The Hot Sergeant (Second Chance Military Romance) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #2)

by Alexa Davis

  Furrowing my brow, I walk around the desk and find him in the leg space beneath it.

  “Hey there, fella,” I say. “If you’ll come out from under there like a big boy, I’ll give you some ice cream.”

  “What the hell is going on out there?” Troy asks, his eyelids forming two nearly perfect circles. He’s sweating.

  “I have no idea, but I don’t think they came here to break anything,” I answer.

  “How do you know?” Troy asks.

  I shrug. “Have you heard anything break since they came in here?”

  He’s curled into a little ball, and he’s hugging his knees. The phone’s receiver is lying on the ground next to him.

  “Who’d you call?” I ask.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Okay, well you just stay under there, and I’ll deal with the very scary townspeople you’ve known your entire life,” I tell him.

  A minute ago, I was pretty terrified, myself, but it’s so much more fun to mess with him.

  Still, as I’m walking out of the office, I get another jolt. Everyone in the store has something in their hands, and almost all of them are looking at me right now.

  I stand on the threshold a few beats; right until I notice that what I’m looking at isn’t just a mob of people. They’re trying to form a line.

  If this is Mulholland’s idea of looting, it’s very polite.

  My knees not quite doing their job, I walk around to the back of the counter and take my seat on the stool in front of the cash register. Looking up, I say, “I’m sorry, I have no idea who was first.”

  They figure it out, and over the next hour or so, I sell every single thing in the store. Mrs. Taber even comes up to the counter with the tag for the armoire she wasn’t interested in buying only a month ago.

  When there’s nothing left on the shelves, a couple of people stay behind to ask if those are for sale, too. I tell them, “I’ll have to ask Troy, but I doubt it.”

  They don’t seem to care.

  I get up and walk back into the office to find Troy sitting at his desk, the phone to his ear.

  “Yeah,” he says, “just one. No, I don’t know how long it’s going to be, can we just leave it open-ended? Great.” He covers the mouthpiece with his palm and says, “Did they get everything?”

  “Pretty much,” I tell him. “They wanted to know if the shelves were for sale, too, but I didn’t—”

  “How much are they offering?” he asks.

  “Probably more than what you bought them for,” I answer. “What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them if they can get the shelves out of here themselves, they can buy them, but we don’t do home deliveries,” he says. He turns his attention back to the phone, saying, “Yeah, I’m here. You don’t have anything straight through to Papeete?” He groans and I walk out of the office with the good news.

  The guys waiting on word about the shelving pay me, but say they’ll have to come back with a truck another time. I let them know we’re probably going to be closing up for a little while—for obvious reasons. The only response I get as the final two men leave is, “Don’t worry about it.”

  After the shortest shift of my life, I head home. As much as I’d love to revel in the insane bonus that’s no doubt coming my way, I’ve got to get my head together.

  Nick is coming over tonight.

  Initially, we’d talked about grabbing a drink after I was off, but since my schedule seems to be open for … I’m not sure how long, but a couple of days, at least, Nick’s coming over to my place in about an hour.

  Now all I have to do is convince Naomi to make herself scarce. I don’t know how that’s going to work, but as much fun as it was to see the townspeople come together to try to buy my affection the same way I thought Nick was, I don’t feel too much like going out anymore.

  I get to my building and start down the hall. When I come around the corner, though, I’m hit with déjà vu.

  Standing in front of my door is a group of ten or twelve people.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Mr. Robbins, the assistant principal of the high school answers, “Well, we just wanted to see if we could get a few minutes to talk to you about Stingray.”

  “I don’t work for Stingray,” I answer. “Can I get to my door?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Robbins says. “Listen, we know that Mr. Scipio’s putting something together here in town, and a lot of us would just like to be a part of it, you see?” he asks. “Why, I bet if he were to hear it from you—”

  “Okay, I don’t know what you think I can do for you, but I don’t work for Stingray. I have no say in who gets hired or who gets fired, and as far as I know, they won’t even be doing any of that for a while,” I say. “I wish you all the best of luck, but now will you please get out of my way so I can go home?”

  “We’re not trying to take advantage of anyone, Miss Michaels,” Mr. Robbins says. “We were just hoping—”

  “I have nothing to do with it,” I interrupt. “You need to get out of my way, now. And seriously, who camps out in front of someone’s door to ask them for a job?” I ask. “I may not have any say over anything Stingray does, but I know if I were the one doing the hiring, each and every one of you would be on my blacklist, so maybe it’d be best if you all move now.” When they don’t jump out of the way, I repeat, “Move now!”

  Slowly, they turn and start filing toward the other end of the hallway.

  When I get through the door and lock the deadbolt behind me, I pull out my phone.

  Nick answers, “Scipio.”

  “Hey, Nick,” I start. “Listen, I just got home, but I’m not feeling so well all of a sudden. Would you mind if we postpone things for a while?”

  * * *

  It’s been three days and I haven’t left the apartment.

  Every time I approach the door to look out the peephole, I get this feeling like I’m on the verge of opening Pandora’s Box.

