by Zoe York
“Hey, ladies. I’m not interruptin’, am I?” Nash slid onto the stool on Rory’s other side, setting his glass right next to hers before pouring them each a shot. He lifted her glass and held it out to her, brows raised as he waited for her to take it.
“What’s—” Willow started, but Finn placed his hand on her arm.
“Just give it a minute,” he murmured.
Rory shifted her gaze from Nash to the glass he held out and back again. Finally, she took it, and he clinked his glass with hers, then they both downed the shot.
“You can go ahead with whatever you had planned, Will,” Nash said, pouring them both another. “Been a rough day, and I could use a few more of these.”
Finn didn’t buy the lie—Nash never had rough days. The man was as easygoing as a golden retriever and never let much get to him.
Fortunately, Rory was too far gone to notice anything. “Yeah, Will, you heard the man. Go make out with your boyfriend. Have the kind of amazing sex I’ve never experienced. Do it for both of us, all right? I’mma have a few drinks with this hot man who isn’t fucking his assistant.” She turned to Nash, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “You’re not fucking your assistant, are you?”
“Don’t have an assistant, princess, so that’d be a no.”
“Perfect. No assistant-fuckers allowed in this part of the bar.” She gestured wildly around them, nearly knocking over the bottle of vodka. “This is an assistant-fucker free zone, people!”
“Oh Lord,” Willow said. “Rory, let’s—”
“C’mon now,” Finn said, tilting his head to the side. “Let her be, and come over here with me for a bit.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but she finally slipped off the stool and walked around the bar to meet him at the back. “Okay then, but you just remember I told you so when she’s hating herself tomorrow for how she’s acting right now. I’ve never in my life heard her drop an f-bomb, and she just dropped four of them in a minute! I’m so worried about her, Finn. I’ve never seen her like this.”
Just then, Rory’s laughter rang through the bar, and Willow whipped her head in that direction. Nash was staring at Rory, his lips quirked up at the side as she cackled about something he’d said as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
“See? She’ll be all right. You can take her home and coddle her a bit later. But let her be for just a little while.” He glanced around, checking to make sure Drew and Nola had everything out there under control. Nola stood by one of the high-top tables, chatting with a group of people, and Drew stood behind the bar, restocking.
Perfect.
He tugged Willow’s hand toward the office and walked backward, hoping like hell she’d follow him. “Come back here with me. I wanna show you somethin’.”
She glanced over her shoulder at her sister once more, finally seeming to be reassured when Rory was still laughing. Turning back to face him, she smirked. “Is this somethin’ in your pants by any chance?”
He gasped, bringing his hand to his chest as he opened the office door and guided her through, then shut it behind them. Leaning forward, he whispered, “There you go, bein’ a bad influence again. All I wanted to show you was this beer mug penholder Drew bought, and all you’re thinkin’ about is my cock. Such a dirty girl…”
Willow tipped her head back in laughter, the sound soothing his soul like nothing else ever could. She slipped her arms around his waist, tucking her hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I’ve missed you. Sorry I couldn’t get away tonight.” She shot a worried look toward the door again, so Finn did the only thing he could to distract her.
He cupped her face and brought his lips to hers, starting the kiss slow and sweet. But things never stayed that way for long, not when they had the kind of chemistry they did. Soon enough, she had her legs wrapped around him and he was gripping her ass, grinding her down on his aching cock. Christ, he wanted her. Wanted her with every fiber of his being. But now wasn’t the time. She had too much on her mind, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to lose herself when her sister was in so much pain.
So he calmed himself down. Loosened his grip on her ass until he was just kneading it gently, a companion to the slow glide of his tongue against hers.
With three small, chaste kisses, he pulled back enough to look her in those eyes that he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life. “That’s all right, Willowtree. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Thank you for reading Finlow’s story! Did you catch that chemistry between Nash and Rory? Find out what happens when she tries to resist her sister’s best friend in Hometown Troublemaker!
