Losing Her Heart (Sweet Somethings Book 4)

by Rory Reynolds

  Losing Her Heart

  Sweet Somethings Book Four

  Rory Reynolds

  Losing Her Heart

  Sweet Somethings Book Four

  Rory Reynolds © 2020

  Cover by PopKitty Designs

  Created with Vellum

  to falling madly in love…

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Epilogue Two

  About the Author

  Also by Rory Reynolds

  1

  Prue

  Today is not going how I planned. The last thing I wanted was a call at five in the morning from old Mrs. Webster with a backed-up toilet—again. This happens at least once a month. I don’t know how many times I have to tell her she cannot flush her adult diapers down the toilet just because they embarrass her. It’s one of those things that make being the only plumber in town a serious bummer. I get her all sorted and realize I’m nearly an hour late to meet the new owner of Sweets Tavern—well, what used to be Sweets Tavern. It closed the better part of twenty years ago when the owner decided it was time to retire and hightailed it to Florida.

  I pull the van up to the bar and give it a once over. It looks like it has been left to rot for years, and it has been. I almost feel bad for whoever bought it, but at the same time, this remodel means a lot of work for the contractors of Sugarhill, and that’s never a bad thing.

  “Hello,” I call out as I let myself in the front door. It’s dim and dusty inside, exactly what one would expect from a place that’s been boarded up for years. I revise my assessment from a lot of work to a godawful amount of work. It would cost less to bulldoze the place and start from scratch, but the town council would never allow it. This place is considered a historical landmark like all the buildings in downtown Sugarhill.

  “We’re closed,” a gruff voice calls from somewhere behind the bar area.

  “No shit,” I mumble. “Someone called for a plumber. I’m just here to assess the place.”

  A man who has to be some sort of Adonis steps out from a door that I didn’t see in the darkness. He’s tall and muscled. Not the bulky muscles like my best friend, Ana’s retired mixed martial arts boyfriend, but definitely muscular. He’s built like a swimmer. My mouth waters thinking about getting a piece of him.

  Down girl.

  What can I say, it’s been a dry spell, and a girl has needs that her own fingers just can’t meet.

  He closes the distance between us, and my first assessment of the man is totally off. He isn’t an Adonis, he’s a freakin’ god of a man. He’s the thing I’ll be jilling off to for years to come. Dark hair, even darker eyes, a cut jaw covered with a couple days stubble. He’s taller than I first thought, and those muscles I was admiring flex and pull at his tight shirt in a way that has my panties growing wet.

  “You’re not Troy Olsen, and you’re late.”

  I flinch at the mention of my dad’s name. It’s been years, but it still hurts hearing his name. I’ve been told the pain lessens over time. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t, but it’s obviously not been long enough for me. I’m wondering if it ever will be.

  “Troy was my dad. I’m Pruette Olsen,” I hold my hand out for a handshake. My dad taught me early on that you can tell a man’s measure by his handshake. If he is a gentle touch just because I’m a woman, he can’t be trusted. If he squeezes too hard, he’s trying to prove something. Anything in between is the sweet spot.

  This man reaches out and shakes my hand perfectly. He doesn’t go slack and treat me with kid gloves. He doesn’t try to posture to assert his dominance. He shakes my hand like I’m an equal—point one for dreamboat.

  “Shouldn’t your dad be here? Is this bring your kid to work day?” he asks.

  I instantly bristle. I’m hardly a child. I’m going to be twenty-seven next month. Am I young to own my own business? Yeah, maybe, but I’ve been doing this job since I was young enough to be part of the bring your kid to work program.

  “My dad is dead. I’m the sole owner and operator of Sugar Plumbs for the last two years. I’ve been plumbing since I was ten years old. So yes, I’m a graduated member of bring your kid to work day.” I level him with one of my patented looks that make most men’s balls shrivel up. Fuck this guy and the Ford he rode in on.

  He looks both chagrined and amused by my diatribe. “Sorry about your dad. The website said-”

  “I know what the website says. Most people aren’t big enough dicks to assume that because I lack that appendage that I can’t be a plumber.”

  “I never said-”

  “You didn’t have to. I know your type.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing that you were late, and I don’t work with people who aren’t punctual.”

  I laugh. “And who else are you going to get to fix the outdated and rusted out plumbing in this place?”

  “Already called Jaxon Brothers.”

  I raise my brows. “You called someone from the city… to come here… to work…”

  “Yep. They come highly recommended and are punctual.”

  I snort. “Well, they have multiple people to do their shoddy work and only one of me to take care of all of Sugarhill. Old Mrs. Webster’s emergency was more pressing than your little shithole.”

  “Either way. Your services won’t be needed.”

  “Whatever you say, big man. Good luck,” I say, cackling as I leave the bar.

  2

  Clay

  I slam my phone down on the desk. I lied to the little wildcat of a plumber. Jaxon Brothers refused to come all the way out here to even do an estimate on this place. So have all the other plumbers from here to the city an hour away. It seems no one will step foot in Sugarhill.

