by Piper Malone
“It sounds like an event I should definitely attend,” I say to the group, hoping my forced smile looks genuine. A single look at Nick tells me he is not buying it. His eyes stare at me over the rim of his coffee mug as he takes a swig, his throat bouncing as he swallows down the brew. My mind races to decide whether I want to lick the tempting swell of his neck or punch it.
Hmm, what would a friend do?
“Great!” George claps his hands. “I look forward to seeing you there. Now,” he calls to an older woman behind the counter, “Miss Becky, can you wrap up two more pieces of your blueberry pie for me to take home? I need to make sure I have all my rations in place if we get this weather they keep predicting.”
Miss Becky giggles behind the counter before pulling out four white pie boxes. “Now I’m very glad I made an extra one this week. Nico, I wasn’t expecting you, but thankfully I have one for each of my boys. As I always say, you can weather any storm if you have enough pie!” The men howl in appreciation, leaning over the counter to hug Becky. Boxes in hand, all of them issue safe wishes for the storm and disperse throughout the store.
Nick tries to pay for his coffee and pie, but Becky refuses. She taps her cheek, prompting Nick to lean across the counter for a sweet, grandmotherly kiss. Becky’s cheeks redden; a wily glitter sparks in her eyes.
She fans herself with her hand. “Well, now I’m warm enough to melt any blizzard that comes my way! You two have a good evening,” she says as she gathers plates. “Stay safe out there.”
“We will,” Nick assures her before she scuttles to the back to wash her dishes. “Thank you, Miss Becky.”
Halfway through the kitchen doors, Becky stops and smiles. “Anything for you, Nico.” The words are so pure I feel my throat close. When she disappears, Nick’s lips mash together, puckering his chin. He moves to the tip jar on the counter, half filled with dollar bills and a smattering of change. Nick pulls a perfectly folded fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and drops it in the jar.
Who the hell is this man?
“I’ve got a few more things to pick up. The guys stopped me before I could finish.”
“Okay,” I reply, a little stunned by the shift in him. He seems more like the Nick I know and not the version I’ve seen here. I follow his path through Huffaker’s, watching him pick up miscellaneous items for cooking, grabbing an extra pack of long matches and an extra case of water.
“We’ll have the generator and the fireplaces,” he says absently as he looks over a shelf of hardware, “but I like to make sure we’ll be okay for a few days if everything shuts down. Did you get everything you need?”
“I think so, but I was hoping for some ru—”
“Oh my goodness!” Her loud voice is like a needle scratching across a record, unnecessary and annoying. “They said you were back, and I didn’t believe it. How is my favorite mountain man?”
Nick pulls his attention from the shelf to the woman sashaying down the aisle in tight jeans and a curve-hugging purple sweater. “Hi, Ronnie. How are you?”
Before she answers, Ronnie wraps her arms around Nick’s neck, using her momentum from her catwalk entrance to propel her body flush against his, and kisses him full on the lips.
The warmth I felt simmer deep in my body when he smiled, the same feeling that shriveled up and died when he called me his friend, is reborn from a single spark into a violent blue flame. Painful sparks explode in my gut as I watch his hand curve around her waist.
In my mind, the inferno of anger and jealousy cracks, sending fiery embers arcing through the air, embedding themselves deep in her aerosol-infused hair. When she lights up like a Roman candle, it is a sight to behold.
Nick’s biceps flex, pushing against her, effectively removing her from his space. His hand comes up to his lip, wiping away any remnant of her kiss. “Ronnie, what the hell are you doing?” Cool satisfaction rushes across the flame of my irritation. I know that tone; he’s put off by her behavior.
She bats her eyes, feigning innocence. “I’m just happy you’re here,” she says, her sad puppy pout curling into a seductive smirk. “While you’re home, I was hoping we could”—her eyes dart to me, then back to Nick—“reconnect.”
The colorful cache of Nick’s typical responses—fuck you, you’re an asshole, or go fuck yourself—clearly aren’t in his arsenal today. But they are in mine.
“Hi.” I extend my hand to Ronnie. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Skyler. Nick and I traveled up from Boston yesterday to prep for the park dedication. I’m really looking forward to being snowed in with this big storm. We decided to pop in to grab some supplies so we don’t have to leave the house for a while.”
Ronnie looks at my extended hand like I’m crazy. She returns the handshake with a fish-limp grip that makes me dislike her even more. “Hi, I’m Veronica.”
I hear Nick clear his throat. “Ronnie and I went to high school together.”
“We dated for almost two years,” Ronnie quickly adds.
“In high school?” I confirm. Thirteen years ago.
“Yes,” Ronnie puffs her chest a little. “I was the homecoming queen. How long have you guys”—she waggles an acrylic-tipped finger between us—“been together?”
Between her aggressive moves, her blatant presumption, and Nick’s lax response to all of this post-high school drama, I have the twisted desire to ask him to confirm just how long we have been friends.
“Skyler and I have been together for five years,” he replies with a smooth confidence I wasn’t expecting.
We started this relationship six years ago. He’s subtracting the last three hundred and eighty-two days I’ve been away.