Aurora "Rory" Haven's life is in shambles. Her ex-husband's living with the woman he cheated with, her oldest daughter blames her for the divorce, and she's broke. To make ends meet, she partners with the too-young, way too hot local contractor she has absolutely no business fantasizing about.
Nash King is working overtime so he can take over the family business. He doesn't need the distraction of his best friend's sister, but the hot-as-hell, pearl-clutching divorcée barrels her way into his everyday life. He's managed to ignore his attraction to her for a decade. What's another couple months?
The summer heat and forced proximity has tempers flaring…and their chemistry sizzling. But Havenbrook's gossip mill is churning full-force, and the last thing Rory needs is everyone speculating over her crush on a man eight years her junior. Except crushing doesn't have anything on what's really going on…
What would happen if the townspeople found out paint wasn't the only thing being stripped?
Start reading Hometown Troublemaker now!
Part VIII
Home in Heartsfield
by Margaret Ethridge
About This Book
Bram Hatchett thought he buried his heart with his wife, but when a big city beauty blows into town to dispose of the family farm, she captures everyone’s attention. Particularly his.
Lynne Prescott’s former marriage was marked by her husband’s infidelities and doomed by the secrets and lies he left in his wake. Disillusioned and adrift, she seeks refuge in the simplicity of small town life.
There are few secrets in Heartsfield, Arkansas, but when a few loose boards on a rickety old porch bring them together, not even the combined forces of nosy neighbors, disapproving children and a disturbing decrease in the poultry population can stymie the attraction between the handsome widower and the intriguing divorcee.
But Lynne and Bram are both old enough to know there are no guarantees in life.
Can they set the fears of their pasts aside and learn to trust their hearts just one more time?
With love from one Windy City woman to her Arkansas man.
Chapter 1
“Hello, Mama.” Bram Hatchett strolled into the feed store his family had owned for three generations as if he didn't have a care in the world. Technically, he wasn't supposed to have a care. Nor was he meant to hang around Hatchett's Hatchery. In truth, the carefree life of semi-retirement was beginning to grate on his nerves. Today was one of those days he needed to emphasize the “semi” in front of the R-word. There are only so many hours a day a man can spend communing with a piece of wood. Leaning over the counter, he kissed his mother's soft cheek. “Good day?”
Ada Hatchett reached up to cup his jaw. “Lose your razor?”
He smirked. Last April, on her seventy-fifth birthday, his mother decided she would take the role of family matriarch more seriously. Since then, she dropped what little filter she once had and felt free to carry on about everyone and everything she loved. She also reclaimed her place at the hatchery's counter.
He scraped his nails over the bristly whiskers. “No, ma'am. I was feeling lazy.”
“You look like a hobo.”
“Then maybe I'll hop a train. Hopefully it'll carry me far from cranky old women.”
She barked a laugh. “You're one to talk. I swear, I don't know how a man can be so handsome a
nd so prickly all at the same time.”
“All he has to do is stop shaving.”
“You need to get out more, Abram.”
He ducked behind the counter, avoiding her laser-beam stare by scanning the day's receipts. “Feed shipment come in okay?”
His mother snatched the invoices from his hand. “Came in like it does every week.”
Bram mustered up his best glower, but knew it would be no match for her. “I still own half of this business.”
“And I own the other half. You have other business now. Go tend to it.”
“Not in the mood,” he grumbled.
Ada snickered. “Sometimes you act like you're still five. If you aren't in the mood to whittle and spit, then why don't you clean yourself up, go into town, and visit that new supper club Maisie Wilkins was tellin' me about.”
“I'm a grown man. I don't need my mother telling me to troll meat markets.”
She turned to him. Spindly fingers clutched the sleeve of his shirt. “You're not a man who was meant to be alone, sweetheart.”
He carefully disentangled himself from his mother's grasp. “I'm gonna check with Abe on the walnut I ordered, then I'm heading over to Walters' to measure some shelving.” The wounded glance she shot him prickled his heart. Softening, he pecked another kiss to her cheek and gave her hand a little squeeze. “Stop worrying, Mama. I have plenty to keep me occupied.”
