You Own My Heart

by Juliana Stone

  “What are you looking at?” she asked with a scowl.

  “Someone who apparently didn’t need my help.”

  “Screw you, Booker.” She squirmed. “Let me down.”

  “You make a habit of cooking in your underwear?”

  “You make a habit of walking into apartments that aren’t yours?”

  “Technically, I own the building, so…”

  “Don’t even go there.”

  He was teasing, but the dark look in her eyes was enough to stop him cold. She wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but she sure as hell didn’t elicit the warm and fuzzies either. Nash let her slide from his arms and took a step back.

  When Honey had walked into his bar all those months ago, he knew she was trouble. She was prickly as hell, had an opinion on everything, including the way toilet paper should be put on the damn roller. Nash didn’t give a rat’s ass if it was over or under. She had a chip on her shoulder the size of Michigan and could freeze a guy in his tracks with one look. Nash and Honey didn’t agree on much, and the first few months had been rough. But there was something about her—hell if he knew what it was—and six months later, she was still living above the Coach House and the customers loved her.

  She was one hell of a bartender, he’d give her that, and one hundred percent immune to his charms. Which was fine. It was never good to mix business with pleasure. Everyone knew that. They’d come to some sort of a working relationship, and it was all that mattered.

  He glanced at the mess on the floor and the blackened, still-smoking pot on the stove. “Geez, Harrison. I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t hire you to work in the kitchen.”

  He didn’t understand what she muttered under her breath as she headed to the small bedroom, but he was damn sure it wasn’t anything nice. He chuckled. That’s what he got for trying to lighten the situation.

  Nash had a look at the table, but it was garbage, noting an impressive amount of duct tape on the leg that had given way. He glanced around the apartment. The previous owner of the Coach House, Sal, had used this space for storage. But after Nash bought the building, he’d invested time and money into this apartment with the intention of moving in. He’d installed new hardwood flooring, updated the kitchen and bath with fresh paint and appliances, new cupboards, an island, and new lighting fixtures. The exposed beams and ductwork in the ceiling along with the reclaimed brick walls gave the place an edgy industrial look, while the three large windows let in a lot of light. He would have gladly lived here.

  But he’d inherited the Booker cottage on the lake--the reason he’d come home in the first place--and Nash had gone from traveling the world and living out of a duffel bag to owning a business and a home. Now he was responsible for more than just procuring a plane ticket and booking his next adventure. He’d moved into the cottage and grabbed hold of all that responsibility with a zest that surprised pretty much everyone, save for his mother.

  The apartment had stayed empty until Honey.

  He walked to the center of the room. The place was open concept and large. All the woman had was this piece-of-crap kitchen table, a sad-looking sofa, and a small desk by the window with a large desktop. There were no pictures, no accents—nothing that would suggest this was anything other than temporary.

  He strode back to the kitchen, his gaze drawn to the old pot on the stove. Peering over, he made a face. Kraft dinner? Nash looked around the apartment once more and frowned. It was Thanksgiving. This wasn’t right.

  Honey walked out of her bedroom just then, wearing a pair of jeans that looked damn near worn out, but in a way he could appreciate, and a plain white T-shirt that hugged curves he would like to say he never noticed, but hell, he’d be lying. Her dark auburn hair was down, waving softly around her shoulders, and she was barefoot. Her expressive eyes settled on him, and he noted how her shoulders were thrown back. How her feet were set wide and her arms crossed. She looked like she wanted to fight, and the air crackled with something electric.

  “Why are you still here?” she asked, a delicate eyebrow raised.

  He ignored her question with one of his own. “How in hell did you burn Kraft dinner?”

  She made a face and headed for the stove. She grabbed the pot and dumped it into the sink, letting it fill with water as she leaned her hip against the counter and watched him.

  “Seriously, Booker. Why are you still here?” Her eyes moved over him slowly, her expression unreadable. “You obviously have to be somewhere else.”