  I may have also lied when I told Pruette Olsen that I wouldn’t hire someone who isn’t punctual. More like, I won’t hire someone I want to fuck. The moment I saw her, I wanted to throw her over one of these dusty tables and screw her halfway to Sunday. I used the only excuse I could think of to get her out of here before I lost my mind. She left, alright. Laughing like some kind of villain and flipping me off on her way out.

  That was five days ago, and I’m no closer to finding someone to fix the plumbing. The worst part is dealing with my regret for sending the sexy plumber away. I wanted her the moment I saw her. My desire was instant and stronger than I’ve ever felt in my life. I refused to hire her because I didn’t trust myself with her. I want her desperately. My obsession sprung up out of nowhere after just one interaction.

  It’s frustrating enough to not have a plumber, but on top of that, my general contractor called and told me he’s overbooked, and it’ll be months before he can get to me. The electrician that came to look the place over just laughed and shook his head, saying he was booked solid.

  Not only can I not find a fucking plumber, but not a single contractor or electrician will touch the place. It’s like the whole world is working against me… at the very least the whole of Sugarhill. And my cock because he’s mocking the hell out of me for sending Prue away.

  When I first moved to town, I got a lot of curious looks, but people were friendly and welcoming. Now? It’s like I’m a leper. The only person who is friendly is my friend Amos—the person who convinced me Sugarhill was the place to s
ettle down—and by default, his wife, Margo, but I don’t miss the disdain in her eyes whenever I’m around. It seems like my little run-in with the sexy plumber has had a snowball effect on everything.

  “Seriously, Amos, it’s not funny. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  He chuckles. “There are only two things you need to remember about Sugarhill. People are loyal, and businesses are all named with either sweet or sugar. Follow those two things, and you’ll be golden.”

  “I’m loyal, damn it. And I’m keeping the name, Sweets Tavern.”

  “You didn’t hire Sugar Plumbs…”

  “So?”

  “Loyalty. Sugarhill residents don’t outsource unless there isn’t a local person or place to get what they need.”

  “You mean, all of this is because I didn’t hire the pissy plumber?” The feisty, gorgeous, drive-me-out-of-my-mind plumber, I think to myself.

  Amos laughs. “Pissy plumber, good one. Seriously, though. Prue is loved in this town. The minute she told her friends about you—trust me, I heard all about it, you fucked up bad, man—the whole town knew you refused to hire her. Now no one wants to work with you because you’re not part of Sugarhill. You’re just some asshole that moved to town from the big city.”

  “So I’m fucked is what you’re saying.”

  “Basically, man. You need to call Prue and fix this before you end up belly up before you even open the doors.”

  “Wonderful. Thanks for the advice. I gotta go write a groveling speech.”

  Amos is laughing his ass off as I hang up.

  I take a deep breath, then dial the number for Sugar Plumbs. It rings once then goes straight to voicemail. I dial again only to be sent straight to voicemail again. It’s going to be impossible to apologize to the woman if she’s going to be obstinate about it.

  Too bad for her, I don’t give up easily, and now that I’ve made up my mind, she’s going to be mine.

  3

  Prue

  My phone rings for the third time, and I, once again, send it to voicemail. Catch a hint, asshole. I twist the wrench, and the pipe I’ve been trying to replace finally loosens. I finish replacing the garbage disposal and clean up my mess.

  “You’re all set, Mr. Beatie.”

  “Thank you, Pruette. Your daddy would be so proud of you.”

  My heart clenches in my chest, and I have to force down the emotion that wants to well up and escape. I push it away and paste on a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Give me a call if you need anything else.”

  He gives me a warm smile. “You bet, sweetheart. Be careful out there.”

  Once again, my heart squeezes. It’s the same thing my dad said every time I left the house, “Be careful out there, pumpkin.”

  “Will do.” I throw a wave over my shoulder as I climb into the Sugar Plumbs van.

  My phone rings a fourth time, and I’m about to send it to voicemail when I realize it’s my friend Margo. “Hey lady,” I say, answering the call.

  “Hey, chicka. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know, same old.”

  “Mrs. Webster?”

  I laugh. “Yep, first thing this morning.”

  “She does realize that she purchases those at Sugar Street Market, right? The whole town knows she needs them.”

  I roll my eyes, laughing. “You’d think so, but apparently buying and using are two different things.”

  “Not sure if it’s hilarious or sad…”

  “Both. Definitely both,” I answer. “She’s the only person in town that has me on retainer.”

  We both laugh at that one. It’s ridiculous how stubborn the woman is, but a job is a job. Even when it’s one of the least pleasant jobs I do.