Bram made a beeline for the storeroom where he spotted his son and an all-too-familiar jab of pain punched him in the gut. Abe was the spitting image of his late wife, Susan. He tamped down on the pang and crept up behind his boy, keeping one eye on the huge stacks of bagged feed to be certain no corners were being cut.
As Abe hefted another sack, Bram grinned and asked in a low voice, “Got wood?”
The young man whirled, chuckling when his father ducked to dodge the fifty-pound bag. “Aren't you a little old to get such a kick outta jokes like that?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “What? I'm just askin' if the walnut I ordered came in.”
“By the dock.” Abe gestured to the loading dock at the back of the building. “You got more orders?”
“I need to make your sister take that damn website down. It's getting to the point where I can't keep up.”
“Good. The longer you make 'em wait, the more they'll want them.” Abe grunted as he dumped the sack onto the pallet and nudged it into place with the toe of his boot. “Plus it keeps you outta my hair and away from the places where Anna Albertson lays in wait for you.”
Bram's snarky retort was cut off by a gleeful cry. “Grandpa!”
His grandson, A.J., hit him with all the force an eight-year-old could muster. He gave a manly oof and patted the boy's skinny shoulder. “Hey, bud,” he murmured. “Keep at it and you'll be playing left tackle for the Razorbacks.”
A.J.'s eyes twinkled as he shot his grandfather a sly smile. “I like LSU better.”
Pressing his hand to his heart, he staggered back. “Are you trying to kill the old man? This here is Arkansas, boy.”
“He's a rebel,” Abe commented, reaching for another bag.
“The Rebels are Ole Miss, Dad,” A.J. said derisively.
Abe rolled his eyes. “I know.” He nodded to the opposite side of the storeroom. “Why don't you go check the critters, Tiger?”
A.J. scampered off and Bram turned back to his son. “You're encouraging that?”
“Hell no. I'm just gonna call him ‘Tiger’ until he thinks I'm okay with this LSU obsession. He'll be a Razorback fan again by fall.”
“You always were a bright boy.” He pulled the keys to his truck from his pocket. “Okay. I'll load up and get out of your hair.” He knocked the ball cap from Abe's head and ruffled the dark hair. “Make sure you rotate the fertilizer stock.”
He waved to his mother and pushed through the front door of the store. Loading up and heading back to his empty house was the last thing he wanted to do, so he was glad to help his daughter at the general store. At least Willene always seemed happy to have him around. Squinting into the watery spring sunlight, he spotted his father and the old man's best crony parked in the rocking chairs in front of Walters' Mercantile and picked up his pace.
Having lived in the small town of Heartsfield, Arkansas for almost five decades, Bram had seen a lot of strange things. Most of the time, he didn't give them a second thought. Russell Moyers' horse, Chauncey, tied to a parking meter in front of the market, placidly cropped any available blade of grass. Nothing new there. A huge yellow tractor droned down the asphalt tarmac, something that occurred at least a couple times a day. The impatient roar of a diesel engine urged the tractor's driver to get a move on. Bram chuckled at the truck driver's optimism. These sights and sounds were all normal.
But it wasn't every day a guy saw a shiny, foreign-made SUV wedged into a spot at the curb between Rusty Hartman's battered half-ton and the Barrett kid's clunker.
In strident contrast to the usual symphony of screeching steel hinges and blaring country music, the purr of a well-tuned motor cut out. Stopping in his tracks, Bram's brow wrinkled when he spotted the silver letters that spelled P-O-R-S-C-H-E across the SUV's lift gate.
“Sweet car, huh, Mr. Bram?”
He whirled to find the youngest of the Johnson boys idling alongside the curb astride his father's riding mower. He stifled a chuckle brought on by his own oblivion and shook his head. When the boy's look of surprise registered, he switched from a shake to a nod. “Yeah, yeah. It's a nice car, David.”
“I can't wait to get my permit.”
The teen's wistful sigh turned the chuckle loose. “Just a few more months, right?”
“June.”