  “I do,” he replied with a nod. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  She shrugged as if she didn’t care, but she was tense. He saw the way the cords in her neck tightened. She glanced over his shoulder, and he wondered what she saw when she looked at this sparse, empty place she called home.

  She didn’t say anything, and the silence dragged on for several long moments. Nash watched her closely and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He thought of his mom barking orders in her kitchen and of his family jumping to get things done. He thought of the turkey and gravy and stuffing. The ham and mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots and turnip. The pumpkin pie and the brownies she always made especially for him. The house would be a zoo, the complete opposite of this apartment, and it was what Thanksgiving should be.

  Loud. Messy. Crazy. Warm and comforting.

  No one should spend the day alone, staring at a pot of burnt Kraft dinner. He nailed Honey with a look that brooked no argument.

  “You’re going to need to change.”

  That arched eyebrow shot up even higher. “What?”

  “Mom has a dress code. No jeans. No food.”

  “Have you been drinking, Booker?”

  “Nope. I’m as sober as a church mouse.”

  “Quiet, you mean.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The saying is quiet as a…”

  “I know what the saying is.” Irritated, he glanced at his watch. Shit. “Hop to it, Honey Bee, or we’re going to be late.”

  Her eyes narrowed to small slits, and she turned from him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You got better plans than burnt crap and this place?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Why do you always make things hard? Why can’t you just live in the moment and go with the flow for once?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he took a step toward her and held up his hand. “Look. It’s Thanksgiving. My mother will kick my ass if she knows you’re here by yourself.”

  “Then don’t tell her.” Honey had met Lisa Booker, so he knew she knew how relentless the woman could be.

  “Don’t make this a thing, okay? It’s dinner. Nothing more. Go put on a dress or something, and let’s go.” He looked directly into her eyes so she would know he wasn’t bullshitting. “I’m not leaving without you.” Nash turned around and headed for the door. “I’ll be downstairs waiting, so don’t make me later than I already am.”

  Once he was back in the bar, he grabbed the wine from his office and his coat. Less than five minutes later, Honey appeared. She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and her lips glistened with pale gloss. Black boots peeked out from under a three-quarter-length black jacket that looked as if it were meant for the South, not winter in Michigan. He wasn’t exactly sure what she’d pulled on clothes wise, but hoped she’d taken his no-jeans, no-food warning to heart.

  Honey wrapped a thick black scarf around her neck and pulled on purple gloves as she sailed by him and headed for the door. By the time he locked up and got his butt in gear, she was standing beside his Jeep. There were no words, and Nash hopped inside, the engine roaring to life as Honey slipped on her seat belt.

  She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Don’t ever call me that again.” She paused, that whiskey-soaked voice of hers dead serious as he glanced her way, a questioning look in his eyes. “Honey Bee.” She settled back in her seat and looked ahead. “Never again.”<
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  Nash wasn’t sure what to make of her request, but there was no denying the name had struck a chord with her and not a good one. He slowly nodded and put the truck in gear. “Okay.” He put on some music, and as the snow began to fall in big flakes that drifted on a lazy breeze, the two of them headed to his parent’s place.

  3

  Honey regretted her decision to join Nash and his family about three seconds after she got into his vehicle. Family dinners weren’t her thing, so why in hell had she agreed to come? Lack of sleep? Temporary insanity? She didn’t mind doing something out of her comfort zone as long as the end game got her closer to the reason she’d come to Crystal Lake in the first place. But dinner with the Bookers? Nowhere near the end game. Reluctantly she stayed silent, even though she wished she had the balls to tell him to turn around and take her back to the bar.

  Eventually, they pulled up in front of a large all-brick family home boasting a wraparound porch and an elegance that belonged to another era. The trim was classic gingerbread, painted crisp white with shutters to match, which looked sharp against the deep red-orange brick. The additional walkout from the upper level was lit with white lights, and they cast a warm glow that twinkled in the early evening gloom. A detached garage could be seen in the backyard, and a swing hung from the large oak tree to the right. Mature shrubs were trimmed expertly, and the flower boxes under the windows sported pine arrangements that were perfect for the season. She hid a grimace. The place looked like a damn Norman Rockwell painting.

