The Right Stuff (Love in Brazen Bay Book 2)

by Brill Harper

  The Right Stuff

  Love in Brazen Bay, Volume 2

  Brill Harper

  Published by Brill Harper, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE RIGHT STUFF

  First edition. July 8, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Brill Harper.

  ISBN: 978-1386159070

  Written by Brill Harper.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Right Stuff (Love in Brazen Bay, #2)

  Chapter One | Gertrude Alise Stanhope Finnegan

  Nash McKendrick

  Chapter Two | Tru

  Nash

  Chapter Three | Tru

  Chapter Four | Nash

  Tru

  Chapter Five | Nash

  Tru

  Chapter Six | Nash

  Tru

  Chapter Seven | Nash

  Tru

  Chapter Eight | Nash

  Tru

  Chapter Nine | Nash

  Tru

  Chapter Ten | Tru

  Chapter Eleven | Nash

  Epilogue | Nash

  Stella

  Further Reading: Wrong Number Text

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  About The Right Stuff

  AFTER BEING CLEANED out by her bigamist embezzling husband, socially awkward academic Tru Stanhope finds herself with one remaining asset: a dive bar in the podunk town of Brazen Bay. Well, half a bar. The other half is owned by the infuriatingly hot Nash McKendrick. He doesn’t want to sell and he really doesn’t want his once silent business partner to have anything to do with his one true love—the pub.

  Nash liked his solitary life just fine before highbrow and pretentious Tru brought trouble, and her little yappy dog, to darken his door. She may be intellectual, but she knows nothing about the real world and shockingly less about men. He’s pretty sure he can handle the mousy little scholar, he just needs to figure out what makes her tick. She’s just a woman, after all. And women tend to fall all over themselves around him. He’ll just lay on the charm, sweet talk her into doing what he wants, and send her on her way to a life better suited for her so he can get back to his.

  But Tru has different ideas. She’s tired of the sheltered life she’s lived until now. She wants to experience real passion, a real career, and a real purpose in life. And she’s decided Nash is going to help her with all three.

  Author Confession: Nash could have any woman he wanted, so I deliberately gave him the one he doesn’t want. Because authors are evil and I like trouble. I hope you enjoy the opposites attract trope as much as I love writing it.

  Chapter One

  Gertrude Alise Stanhope Finnegan

  I TRY TO FOCUS ON THE conversation that my friends, Blonde One and Blonde Two, aka Elaine and Marta, are having without me, but all I can concentrate on is the salad dressing stain on my silk blouse. I don’t get invited to “ladies who lunch” activities very often, so I think I ought to try harder to fit in, but I have nothing to add to the conversation about the Botox faux pas someone I don’t know has been victim of. Someone Elaine and Marta claim doesn’t need the Botox as much as she needs dental whitening as they wonder why she didn’t start there.

  I run my tongue over my own teeth and worry that I’ve never whitened them. Should I have? There are so many things I don’t understand about my world, and I have no excuse. I was born into it, after all. Raised in the same Fifth Avenue penthouse I still live in.

  Elaine is getting married to a man I don’t remember, but I’m sure I’ve met since we all graduated in the same class. He didn't stand out, though, and that was mostly because I hadn't been the typical sorority member and didn't have the same college experiences my sisters did. I was only able to attend a few of the mixers and lived off campus all four years. My grandfather had needed me, and I can’t regret the time we spent as he battled Alzheimer's. Not even if it meant I had virtually no social life.

  “Tru, do you have any words of wisdom for the bride? After all, you've been married for two years,” Marta asks, pulling me away from my stain.

  “God, yes,” Elaine adds. “I love my Michael, but you surprised all of us with your snap wedding to the silver fox. He's so...mature.”

  Marta smiles “And charming. For real. He's like an American James Bond.”

  Richard Finnegan is both those things. He takes care of me, stepping in when Grandfather slipped far out of my reach. I’d have been lost without Richard.

  Elaine sips her wine. “It's so romantic, really. I never thought of going for an older man, but you wear it well. You've always been ages more mature than the rest of us. I mean that in a good way, of course. But even though we were surprised to hear you'd gotten married, when I saw the likes of him, it all made perfect sense. Normal guys could never do it for you in college, either.”

  “I wouldn't say that,” I argue. “I just never had any experience with dating them. Richard is the only man who talked to me outside of class.” I shrug. “It just made sense for us to be together when we were grieving for my grandfather. Richard was like a son to him.”

  The truth is, most people find me odd. I know that. Richard is the only one who was able to see I’m not a snob...I’m just shy. We were both so distraught when Grandfather started declining so quickly near the end. Richard promised him, during a lucid moment, that he’d make sure I was taken care of. And he has.

  “Well, I think it's terribly romantic. What's it like being with an older man?”

  My single gold band wedding ring feels very tight today. Richard thought it was a good idea to keep our rings simple, unlike the ring on my other hand that belonged to my grandmother. I know he wishes I wouldn’t wear it, but it makes me feel closer to her.