  “Sooo,” Margo starts, “I need a favor…”

  I sigh. I know exactly what this call is about—one dark-haired, dark-eyed, stubble-jawed wet dream. I know Clayton’s Amos’ friend. It was only a matter of time before a favor was called in. I can hardly blame the man. He’s been blackballed from everyone in town since our little run-in. And no, I wasn’t a bitch enough to call my fellow contractors and tell them what happened. I just so happened to tell my friends while at the diner… Daisy—the biggest busybody in town—happened to overhear. The rest is history.

  “Can you please, please take Clayton’s call. He told Amos who told me that you’re ignoring him.” I roll my eyes at the level of high school this whole situation has devolved to. Would I have ignored him on purpose? Absolutely. Did I? No, I was busy. I don’t answer calls when I’m at another job. It’s rude.

  “I was busy installing Mr. Beatie’s new garbage disposal. I wasn’t ignoring him. He could’ve left a voicemail like any other potential customer, but he didn’t.”

  I can practically hear Margo shaking her head. She knows me too well and that I just might be petty enough to ignore him for a few days before calling him back. “If he calls again, I’ll answer, but there’s no guarantee I’ll take the job. I hate working with jackasses, and this is a long-term project. It’ll take weeks to get that place up to code.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks, Prue. I owe you one.”

  “Damn right, you do. Later.”

  Almost immediately, my phone rings. “Sugar Plumbs, this is Prue,” I answer formally.

  “Uh… Hi. This is Clayton York. I just bought Sweets Tavern… we talked a few days ago?”

  “I remember you, Mr. York. You’re the one who assumed because I’m a card-carrying owner of a vagina that I can’t fix your plumbing.”

  “I believe I said I can’t work with someone who isn’t punctual… it had nothing to do with your vagina.”

  “Mhm. What I can I do for you, Mr. York?”

  “Please, call me Clay,” he clears his throat, “I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day, and I just wanted to apologize.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, good. Would you come look at the place? It really does need a total overhaul-”

  “What I meant was, feel free to apologize,” I say tartly.

  I can hear him muttering something about ‘this fucking woman,’ which makes my demand for an actual apology even more amusing. “Look, Prue, I’m sorry, okay? I’m obviously not from around here, and I’m learning as I go.”

  He almost sounds sincere, but for some reason, and I can’t quite put my finger on why the apology doesn’t feel like the only thing he wants to say. He’s holding something back, and I’m not sure what it could be. But he sucked it up and apologized, so I’ll put the idiot out of his misery.

  “Apology accepted. How can I help you?”

  “Could you come look at the bar and let me know what all it needs? I have a feeling it’s going to be quite extensive, and I’d like to get the work underway as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.” I hang up before he has the chance to protest or try to haggle for a later time. He wants me, he’s getting me on my terms. I mean… if he wants to hire me, it’ll be on my terms.

  I pull up to the Sweets Tavern, and Clay is already there, leaning against his truck, his arms crossed over his chest. Unfortunately, he’s just as hot out in the bright light of the day as he was in the shadowed bar. Probably more so since I can see every cut line of him.

  Lord, he’s sexy. Under different circumstances, I would totally jump his bones. But I don’t even do casual sex with people as asshole-ish as him. My vagina has standards, and the line stops at dick swinging jackasses.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says in a low rumbling voice. “I really appreciate it.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh. “You only appreciate it because to rest of the town found out that you were shopping for big city folks to do work here in Sugarhill. Of course none of them would come out this far—it’s just not profitable enough—and so you got desperate enough to lower your standards and hire a woman to do a man’s job. Am I right? Or was it because no one in town took too kindly to you not supporting local and stonewalled you?”


  Clay looks taken aback by my brass nature. Good. Maybe if I can keep him disliking me on the principle that I’m a woman working in a man’s world, then I have a chance. As of right now, my body says, ‘jump him.’ Thank God, my brain knows better and is stubborn enough to tell my body to control itself. Now to just stick with it.

  “Regardless of the reason, I do appreciate you coming by on such short notice. Would you like to come inside and take a look at the place?”

  4

  Clay

  I’m in a world of trouble. The little plumber might be brass and talk a good game, but there’s no denying the hunger in her eyes when she looks at me. Nor can she hide those hard nipples that are begging me to take a taste. Despite the gray coveralls she wears, it’s impossible to miss her feminine frame. She’s tall and athletic with curvy hips and breasts that are a perfect handful. My palms itch to feel their weight as I lick and suck at her nipples.

  Prue’s blonde hair is in a tangle on top of her head. It probably started as a top knot, but whatever she’s done through the day, it’s now a mess of flyaway hair that’s been stuffed back in place. Don’t get me started with those gray eyes of hers. They are piercing and seem to see way more than I’m comfortable with. The short story is she’s exactly my type. Better than my type. I couldn’t have dreamt this beauty up if I tried.

  “This place is a mess,” she says as we walk inside the bar.

  I laugh at her assessment. She’s not wrong. This is what happens when you buy a property considered a historic landmark sight unseen. You end up with good bones surrounded by shit.