  She glanced up the tree-lined street. It looked the same, each driveway leading to an elegant family home where pride was king. This area of Crystal Lake was a throwback to old Americana and the kind of place anybody would love to live.

  She used to dream of living in a place like this. But that dream was long gone, replaced with an awareness that homes like these hid secrets and not everything was as it seemed. She much preferred to know the score from the get-go. And living in a run-down trailer park like the one she’d grown up in did just that. Sunset Park held no grand illusions. It was a place where dreams went to die. A place most folks didn’t escape.

  Honey shook the unwanted memories from her mind and glanced up at the house, noting the twinkling lights from the front windows, and the large Christmas tree in the front room. In her experience, family get-togethers usually turned into drunken, drug-infused messes that left everyone wishing they were somewhere else. The last Thanksgiving she’d spent with her mother was still fresh in her mind. The utter failure of it all, bitter in her mouth.

  Even after all this time.

  For one hard second, panic gripped her, and she dug her fingers into her palms. What the hell was she thinking coming here with Nash? She should have stayed at her place, curled up on the crappy sofa she’d found abandoned on the sidewalk outside the Coach House, eating her burnt Kraft dinner.

  “You ready?” Nash grabbed the wine and stepped outside. Childishly, she wanted to tell him to go ahead and she’d walk back to the Coach House on her own. But she knew Nash. He was as pigheaded as she was, and he wouldn’t let her. And right now? She didn’t have the energy to fight.

  Honey slid from the Jeep and followed him through the gate and white picket fence (of course the house had a white picket fence). Nash opened the front door and waited for her to step inside.

  They stood in a large, wide foyer, a classic design that fit the house. The narrow windows on either side of the double front door were stained glass, and the floors were worn oak and polished to gleam. A clean lemon scent tickled the edge of her nostrils, fighting with the overwhelming scents of the holidays. There was a wide staircase that led to the upper level, and on her right stood a formal living room, to her left, a dining room already set for dinner. She heard a lot of chatter coming from the back of the house and a truckload of heavenly smells wafted in the air.

  Turkey. Ham. Cinnamon. Fresh pine.

  “Let me take your jacket.” Nash took her coat and hung it up on a rack by the stairs. Her gaze lingered on the markings carved into the trim near the entrance to the front room. There were three distinct colors, black, blue, and red. And the etchings started near the bottom and ended at different heights.

  “My mom is a sucker for this kind of stuff.” Nash followed her gaze, and she watched him trace the markings, her eyes taking every inch of him in. He was one hell of a looker. No doubt about that. Tall. Broad. Rock-hard abs. His hair was thick with a slight wave, his handsome face sported a strong square chin, slightly crooked nose, and intense dark eyes. To top it off his smile was killer. She’d lost count of the women who’d fallen under his spell with just one look. He was the kind of man who broke hearts. The kind of man only a fool would tangle with, and Honey was no fool. A) She didn’t believe in love or relationships. And B) Even if she did, there was no point. In a few months, she’d be gone. Hopefully on her way to Florida and Simone.

  All that being said, she was still a woman and could appreciate a fine-looking man.

  Honey had never seen Nash dressed like this. He was always in jeans and a T-shirt. This right here was a good look on him. The dark slacks, formal shirt, and…she blinked…a Batman tie? How had she missed that in her apartment? His dark hair waved around his collar, and the stubble on his chin and jaw gave him an edge he didn’t need. He was already dangerous.

  He glanced up quickly, and she cleared her throat, eyes on the markings. “Who’s the blue one?”

  “That would be me.” He pointed to the black. “This is my brother Cam. I’ve only got an inch on him. And this…” He pointed to the red, which was at least a foot lower than the other two. “This is my sister, Melody.” He chuckled. “She’s always been height challenged.”