  What’s it like being married to an older man? “It's lovely, really.”

  It's lonely.

  I don’t think I said that aloud, but both the women look at me with pity.

  I long for something indefinable. The easy camaraderie between Elaine and Marta, who try, bless them, to include me once in a while despite my awkward social skills. I want the catch in Elaine's breath when talking about “her Michael.” I never really belonged anywhere. Not with my grandparents, who retired decades before taking me in. Not in high school, when I went home in the afternoons to care for my ailing grandmother. Not in college, when I did the same for my grandfather. Certainly not in my marriage to a man twenty years older and busy, so very busy.

  I have what most women dream of—a penthouse apartment, a gentleman husband, more money than I know how to spend. I have friends, at least the kind who invite me to lunch a few times a year, even if I don’t feel particularly close to them. I have Fifi, currently napping in her Louis Vuitton pet carrier. My feeling of discontent is an embarrassing display of first world problems.

  But if you took away my money, my marriage, and my poetry major, no one would know me. Not the Tru that is under all those things. And the scariest of all, I wouldn't know myself.

  After lunch, I do what any bored antisocial socialite would do and shop for things I don’t need while continuing to contemplate the things missing from my life that I can’t buy at Barney's. I actually hate my wardrobe but find myself buying virtually the same things time after time, and today is no exception. Because,
also, I hate shopping. I notice no other woman my age is in the section I’m shopping in, but it’s so much calmer in this department. There isn’t as much to choose from, and the cuts and styles are all similar. Boring but similar.

  Maybe I should ask Richard, again, if I could travel with him. He's warned me that his trips are boring and I’ll be happier at home, but since I’m not happy, what could it hurt? Maybe we’d grow closer if we spent more time together. I could explore the cities while he attends meetings, and we could at least have dinner together most nights.

  By the time I enter the lobby, my arms laden with shopping bags full of my emptiness, I actually feeling better. My marriage is not a love match, but we care for each other as friends. We have the same temperaments. Maybe it is even time to revisit the baby discussion. Richard was right that I wasn’t ready to start a family two years ago, but maybe now is the right time. Maybe sex might even be nice now. Richard and I have separate rooms, and the rare occasions he’s home haven’t been exactly intimate.

  I’ve only had sex three times. Richard has assured me that my low sex drive is normal and that he is fine with it. I wonder if that’s really true. Could we be more if I just tried to be less frigid?

  As I enter the classy, if snooty, lobby, my low heels click across the shiny marble floor. I drop my packages at the reception desk and ask for them to be sent up in an hour and then head to the elevator bank, my mind suddenly full of ideas buzzing like bees. I can make changes in my life. Surely having a baby would keep the loneliness at bay. Yes, things are starting to make sense. Finally.

  “Mrs. Finnegan,” a startled concierge emerges from the elevator as I am about to step in.

  “Hello, Mr. Brinkman.”

  He steps back into the elevator with me. I’ve never seen the man so flustered. His eyes dart around, refusing to settle, and he pulls the collar away from his throat. “Mrs. Finnegan, I must speak with you.”

  I hope it isn’t about Fifi again. I don’t know who isn’t picking up after their dog, but it isn’t me. “What is it, Mr. Brinkman?”

  “There...there are some goings-on in the penthouse.”

  “Goings-on?” My brows knit together. “What kind of goings-on?”

  “I don't know rightly what to say...”

  The elevator opens, and I notice my apartment door is wide open. Not waiting to hear an explanation, I march across the foyer and into my penthouse. My half-empty penthouse. “What on earth? Mr. Brinkman, I've been robbed.”

  My mind is still trying to catch up when two men come out of my room carrying a bureau. I’m still being robbed? Fifi starts yipping, and I look to Mr. Brinkman for help. Only he looks back with apology but no manly effort to stop the criminals. I should be worried about my safety, but it feels like a dream I’m watching from afar. I pull my phone out, finally remembering to call the police, but Brinkman steadies my arm, pulling me out of the way of the men.

  They have the name Johnson Family Movers embroidered on their coveralls. What is happening? Why are they moving my things?

  “Mrs. Finnegan, I'm so sorry for your misfortune. I have been given leave to let these gentlemen take everything on this list. But rest assured, ma'am, each item they put in their trucks is being accounted for downstairs and not one single thing that isn't on this list will be allowed off our property.”

  I stare at the paper in his hand. “I don't understand. What is happening?”

  “Perhaps you should sit?”

  We both look around the room, empty of my furniture and any place suitable for sitting. “Perhaps you should just tell me what I need to know.”

  “There has been a mix-up, I'm sure. But it appears that your Mr. Finnegan has left behind debts of some magnitude.”

  “Richard? Left behind? What are you talking about? He's in Munich this week, but he hasn't left behind anything.” Inhaling a steadying breath, I count to five before exhaling. This will all be explained. I don’t need to panic. Richard will take care of everything.

  “Mr. Finnegan never made it to Munich.” As if my concierge has suddenly become Mr. Finnegan's personal secretary.