  I haven’t heard anything from Troy about coming back to work yet, but I suppose I didn’t expect I would. Knowing him, he’s probably on a riverboat somewhere along the Mississippi, losing every last dime we made in a poker game.

  Right now, I’m ducking behind the couch because someone’s at the door. A moment later, Naomi’s coming in, carrying three paper bags of groceries in her arms, saying, “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it. No, don’t worry about it. I was built for manual labor, you know.”

  I get up and take two bags from her, and we haul everything to the kitchen.

  “How is it out there?” I ask.

  “It’s about the same,” Naomi says. “You know, about the same as it has been for the last twenty-eight years of your life. What is your deal, anyway?”

  “They all think I can do something for them, but I can’t,” I tell her. “How much longer do you believe they're going to buy that, though? I’ve seen the news. I know how quickly things can go bad.”

  “Remind me to cancel the cable,” Naomi says as she starts unloading groceries. “You have seriously got to get out of this place for a while.”

  “Actually,” I start, my nerves creeping back to the surface, “I was hoping you might be willing to do me a favor.”

  “If this is another chocolate run,” Naomi says, “I get that your metabolism is fantastic and everything, but—”

  “It’s not that,” I tell her.

  Nick called this morning, asking if he could stop by with some chicken soup. Apparently, the soup was prepared by world class chef What’s-His-Name and is said to have healing powers beyond that of conventional poultry.

  “Oh, you’ll never guess what happened to me today,” Naomi says.

  “Win something?” I ask.

  She sighs and her shoulders drop a little. “You know you take all the fun out of this,” she says.

  Naomi is the luckiest person I’ve ever met. When Naomi was five months old, mom entered her into a cute baby contest. Naomi came in fourth. Between t
he time she was passed over for the job and the photo shoot itself, though, all three kids in front of her came down with a different illness.

  Since then, every time there’s something to win, Naomi’s won it. The only exceptions I’ve found so far are the lottery and general gambling. I guess it’s more a sweepstakes kind of luck than anything.

  “What’d you get?” I ask.

  “A car,” she says.

  “You won a car?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, waving her hand, “it’s nothing too fancy, though. I think they were just looking for a way to get rid of the thing, if I’m honest.”

  “You won a car?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I checked the blue book on it. I can keep it, and we can have something to drive around, or I can sell it and probably get about twelve-thousand. What do you think?”

  “You won a car?” I ask.

  “Yes, sororal broken record of mine,” Naomi says. “I won a car.”

  “This is big,” I say. “Well, why aren’t you out driving it?”

  Maybe I don’t have to ask for the favor after all. Now, if I can get her out of the house for a few hours so I can see Nick without leaving the house or subjecting him to her …

  “Because I just got home,” she says. “Why, are you trying to get me out of the house so your boyfriend can come over and whisper sweet nothings about how he doesn’t mind dating shut-ins?”

  The downside of living with someone you grew up with is they see through ploys, plots and schemes better than anyone.

  “Come on,” I say. “I postponed on him a few days ago, and he still thinks I’m over here hacking up a lung or something.”

  “Ooh, he should be thrilled to drop what he’s doing and come over here, then,” she says.

  “I may mention something about not being sick,” I tell Naomi through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t know, sis,” she says. “Perhaps I should meet this gentleman and make sure he’s the kind of guy who’s worthy of you before I let you have him over here all by yourself.”

  “Nan,” I say and Naomi shudders, “think about it this way: While you’ve done a great job of furnishing this place with all the crap you’ve won over the years, I’m still the one who’s paid rent every month. In fact, I’m not sure I remembered to have them add you to the lease.”

  “You didn’t add me to the lease?” she asks. “With as long as I’ve been living here, I’d say that’s a breach of contract on your part. What else do you have?”

  “Maybe I just decide to have my boyfriend get me a nice place out of state and maybe I don’t tell you where it is,” I say.

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “The two of you have only been on one real date. He’s not going to rent you a place.”

  “Who said anything about renting?” I ask. “You know, with a nine-digit bank account, I’d bet he wouldn’t even feel the pinch if he got me a lovely mansion on a shore somewhere.”

  “You know a beach house is my dream house,” Naomi says. “That’s not cool.”

  “Leave now, and I’ll put away the rest of the groceries,” I tell her.

  I don’t know if it was the hypothetical beach house or the offer to put away a single bag’s worth of items, but Naomi stops what she’s doing, grabs the keys to her new car off the countertop, and walks out the front door.

  She’s a bit of an odd one, Naomi.

  I pull out my phone and send Nick a quick text to ask if he has a minute. The phone’s ringing a minute later.

  “Hey there,” I answer.

  “Hey,” Nick says. “How are you feeling?”

  “You know,” I tell him, “I think I’m doing a lot better.” I’m not going to complain about a few people in front of my door when he had half the town camped out waiting for him. “Naomi’s out. I was wondering if you maybe had some time to come over.”

  “Well,” he says, “I’ve got a few things to finish up right now. How does three o’clock sound?”

  It looks like Naomi’s going to get to meet the boyfriend after all.

  “That’s fine,” I tell him. “Let me know when you’re on your way and I’ll make sure to have a drink ready for you when you get here.”