  “I didn’t realize there were so many of you.” She was coming to the realization there was probably a lot she didn’t know about Nash. But then, they didn’t have the type of relationship where they shared things. Hell, she wasn’t even sure he liked her all that much. Nash Booker was her boss and her landlord, and that was about it.

  God. She cursed her weak moment. She didn’t belong here. So why the hell had she accepted his invitation? More importantly, why the hell had he asked her?

  “Melody lives out of state, but she flew in last night.”

  “And your brother?” She was curious. He’d never mentioned a brother before.

  Nash shrugged, his tone a bit cooler. “Cam’s all over the place. Never know where he’s gonna land or when he’ll show his face.”

  Honey waited a moment. “Sounds a lot like you.”

  His face darkened. “Trust me, Cam is nothing like me.”

  Huh. There was something there. An undercurrent of discord. It made Honey wonder, but she didn’t get to wonder for long. Just then, a little boy ran around the corner. “Uncle Nash!” The kid didn’t stop, and Nash scooped him up into a bear hug before he crashed into his legs.

  “Tink. Let me look at you, buddy.”

  Nash set the kid down and ruffled the top of his head. It was a head filled with thick, dark curls that bounced all over the place—a testament to the little boy’s excitement. Honey pegged him at about four years of age, which wasn’t saying much since she didn’t know jack about kids.

  The little guy looked up at his uncle, and Honey hid a smile. They were dressed almost exactly the same, right down to the miniature Batman tie.

  “I wore it. See?” Tink yanked on the tie and held it up with a smile. He shoved at the wide-rimmed glasses on his face and wiped at his nose. The kid was cute as hell, and the adoration he felt for his uncle was plain to see. “Hattie got her snot on it, but that’s okay, right?”

  Nash chuckled. “We’ll get that cleaned up.”

  The little boy noticed Honey and frowned, cocking his head to the side as he studied her. “Are you Uncle Nash’s girlfriend?”

  “What?” Eyes wide, Honey smoothed the plain black sweater she’d worn over equally plain black tights tucked into her boots and shook her head. “
No. I…” She cleared her throat. “I work for your uncle.”

  “Oh.” He grinned. “You’re pretty.”

  She laughed. Seemed as if the kid was a charmer. Again, not unlike his uncle. “Thanks.”

  “I’m Tink.”

  “That’s an interesting name.”

  The little boy shrugged. “My real name is Theodore, but everyone calls me Tink.” His eyes got bigger. “Derek at school called me Tinker Bell, and everyone laughed.”

  Nash ruffled his curls again. “Sorry about that, bud.”

  “It’s okay. He won’t do it again. I punched him in the nose, and then Mrs. Elliot called Mom, so I got into a lot of trouble.”

  “Geez, Tink. You can’t go around hitting kids at school.”

  “I didn’t do it at school. We were on the bus.”

  Honey hid another smile. Hard to argue with that kind of logic.

  “Is everyone in the kitchen?”

  Tink nodded and grabbed Nash’s hand. “Even Uncle Cam is here.”

  “Is he, now.” Nash scooped up the boy.

  “Uh-huh. Mommy says we’re not supposed to talk about the thing.”

  Nash scowled. “How in hell do you know about the thing?”

  “Uncle Nash, you said a bad word.”

  “How do you know about the thing?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know about the thing. I heard Mommy on the phone talking about not talking about the thing. But she never said what the thing was.” Tink yanked on Nash’s chin. “You won’t tell Mommy, right? ’Cause then she’ll get mad. And when she gets mad, Hattie starts to wail like a stuck pig.”

  “A stuck pig?” Nash made a face. “No kidding.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tink nodded, his expression serious. “It’s so loud, it hurts.”

  “Well, we better not upset your mom.”

  “Nope. And we can’t talk about the thing.” The kid paused, his expression hopeful. “Can you tell me what the thing is?”

  “What do you think?” Nash replied with a chuckle.