  “I spoke to him last night. No, wait, the night before last.”

  “Yes, well, according to the lawyers, yours and the building's, he was not speaking to you from Munich. Have you spoken to him today?”

  I shake my head. “No, not yesterday either.” I try to recall anything odd from the conversation from two days ago, but he was perfunctorily polite as always.

  “Mrs. Finnegan, your lawyer was here this afternoon. He has left you a message and some paperwork on the counter. I'm regretfully sorry, of course, that I cannot be of more service.”

  Inside the folder is a list of the things the “movers” are taking and an appointment card for the next morning. The list is court ordered, signed by a judge. None of it makes sense. Where is Richard? Why won’t he answer his phone? My eyes hit on the last listed item, and I feel tears for the first time since my grandfather's funeral.

  But of course.

  My grandmother’s ring.

  I slide it off my finger and lay it on an end table they haven’t taken yet, but surely will. As light glints off the sapphires, I remember my thoughts from lunch. Stripped of my money, my apartment, and my husband, who am I? What will become of me ? I may as well not exist.

  Nash McKendrick

  I’M POLISHING THE SHOT glass in my hand and shaking my head at my old man telling the worst joke in history.

  When I roll my eyes, Brandon McKendrick, my esteemed father, slants a look at me and points to his cup for a coffee refill.

  “Whatever, Pops.” I pour more coffee. I wave the pot at one of my dad's oldest friends. “More coffee, Jake?”

  “Sure, son.”

  The comforting sounds of ESPN pour from the TV above the bar, and I continue polishing glasses while listening to my dad and Jake talk. They don’t come to the bar much at night, but they come every morning for coffee. Ironwing, my bar, is named for my dad's rock band from the '80s. Jake played bass, and Pops was lead singer. Man, the sight of my dad wearing Spandex in that damn one-hit wonder video makes me shudder whenever I think about it. Judging by the way women love my old man, he could probably still get away with tight pants, but he’s a Levi’s kind of guy these days.

  “Maybe you should spend less time worrying about my jokes and find a nice girl and settle down. One you can bring home to your old pops.”

  I roll my eyes. My dad is anything but an “old pops.” Ironwing may have only had one album, but they were legendary. At least in Brazen Bay. And maybe the state. Probably the county at the very least. “Old Pops” still gets laid on the regular.

  “I told you I'm not settling down, Dad. I like being single.”

  “What about Stella?”

  I catch Jake, Stella’s father, frowning at my dad and laugh at his pinched expression. “I love Stella. As a friend. You've heard of those, right?” Stella calls me a “kindred spirit” which has something to do with some girl book she read in middle school about Anne in a green house or something. But there is no heat, no flash between us, and we are both content to let the town assume we will get together eventually because it means they leave us alone more. They give us space to “sow our oats.”

  I haven’t sown with anyone in a while, but my reputation precedes me, helped along by my dad's reputation, which is also more bark than bite. But the McKendricks are the town heartbreakers, despite lack of hearts actually broken.

  “Besides, if I start dating Stella, she’ll take it as permission to pay her rent late or get a dog or something.” She’s my upstairs tenant, mostly so I can keep an eye on her. Just not in the way my dad thinks. I’m more of a protective brother. She has one of those already, but if you ask anyone in town, they’ll tell you Stella needs more than one.

  “I guess I’m never getting grandkids, Jake,” Pops laments.

  “Heaven help us all when Stella has kids. Her mini-mes are going to terrorize this town
,” Jake adds ruefully. He’s probably going to be a grandpa soon, though. Stella’s brother, Leo, is engaged to a librarian most of us didn’t even know until recently. Which is saying a lot for Brazen Bay. People here know if you change toilet paper brands.

  I take a quick inventory of anything I might be out of on the shelves while I talk. “I’m not marrying Stella, and I’m not having kids, Pops.”

  I’m saved when my cleaning woman, who’s cute but nearly jailbait, comes bounding through the door that separates Ironwing from the stairs to the two apartments.

  She has an interesting bounce as she waves and lets herself out. A bounce that all three of us admire for a quiet moment. “How about her?” my dad interrupts my non-thoughts.

  “She's a little young, don't you think?” Jake answers before I can, thankfully. Jake has daughters. Consequently, he always sees things a little differently than my dad does.

  “She's legal,” my horndog dad answers.

  “Dad,” I warn. “She's still a teenager.”

  I’m going to harass him some more when I catch sight of a woman pacing the sidewalk outside, the same woman I saw ten minutes ago. She’s dressed in the kind of clothes you know are expensive even if you know nothing about women's clothes.

  She is obviously lost. And confused. But I have a feeling that she is bad news, and I always trust my gut.

  I fold my arms across my chest and watch her pace. There is something I like about her profile as she marches by the window again. The button nose maybe. But still, she’s trouble.

  I should listen to my gut and sneak out the back door. Let my dad deal with the little miss. For the life of me, I don’t understand why I find myself walking to the front door instead.

  Maybe what I need is a little bit of trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Tru