  “Sounds great,” he says. “Listen, I have to go now, but I’m glad you’re doing all right, and I’ll see you in a little while.”

  “Thanks,” I say, though I have no idea why. “I mean sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  If I offer to do Naomi’s laundry for a week, I wonder if she’d be willing to stay out of the apartment a while longer. I pull out my phone.

  * * *

  It’s about 3:05 when the knock falls on the door, and I’m just finishing up the vodka martini—stirred, not shaken. Max barks lazily from Naomi’s room but doesn’t follow it up with anything. Sammie just sits in the middle of the floor staring at me.

  I get to the door and, once it’s open, I poke my head out just far enough to look to the left and then to the right, and I grab Nick by the lapels of his suit jacket and pull him into the apartment. Closing and locking the door, I say, “Hey, sorry about that. Things have been a bit hectic around here.”

  “I’d say from the amount of force you used pulling me in here you must feel quite a bit better,” he says.

  I cringe. “Yeah,” I say. “Hey, I know this is off-topic, but I was wondering if you had any particular way you deal with people who want something from you.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Never mind,” I tell him. “You look great.”

  Nick is wearing a dark gray suit with a deep red tie. While it hardly seems like he uses any product, there’s not a strand of his short, black hair that’s out of place.

  “You can take your jacket off,” I tell him. “Stay awhile.”

  “Thanks,” he says and starts looking around as he slides the jacket off of him with incredible ease. “Do you have a coat rack or a hanger or something?” he asks.

  “I’ll take it,” I tell him and hold out my hands. When he hands me the jacket, it’s all I can do not to start going on about how deceptively soft the material is. “Your martini is waiting for you in the kitchen,” I tell him. “I’m just going to take this back to my room, and I’ll be out to join you.”

  “Thanks,” he says, and I head back to my room.

  Closing the door behind me, I take a stab at getting the butterflies in my stomach to stop trying to escape.

  He looks incredible. Nothing’s changed about him since the last time I saw him—clothes excepted—but I’m noticing, for the first time, the finer points of his physique.

  Without the jacket, he’s a lot more muscular than I’d anticipated. I just thought he had a preference for thick fabric. Something has changed, but I don’t believe the change came from him.

  I go to my closet and open it up, scowling at my laughably inferior clothing. For a second, I consider changing into something a bit chicer, but I’m already wearing my best low-cut dress.

  There’s so much about him I hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t let myself notice, and it was all, every bit of it, in front of me the whole time. I have a little trouble convincing myself, but after another minute, I hang up the suit coat and head back out of the room.

  I get to the living room to find Nikolai Scipio looking out one window, martini in hand.

  “I like your place,” he says.

  “Right,” I scoff.

  “Seriously,” he says. “I’m particularly fond of your view. In New York, the best you can hope for is a high vantage point so you can see all the other CEOs somewhere down below you. Apart from the schadenfreude, it’s not all that spectacular.”

  I’ve never been to New York, but just like everyone else in the world, I’ve seen plenty of pictures. Maybe a person gets tired of the cityscape when they live in it, but I can’t see anything like that ever happening to me.

  “So,” he says, “what would you like to do this evening?”

  “Huh?” I ask.
<
br />   Stop daydreaming, Ellie.

  “I was just asking what you’d like to do,” he says.

  “Oh,” I respond, finally. “You know, I hadn’t thought about it.”

  He smiles and then looks back out the window, sipping his drink.

  “It’s weird,” I tell him, “you being in this apartment.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks, and now I’m certain he’s just playing dumb.

  “Oh, don’t be polite,” I tell him. “I bet where you live, you’ve got bathrooms bigger than this whole place.”

  “No, really,” he says. “Why do you think I’m here and not in Manhattan?”

  “You’re moving headquarters, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers, “but why do you think I chose a place like Mulholland instead of, say, L.A. or Boston?”

  “Better deals on rent?” I ask.

  He laughs. It’s a rich, almost soothing sound. “That’s just a perk,” he says. “I noticed you didn’t have a drink of your own set-out, so I took the liberty of fixing one up for you. I’ll just grab it.”

  “You stay and enjoy—” I can’t believe I’m saying this “—the view, and maybe we can figure out something to do when I get back.”

  “Okay,” he says, and I go into the kitchen.

  What’s the matter with me? I don’t know if I’m speaking normally or if I’ve said anything at all. At the moment, the only thing I’m sure of is the drink waiting for me isn’t a martini. Of course, not knowing what I’m drinking doesn’t stop me from downing the whole thing.

  Once the last few drops are down my gullet, I become acutely aware that I’m about to go back out there with nothing. As quickly as I can, I pour some vodka into the glass and walk back out to the living room once more.

  Nick’s sitting on the couch.

  “Have you tried it yet?” he asks. “It’s something my butler told me about—apparently, it was one of the Tsar’s favorites, though I still haven’t gotten Witherton to say how he’d know that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, giving my glass a big whiff and then squinting my eyes to hide the tears that form. “It’s really something.”

  I walk over to join Nick on the couch, setting the glass on the coffee table, far enough away from him he shouldn’t notice the sharp smell of my drink.