Ronnie’s tongue rubs across her teeth, making her upper lip bulge. “Then why did Miss Becky tell me Skyler didn’t know about the park dedication?”
Fuck. Busted.
“I wanted to surprise her.” Nick turns back to the shelf and resumes his scan of the shelf.
Ronnie watches him for a brief moment before turning back to me. “Will you be at the dedication too?” I ask with a brilliant smile plastered on my face.
“Well, yeah,” she snaps with all the sass of a jilted high school ex. “Nico, give me a call if you want to grab a cup of coffee.”
“We’ll see you at the dedication, Ronnie,” he replies, more to the shelf than her. She steps backward with an awkward wave before turning and scurrying from the aisle.
“Every time,” Nick mutters with a quick shake of his head. “Tell me what you were going to say before she showed up.”
“Really? Just back to where we were before she tried to mount you in aisle six?”
“Not here, Sky. What else do you need? I don’t want to spend the weekend in this store. I can tell you all about her drama at home.”
I sigh, too exhausted to fight. “I don’t have running sneakers. There’s a race I’m training for, and since I’m now extending my stay, I can’t lose the stamina I’ve gained.”
“Size nine shoe, right? Large tops and running pants?”
“Yes.” I’m shocked he remembered.
“Let me text Jude. He has more of a selection for outdoor activities. I’ll ask him to grab a few things and bring them over.”
“That’s great. You weren’t kidding about the selection here.”
He nods. “This is just to get us through the next few days. When we have more time, I’ll take you into town. There are stores that are more your style.” He pauses before stepping closer. “The purple set I gave you was from one of the specialty shops in town.”
I remember the gift, and the night, vividly.
I feel warmth creep across my cheeks. “That was a really nice gift for your friend, Nicholas.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh god, don’t skewer me on that one, angel. You wouldn’t have had anything better to say. People don’t need to know the nitty gritty—they just need to know we’re connected.” Nick glances away, scanning the store. He inhales and nods his head ever so sligh
tly. “Are you ready to get out of here? I already have one basket loaded at the counter. There is no more room in this one either. I’m starving and we have steaks marinating.”
I look at my own basket, overflowing with clothing and toiletries. “Yeah, I’m ready to go. Just please do not spring any more hometown exes on me. I don’t have enough of Miss Becky’s pies to survive another Ronnie.”
Chapter 6
Skyler
“You know,” I say to his back as he stands at the massive six-burner gas stove, “I don’t have a nickname for you.”
Nick shrugs but doesn’t look up from the pan of sautéing mushrooms and onions. “Is that an issue? I’m sure you have plenty of names for me when I’m not around.” He looks over his shoulder and gives me a sly grin that makes me giggle.
“Who are you?” The Nicholas William Harris I have known for years has never told me he can cook or can grill massive cuts of beef on a huge open-grate grill or has been redesigning and constructing a community park.
Nick lifts his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m me. Things are just different for me here.”
“Because of Ronnie’s undying love?” I ask, doing my best to look serious.
“You got it,” he replies without missing a beat, a little snicker bleeding through. He lifts a shoulder when he sees my sour expression. “I think it’s the mountain air. I’m not sure.”
He moves around the kitchen with ease, grabbing fresh herbs from a small window garden. “It feels good to be here.” Nick stops for a minute, glancing at me quickly and then turning away. He stops abruptly and faces me. “It feels good to have you here, Skyler.”
Nick’s honesty is brutal, just like the rest of him. I feel the pure emotion of his words, and I have to fight the confessions from ejecting from my body. There have been moments, sentences that Nick has issued that anchor my hope—even if by the thinnest of threads—that someday he could love me.
“It feels good to be here.” The words catch in my throat, sounding coarse and hollow.
He gives me a tight nod before turning back to the stove. I have the urge to jump down from the counter, wrap my arms around him, and press myself against his back. Fighting all the feels is officially a chaotic battle. Every passing minute in this place is a new and terrifying world. I thought I loved him before. Now that feeling has blistered and spread.
Our ride home from the store was informative. Nick took me on a tour of his local haunts and the Harris family compound. It’s not really a compound, more like an expanse of open land that the Harris family inhabits.
Nick’s grandfather owned the acreage, then willed the ten-acre plots to each grandson. Each of the Harris brothers has their own little kingdom to call his own. All the homes are surrounded by dense woodland that supports their hunting, fishing, and general outdoorsy natures. With the exception of Ben, who serves as the mayor of their small town, all the boys have some hand in wilderness . . . stuff.
“Jude owns the wilderness outfit in town. Evan and Adam work as guides for excursions and provide training and education for different outdoor activities. Adam also helps with butchering game. Wyatt is the only fisherman in the family. He is on the water the majority of the time, bringing in fish and seafood for local markets and restaurants. He will offer private fishing charters with Evan and Adam if requested.”
For the majority of an hour, Nick rattled off the accomplishments of the Harris brothers . . . with the exception of one.
“What do you do?” His look is adorably inquisitive. Mr. Tight Lip never gives away the goods without a fight. “C’mon, Nick. I officially know more about your brothers than I ever have before. You are clearly proud of them and what you have here. What do you do? I doubt they let you just loaf around and make money off your good looks.”
