“Remind me again why you bought this fucking hell hole?” asks my managing partner, Reed Sinclair, as he slaps my shoulder.
“It’s a passion project. I bought it because it’s an eye sore for the community. The kids at the elementary school don’t need to have something this ugly across the street from their playground.”
That’s all true, except for another small detail. What I can’t tell him is that, I was the fifteen-year-old teenager who was rescued nearly twenty years ago from this filthy fucking hell on earth. That Halloween morning, I was whisked away from what the local papers called the “House of Horrors” and never looked back. Winston Donald Woodward died that day.
It’s not as dramatic as I make it sound, but those years of my life still give me nightmares.
“Honestly, Ty, I don’t know why you care about this place.”
“A friend used to be a resident of the town, and she told me all about the headaches this place gave them. That’s why.”
Rumor has it that the schoolboard wanted to scoop up the property. They wanted to tear it down and remodel it for the special needs’ students. A nice idea in theory, but that’s just another way to make those kids feel like outsiders.
“Ready, Mister Nichols?” Joe, the site engineer calls out to me.
“You’re positive there are no animals or cats in or around the house?”
He nods. “Not even a raccoon.”
I give him the thumbs up. “Let’s grind this place to dust,” I mumble.
“All right, boys, it’s a beautiful day to tear some shit down,” Joe yells, and the engine to the backhoe fires up. The smell of diesel and wet grass hangs heavy in the air.
A rush of adrenaline spikes in my veins, and I can’t stop the smile from forming on my lips. The only way this could be more enjoyable is to watch it burn. However, that would break a few dozen laws and codes. After years of cutting through the red tape, this day is finally here.
Goodbye and good riddance.
Fuck you all—you filthy fucking animals.
My eyes flick to the attic window as it tumbles down through the middle of the house. Ice fills my veins. At the same time, sadness washes over me. Not because the home I lived in for years of my life is being turned into a pile of ash and rubble. And most definitely not because of the memories of my former family, or anything this place holds. No, I’m sad because Capri died a week after we were rescued.
Squalor Syndrome. Think “Grey Gardens.”
Her symptoms showed up seven days after we left this fucking place. To this day, I still can’t believe she died. Capri and I had been in the foster system for just over seventy-two hours when Enid and Michael Nichols read about the story in the local paper. The day they hopped on a plane with their lawyers changed my life. I’ll never forget when they asked us if we wanted to be a part of their family forever—Capri and I couldn’t answer fast enough. I can’t imagine how Enid and Michael handled burying a child that they wanted so badly. Yeah, they saved both of us. I only wish that Capri . . . Ava was here with me. At least she was buried with a better name.
Everyone in the Woodward family was arrested the night we were rescued, including our grandparents. In the days after, John Woodward suffered a heart attack and died. I read some years later that his wife, Paula Woodward, passed away from cancer. As for the rest of them, they can all rot in hell.
The damp chill of the March afternoon settles in my spine, bringing me back to the present. A creepy, dark feeling snakes around me, like I’d rumbled the spirits.
“Oh snap, dude, you didn’t tell me that this was the house that those kids were found in those horrid conditions. Fuck. This article says, there was shit on the walls and a giant hole in the side of the house. God, who lives like that?”
Disgusting humans, that’s who.
I let out a deep breath. “I’m sure the kids didn’t choose to live like that.”
“What time does our flight leave?” Reed asks.
“In three hours.”
“You should know that I hate flying commercial,” he bellows, tucking his phone inside his jacket pocket. “Too bad your parents took the jet to New York.”
“I know, but it’s their golden years, and they deserve it. Plus, I don’t want anyone at Nichols Corp, including my father, to know about this little trip. This project is off the books—off the record.”
My father’s company, Nichols Corp, specializes in facility and move management support. When a company needs to move their space, Nichols Corp steps in. It’s a lot more than packing and unpacking boxes. Growing up, I spent every single moment I could soaking up all the knowledge of the company, and when I graduated from college, I went to work saving every penny I earned to tear this shithole down.
“As the Go-Go’s say, my lips are sealed.”
“I’m pretty sure the Go-Go’s said, our lips are sealed,” I correct. “Now hand over your man card for referencing an all-girl band from the eighties.”
“Nope, I am completely confident with my masculinity, just ask my fiancée. Maybe you should hand over your man card for knowing the right words.”
Joe approaches. “Mister Nichols, the tear down is almost complete and all that remains is clean up and hauling this away.”
“Great,” I say, clasping my hands together. “When the property is all clear, I will schedule the landscapers. Thanks again, Joe.”
“You’ve done a beautiful thing here, Mister Nichols. I’m glad this house will no longer serve as a reminder of that awful family who lived here.” He tips the brim of his hard hat and then strides away.
Reed clasps my shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out of this town.”
“Good idea.” I don’t bother looking back at the place that haunts me in my sleep.
An hour later, we arrive at the airport, and drop off the rental car.
“You want to grab a drink before our flight?” Reed asks.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I shoot back, handing over my boarding pass and ID to be scanned. “But first, I need to check my schedule. I think I’ve got a late meeting.”
