her voice and posture so proper, even while she looked like a home-improvement warrior with sawdust on her chin.
“You do that, princess. But let me know soon. Mrs. Gene isn’t gonna be happy when I tell her you’re playin’ hard to get.”
She huffed, her fists clenching at her sides. “I am not playin’—”
“What’s with all the upside-down glasses all over in here?” He lifted his chin to the cup in the corner of the dining room. He’d seen two others in random places on his way in.
“Nothing,” she said far too quickly.
“No?” He strode over to the one in the corner and squatted, which was when he saw a tiny black dot encased beneath the glass. He reached out to lift it.
“Don’t!” she yelled, then cleared her throat and brushed a hand down the front of her shirt. “If you must know, there are spiders under those glasses. I don’t, um, believe in killin’ ’em, so I’ll deal with ’em later. I just haven’t had a chance yet.”
“Spiders.”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
He hummed, standing to his full height and taking in her stance. She was jittery, her eyes continually darting over to the glass next to him as if to make sure the spider hadn’t somehow figured out how to escape. “I could—”
“Oh, shoot!” she said with a glance at her watch before she spun on her heels to snatch her purse from the side table in the living room. “I’m late to pick up Ava and Ella. I gotta run. Which means you do too.”
She practically shoved him out of the house, the screen door slamming behind them both as she ushered him down the front porch steps. “You’ll have to forgive me for bein’ rude, but I—”
“Love bein’ rude to me?”
“Now you’re just testin’ my patience.”
“One of my favorite pastimes, princess, it’s true.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and spun them around his finger. “You’ll let me know about my proposition?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, sure.” She nodded, then hustled over to her car, an old Honda sedan that’d seen better days and was a far cry from the Land Rover she used to roll around town in. With one last glance at him over her shoulder, she slid into the driver’s seat and didn’t wait for him to leave before she sped off down the long driveway.
Nash watched her go until the dirt had settled on the road. Then he pocketed his keys, climbed the steps of the porch, and let himself into her house. He was really going to have to talk to her about locking up. While Havenbrook wasn’t exactly a den of sin, he didn’t like the idea of her all the way out here, no neighbors as far as the eye could see, without using a lock to keep her safe.
But he could do that some other time. First, he had some spiders to take care of.
Rory wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to being alone. After ten years of near-constant pleas from her daughters for her attention, suddenly having it gone—poof—was jarring, to say the least. It’d been four months since she’d moved out of the house she’d shared with Sean, but the days and nights Ava and Ella were with their father hadn’t gotten any easier. To go from being with them every day…tucking them in every night…to only seeing them Wednesdays, Thursdays, and every other weekend was upsetting. And painful.
Thank heaven for her sisters.
Just a year ago, she’d never dreamed of uttering those words. Rory and her sisters had never been particularly close or seen eye to eye. Will and Mac had always been tight, their small age gap ensuring that, whereas Rory and Nat had been the outliers. Nat with her wild ways, and Rory with her…perfection.
Perfection didn’t afford her a lot of friends.
Turned out she had exceptionally high standards and expected a lot out of people. Probably more than she should. It was something she was working on. Along with a laundry list of items she needed to forget about, which was where the margarita in her hand came into play.
She, Will, and Mac were settled in Mac’s living room, the only safe space between the three of them. If they went to Will’s place, they’d have to deal with Finn buzzing around like a fly, constantly attempting to steal kisses and make sex eyes at Will. And Rory’s house? It was still a work in progress—one she desperately needed to get away from once in a while just to save her sanity. And despite having her sisters there to fill up the void left by her daughters being gone, it still didn’t feel like a home when they were away.
“What are we drinkin’ to forget tonight, bitches?” Mac asked, settling in an overstuffed ch
air.
Will raised her glass between them. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m drinkin’ to forget the usual. Another meeting with Daddy.” She shook her head, eyes rolling to the ceiling as if to ask God to give her strength. “Just when I think he’s gettin’ better, he goes and does something completely asinine, makin’ me contemplate slippin’ prune juice into his coffee.”
Mac snorted as Rory shifted in her seat. She was getting used to the trash talk—though she certainly wasn’t going to partake—openly, anyway. Growing up under the same roof, they’d all been taught never to question or disobey their daddy’s directives. While, sure, Rory had done so in her head a million times, she’d never dreamed of speaking them aloud. It was all part of that perfection she strived toward, no matter that her daddy never seemed to notice it.
“What’d he do now?” Mac asked.
“Oh, the usual.” Will blew a breath to the ceiling. “He had a meeting with one of the town councilpeople, and he kept buzzin’ my intercom, demanding I bring ’em coffee, then donuts, then he ordered me to take notes when he knew damn well I had a full schedule today. Never mind that he has not one but two assistants now.” She lifted her chin in Rory’s direction. “Daddy doesn’t care. Swear he does it just to rile me up. He knows as soon as the Fourth is over, I dive right into plannin’ the Fall Festival, and it takes up all my time. He just set out to be a royal pain in my ass because I pushed back on his suggestion to restore Great-Grandpappy’s statue outside the courthouse.”
Mac furrowed her brow. “Why would he want to do that? It looks brand-new.”
“Exactly!” Will threw her hand up in a clear display of exasperation. “It’s still pristine, and we could use the money he wants to allocate for that to restore the crumbling gazebo in the Square, or replace the cracked marble in the entrance to town hall, or repave Main Street. There are a dozen other things I could think of to spend that money on instead of making Great-Grandpappy look exactly the same.”
Hometown Troublemaker Page 4