The boy's disgruntled grumble almost managed to distract him from the gleam of sun-sparkling chrome for a moment. “You playin' ball this sum.”
The question drifted off on the crisp breeze when the car door opened. A tall, slender woman in a snug sweater the color of ripe peaches and curve-hugging blue jeans climbed from the car, and every thought flew from his head. Playful gusts lifted lustrous waves of silky hair, plastering strands the color of cornhusks and honey to her cheek and throat. He swallowed hard.
“Yeah, I'm playin',” the boy said, oblivious to his distraction. “Coach says we have a good chance at making it to State playoffs this year.”
“Uh-huh.” Bram's gaze lingered on the spiked heels peeking from the hem of her jeans before meandering its way up those mile-long legs. His own faded jeans shrank, squeezing the air from his lungs and tightening uncomfortably in the crotch. The Johnson boy rambled on, reeling off stats and naming players, but talk of baseball didn't help. He stared at the woman, mentally willing her to turn his way, dying for a glimpse of her face.
A car alarm chirped, jolting him to his senses. David Johnson stood rooted to the spot. Bram saw the woman offer his dad and his friend nods on her way into the general store. Mumbling a lame excuse about meeting his father, Bram ditched the Johnson kid with a half-wave and, keeping his gaze locked on the marvel of German engineering, made his way down the sidewalk.
Gleaming chrome and sleek, sporty lines lured him like sparkly bait. Surrounded by dust-covered pickups, it was a vehicular peacock in a pigeon coop. The glossy finish tossed his reflection back at him when he skirted the hood. Squinting, he peered past the subtle tint on the windows for a glimpse at the car's interior. As he suspected, the tan leather seats looked smooth as butter, and the dash had one of those fancy little TV screens they show on the commercials.
Bram snorted and rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from stroking the curve of the fender. Making his way to the rocking chairs on the sidewalk outside Walters' Mercantile, he focused his attention on the two old men parked in the chairs and gathered his scattered wits. No sense thinking about shiny, fancy cars and the pretty women who drove them. The SUV obviously didn't belong in a dusty, one-horse town like Heartsfield, and judging by
the looks of its owner, neither did she.
Lynne Prescott's fingers still ached from the death grip she'd had on the SUV's steering wheel since she coasted out of the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Though chilly spring air nipped at her ears as she clambered out of the driver's seat, the sun warmed her cheeks. A gust of wind fluttered the awning over the door to the old general store. The metallic clank drew her attention to a flagpole where Old Glory snapped like a firecracker in the stiff breeze. Turning in a slow circle, she stretched the knotted muscles of her neck and shoulders and surveyed the town square.
It seemed like nothing in Heartsfield, Arkansas ever changed. The land where time stood still, she thought with a smirk. Coming full circle, she peered at the faded brick building that housed Walters' Mercantile. The old-fashioned lettering on the window claimed it had been established in 1947. She couldn't refute that. Walters' Mercantile seemed ancient forty years ago—the last time she danced through the doors to blow her pocket money on a pink-handled jump rope.
Shaking off a wave of guilt-tinged nostalgia, she snatched her purse from the car and slammed the door. Her thumb pressed the key fob and the alarm chirped in her wake, drawing the interest of two old men perched on rocking chairs. She offered them a sheepish smile as she reached the door to the shop and muttered, “Force of habit.”
One of the men nodded acknowledgment and upped the force of his rocking. Obviously, the ‘You Break It, You Buy It’ sign tacked above their chairs didn't pose much of a threat to these two. Lynne chuckled as she opened the door. “And that's what we call small town charm.”
The heels of her boots clacked on worn linoleum. Wincing, Lynne shifted to the balls of her feet, tip-toeing as unobtrusively as possible toward the cash register.
The young woman working the counter glanced up and nodded a greeting before returning her attention to another customer. The conversation segued to juicy, local gossip and Lynne stifled a sigh of impatience. Hand-lettered signs marked the short aisles. She noticed the third row from the back was marked simply ‘Notions.’ Unable to resist the notion of ‘notions,’ she moved in that direction.