“Well, our little secret project was my last project of the work week. My weekend starts now,” he brags, as we stroll through the security line. “Thank fuck we were bumped over to the pre-check lane.”
The airport is desolate for a Friday afternoon. We wander down the walkway and Reed points out a bar.
“Is the meeting for the Nichols Corp or that restaurant of yours?” Reed asks taking a seat across from me.
I pull up my calendar on my phone and look at the entry. “Neither. I’m free and clear.”
“Great, this calls for a round of Kentucky’s best. We need to toast to your passion project. Cardwell Bourbon is the best.”
Reaching across the table I pluck the menu from the condiment holder—pausing when a text from my friend, Scott Benson, appears.
Scott: Hey, man, I need to rent out your entire restaurant for a special occasion.
Me: Last time you rented out the space, a thousand or so of your adoring fans showed up and I was almost cited for a noise violation.
Needing something more than the day-to-day aspect of working in an office, I was twenty-eight when I purchased a local restaurant.
Owning the restaurant is another way I try to forget the ghosts of my past. I never want anyone to go hungry. Going without food for days on end, that was hellish. If Ava had the proper nutrients, I wonder if she’d be alive today. I shake the thought from my mind.
Scott: It’s a very small affair. Only me and my lady.
Me: You got it, buddy, it’s yours whenever you want. You tell me the date and I’ll shut it down for you. What’s the occasion?
Scott: Something big. Life changing. I’m thinking June. I’ll get back to you.
Special occasion. Life changing. Must be a proposal. The gal he’s dating must be someone pretty incredible.
Haven
Three Months Later
I sit a
t my desk lifting stacks of papers, rifling through file folders and my planner. My fists slam against the glass top in frustration.
“What’s with all the banging?” My assistant Beatrice’s voice floats through the air as she strides toward my desk holding the very thing I’d been looking for in her hand.
“You are a godsend, Bea.” She hands me the beautiful silver envelope, which I then carefully slide into my purse.
“And you need to relax.”
My brows pinch together as I gather the file folders and shuffle them into no particular order. “Relax, hmm. And I can do that because you found a rogue Xanax in your purse and a shot of whiskey for me?”
She tsks. “Whiskey wouldn’t be my first choice.”
I stand. “No? I bet you were a tequila gal.”
“Were, huh?” Her hands grip the back of the club chair across from my desk. “Please, dear, I still have the occasional margarita. And I’m a fan of red wine.”
“Nice. Now, tell me the reason that I can relax?”
“Because as of fifteen minutes ago, your vacation started,” she says, giving me a pointed stare. “Now, get out of here because you have a flight to catch and you don’t want to miss this occasion.”
The occasion is the wedding of one of my closest friends, Sage. A wedding in Smyrna Hills, halfway across the United States—Kentucky to be exact—population of less than five thousand. A gorgeous small town nestled along Kentucky’s famous Bourbon Trail. Mayfield, my hometown, is a stone’s throw from the place, but I haven’t been home in two years. My job keeps me tied to Los Angeles, and when I do get a break, I choose my house in the Hamptons over Mayfield every damn time.
“Larry is ready and waiting downstairs to drive you to the airport,” Beatrice informs. “Kenna is wrapping things up at The Blue Note. She says the photoshoot went well. And Zooey just arrived at E! News. No problems there either.”
I slip my Chloe bag over my shoulder and pull my suitcases from the closet. “Can I assume no problems means that our client actually showed up on time and sober?”
Beatrice gives me a nod. “Now, how about you enjoy yourself this weekend. Put all this work out of your mind. Weddings can be a great place to meet a special someone.” She gives me a wink as we cross my office walking toward the door.
What Beatrice doesn’t know is that I have been seeing someone special for a few months now. Though we spend most of our time apart in different cities, I do take every opportunity I can to acquaint myself with every inch of Scott Benson’s amazing body. The downside? He’s also my client which means our relationship is a well-kept secret.
“I’ll see you on Monday, Beatrice. Have a good weekend.”
As I settle into my seat on the plane, my phone pings.
Scott: Meet me here tonight at seven o’clock sharp. 321 Aldean Avenue, Smyrna Hills.
Me: Are you serious? You’re in Smyrna Hills?
Scott: Yes.
Me: We can’t risk being seen together.
Scott: I’m about to fix all that—say that you’ll meet me.
I wonder what he means by that statement. Is he going to ask me to take our relationship public? There’s only one way to find out.
Me: Okay, I’ll be there. My flight arrives just after five, I might be late.
How in the world I managed to find a guy who’s from the same part of the country as me is beyond my comprehension. Scott Benson and I grew up just miles apart, but we met in Nashville when he burst onto the scene and needed representation. Now, he’s the fastest rising star in country music. He pursued me relentlessly. I couldn’t resist his charming smile and that sexy body of his.
Scott: I can send a car to pick you up. Don’t stress.
Don’t stress, okay. Easier said than done. I’m already nervous about going back home. My mother will fuss about my choice of clothes and how the sun in Los Angeles is prematurely aging my skin. My father will ask me if I need any money ignoring the fact that I have a successful career in public relations.
Me: I have a car service. I can just change my destination.