Nick chuckles. “No, angel. They would never let me go on looks alone.” He holds up the wooden spoon he has been using to move the onions and mushrooms in the pan. “I do this.”
“You cook?”
“No. I mean, yes, I can cook.” He moves away from the stove and stands in front of me. I could reach out and touch him; the delicious smell of home-cooked food clings to him. “This”—he holds up the smooth wooden spoon—“is what I do.”
“You make spoons?”
“And a variety of other things,” he says without much inflection.
I look at him, then the spoon. It’s smooth, not particularly ornate, but detailed in the design. The handle is curved to accommodate the grip of a hand. The well is deep enough to stir or ladle. It is artisanship in its truest form.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you did this?”
“There was no need. I could never really work at Reign. I have a small woodshop just outside of town where I work on some things here and there, but nothing like what I do in the barn.”
“You have a barn?”
“Yes, but the only horses I have are sawhorses.” His shy, almost vulnerable, smile disappears as quickly as it showed itself. “I can show you the workshop after dinner. Only if you want to see it. It’s really just a mass of wood and tools.”
I feel my jaw drop as I look at Nicholas William Harris with awe. I never knew he did anything other than help Caleb run the club. “I would like to see you do this,” I say, pointing to the spoon.
His lips don’t move, but his eyes flare. A small shiver zips along my spine. The look is familiar and grounds us in the moment. It’s the way he would look at me before we would demo. I always thought it was subtle domination. Now it feels like hunger.
The sharp crack of butter in the pan snaps him to attention. He nods and returns to our meal. I watch him move, his actions precise, intensely focused on the task.
If I had known Nick could cook, I would have asked him to help me at Reign. There were moments when I was prepping events or our large staff dinners that an extra set of hands would have been helpful. I always assumed that since he’s worthless with a coffeemaker, he’d burn down Reign attempting to make eggs. The fact that he never cooked in Boston is a shame. Everything is delicious. The steak is perfectly seasoned and so tender it melts in my mouth. Nick roasted veggies with fragrant herbs that smell as wonderful as they taste. We set plates next to each other, Nick at the head of the table, me to his left, but we only offer words of praise for the food between bites. Nick’s groans of satisfaction as he devours his meal press against the vulnerable parts of my body.
When the kitchen is clean, Nick stands by a wide door next to the refrigerator. “Do you want to see the rest of the house?”
He looks a little nervous, as if showing me the barn means a lot to him.
“I’d love to. Lead the way.”
Through the doorway, we walk the length of the house through an attached mudroom, the walls lined with gear for outdoor activities: boots, hats, helmets, gloves, waders. A mountain bike hangs on the wall next to a kayak.
“This is the garage,” he says, pushing open the door and allowing me to look in at the expansive collection of snowmobiles, ATVs, Jet Skis, and an old pickup truck with rusting sidewalls.
“That’s a lot of vehicles, Nick.”
“Yeah, they’re fun,” he says with a sheepish smile as he closes the door. “Put this on.” He hands me a thick hoodie. “We have to walk outside to reach the barn.”
A wide concrete patio provides a foundation for a rustic stone summer kitchen and an open grilling pit. Under the high roof, a light hangs down over where the table must sit during the warm season. Along the far edge of the patio, a thick wood platform hangs from the ceiling by four heavy ropes.
“There’s a mattress that goes on top of that.” Nick points to the bed. “When I’m not here I bring it in so animals, and Evan, don’t make it their home.”
“I’m sure Evan is more difficult to get rid of than the occasional squirrel.”
“True. Plus he eats more. I’ve offered to make him one, but he never takes me up on it. I think he likes to visit.”
“If you
feed him, he’ll never go away.”
“Ah, that’s the problem.” Nick rubs his chin, feigning playful contemplation. “He’s good for dinner conversation, though.”
“Well, then he should stay.” I look at the structure dangling from the ceiling. “Did you make this?”
“Yeah.” His hand rubs across the back of his neck.
“It’s beautiful.”
Nick nods, looking out over the yard.
“Why are you nervous?”
He head snaps back, staring at me. “I’m not.”
“But you’re not comfortable. You look like you’re going to jump out of your skin.”
He inhales. “It’s strange, you being here. That”—he gestures to the swing—“is nothing. It’s an afternoon’s worth of work at most. Come into the barn; I’ll show you some of the projects for the park.”
The exterior of the barn reminds me of a relic of farmlands past. The painted wood is faded and stripped in some places. The stone foundation is settled deep into the ground, joining with grass. Nick pushes through one side of a wide steel double door and steps into the dark building. A burst of warm air and the scent of sawdust billows over me. I hear a metal switch flip and the hum of long industrial lights offering a slight glow in the dim building. Tables filled with tools and piles of reclaimed wood are staggered throughout the room. Every power tool known to man hangs on the wall. A few antique bits and braces are showcased in the open beams that support the building.
“Wow,” is all I can muster. The barn’s footprint is double Nick’s home. This is a space for a true craftsman. “Nick, I had no idea . . .”