Scott: See you soon.
When I arrive at the restaurant, suitcases in hand, Scott’s standing near the hostess stand dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. The place is empty aside from the bartender and the two of us. I assume the kitchen staff are milling around.
“Hey, you made it,” he greets me, before helping with my luggage.
“I’m exhausted, but I’m here.”
“Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
He takes me by the hand leading me toward the bar where he orders a glass of my favorite white wine. The place is charming, a farm-to-table restaurant with a giant fireplace in the middle, towering trees in terracotta planters and six stunning chandeliers. The mood is definitely set for romance with the low lighting and the hum of soft jazz music.
My heart slams into my ribcage as he hands me the glass.
Oh shit, he’s going to propose.
A huge gulp of wine washes down my nerves—mostly. This must be what he meant by fixing our situation.
Scott motions to a large table near the fireplace. “So, uhm . . . listen, I don’t think this is working out.”
“Excuse me, what?” My hand jerks and the remaining contents of my glass splash onto the table.
“You must be jetlagged,” he asserts, swinging his gaze toward the television on the wall. “Uh, this thing between us, I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
I see his thin lips forming the words—this thing isn’t working out between us. The audacity this man has bringing me to a restaurant to breakup with me?
“Are you dumping me after I just flew across the country?”
His eyes meet mine. “If you like I can wait, you want one last hurrah in the sack before we part ways? My hotel is just a few blocks away.”
Sweat climbs up the back of my neck as rage boils inside me. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, before polishing off his drink. “I’m paying for dinner and you can order whatever you want on the menu.”
I scoff. “Okay, I’ll do that.”
Most expensive bottle of wine here I come. Not to mention, I’m going to order food for a local homeless or women’s shelter in the area. Oh yeah, Scott Benson without a doubt is going to pay for this.
“Well, Haven,” he drawls, shrugging into his jacket. “It’s been real, but I gotta be on my way. The tour starts on Sunday and I need to rest up.”
“Yeah, sure, get your rest.”
“Also, you’re fired. It’s nothing personal, but you being my publicist going forward isn’t a good idea. On account of our past relationship and all.”
“Absolutely, I couldn’t agree more.” I hold my tongue, all the rage and bitterness burns at the back of my throat. “Since we’ve set up all the press for your tour, I think the best way to handle this is to have Kenna or Zooey oversee your press coverage. Then, when the tour is over, you can reevaluate. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up and transfer the contract.”
Not that I owe him any solid advice or help. Frankie, my boss, will not be happy about this development. Alan, his manager, won’t be happy either. Scott’s clearly going rogue, which won’t fly. He can try, but his contract with my agency, MCA, is iron clad. Not to mention, I’ve arranged for all his interviews—radio, television and entertainment websites.
“Great, send it all to Alan. Although, I don’t think I need to do any interviews. This album is burning up the charts. And every date is sold out. They’re even thinking of adding more dates. Seems like publicity is a waste of money at this point.”
Arrogant mother . . . asshole.
He places his glass onto the table. “Take care, Haven.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I mumble.
Numbness settles around me, gripping my heart and squeezing. I don’t fully remember him leaving, but by the time I get to my third glass of wine I can’t hold it in any longer. Tears carve pa
ths down my cheeks. Ugly fat tears drip onto my blouse.
Why am I upset about that douche canoe?
When a blast of cool air hits me, my eyes dart toward the front door to find a man standing there, and his eyes are pinned on me. Not just any man, a handsome man with dark brows that emphasize those deep blue eyes. His brown hair is cropped short and neatly trimmed stubble graces his strong jaw. That jaw is something.
Dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans and a white V-neck t-shirt he strides toward me. More than likely, this man is someone on Scott’s payroll.
“Excuse me, bartender,” I call out. “I’d like to see the menu, and could you get me a list of local shelters—homeless, women’s, animal . . . otherwise.”
“Right away,” he answers.
The man with the jaw that could grate parmesan cheese stands in front of me. “Hi, I’m Tyler.”
“Haven.”
He rubs his palms together. “I wanted to stop by and see if you and Scott needed anything. This is my place.”
I take what is probably an unladylike swallow of wine. “Scott needs a swift kick in the dick. I, on the other hand, could use more to drink and a good meal.”
His brows pinch together. “What’d he do?” Tyler uncorks the wine refilling my glass.
“Dumped me right here in your place. Said that things weren’t working out between us.” I scoop up the glass. “What kind of a person rents out an entire restaurant to break up with someone?” I ask, aiming my wine at Tyler.
He blows out a heavy breath. “A jerk, apparently.”
That’s when I notice his broad shoulders. He’s much bigger up close and his chest reminds me of a whiskey barrel.
I wave my hand in the air. “Yes, thank you, a jerk.”
The bartender drops off the menu along with the number for a nearby women’s shelter. “The nearest homeless shelter is over in Lexington.”
Tyler cocks a brow as his gaze pings between me and the bartender. “Thanks, George, and can you bring us another bottle of wine?”
“Yes, thank you, George. This is very helpful.”
“What’s with the information for the shelters?” Tyler asks, taking a seat at the table.
Beautiful March Page 2
