Hometown Troublemaker

by Brighton Walsh

  “I’m sorry,” he said through laughter.

  “You are not, you liar.” She pinched his underarm, which only made him laugh harder. “It’s not funny!” Somehow, she managed to restrain herself from stomping her foot, but just barely. “How the hell was I supposed to know what it meant? Is there a class I can take for all the shit I missed out on?”

  Nash’s chuckles died down then, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry for laughin’. Sometimes you say things that remind me—” He cut himself off, but it didn’t take much to guess what he’d been about to say.

  Sometimes she said things that reminded him exactly how many years were between them, especially when they’d lived vastly different lives. It would’ve been one thing if neither of them had been married with kids, or if both of them had. If either of those things had been the case, their age difference might not have seemed so drastic. But with the lives they’d both led, sometimes Rory felt twenty years older than him, not eight.

  “You wanna Netflix and chill with me before we do some Netflix and chillin’?”

  She smiled in spite of herself and nodded against his chest. “Only if you promise not to laugh at me anymore.”

  “Ah, princess.” He wrapped her tighter in his arms and rocked them from side to side. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I hate you,” she said, but she couldn’t keep the laughter out of her voice. “Find us something to watch, and I’ll get our drinks.”

  He nodded, dropped a quick kiss on her lips, and strolled into the living room. She stood in the kitchen for a minute, pressing her hands to her heated cheeks. In an effort to stifle her embarrassment, she swallowed the rest of her wine—if she were tipsy, she’d give exactly zero shits about it. Good heavens, why hadn’t she said that to her sisters first? Surely, they would’ve told her what a damn idiot she was. But noooo, it had to be the man sharing her bed.

  “What’s this?” Nash called.

  Rory leaned back to see into the living room where Nash was holding up a design magazine. A gorgeous canopy bed was circled in bright pink marker with little hearts all around it.

  “Ava. She loves goin’ through my magazines. A little designer, that one. She wants that bed something fierce.” Rory laughed, remembering how she’d choked when she’d spotted the price. “She doesn’t quite understand that it costs more than all my monthly bills combined, bless her heart.”

  Nash hummed and turned back around to study the magazine while Rory poured herself another glass of wine. After grabbing the beer he’d left on the counter, she carried their drinks into the living room. He lounged against the arm of the couch, one leg straight out in front of him on the cushions and the other bent and resting on the floor.

  “Very interesting…” he said.

  “What?”

  “I seem to remember you calling this ‘nonsense’ when I tried to get you to watch it.”

  She glanced at the screen and nearly froze when the familiar image for The Haunting of Hill House greeted her. Fortunately, she had enough wits about her not to give herself away that easily. “I did because it is.”

  “I’d only watched through episode three when I was here.”

  “And your point is?”

  “You’re on episode seven.”

  “I—” That time, she did freeze, right in the process of straightening after placing their drinks on the coffee table.

  “So, you’ve been Netflix and chillin’ one of my favorites without me?” he asked in mock outrage, snagged her around the waist, and tugged until she tumbled into his lap.

  She squeaked at the sudden movement and slapped his thigh. “You’re an ass, you know that?”

  “I do, princess.” He tucked her right into the vee of his legs and pulled her back until she rested against his chest. “Now tell me how you’ve only watched three more episodes. You do understand the concept of bingeing, right? Do I need to give you a lesson on that?”

  “You do understand that I can kick you outta my house, right? Or shall I give you a lesson in that?”

  He chuckled, his warm breath sweeping across her cheek. “Then explain to me how you’re only on episode seven?”

  “I don’t sit around all day watchin’ TV, Nash. I have a job—two, actually—and a life. Our bookings have kept me crazy busy, designin’ at home when I’m not at a client’s house. Not to mention, I’m a mom and a sister and—”

  “Too scary to watch alone, huh?”

  When she didn’t dignify that with a response—mostly because he was absolutely, one hundred percent correct—he pulled her even tighter against him. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll make sure all the boogeymen don’t get you.”

  Taken at face value, his words were easy to mistake for a taunt. But Nash said them with such sincerity, there was no stopping her swooning.

  She was dead set on figuring out this new life on her own, on doing as much herself as she could because she’d never before been given—or taken—the chance. And, yeah, this was just a fictional show they were talking about, but she couldn’t stop the warmth from settling into her chest that he’d make sure she was safe—from any foes, fictional or otherwise.

  But even with a big, muscly guy to watch over her, she still didn’t want to see more than one episode at a time of this terrifying show. “One of this and then one of The Great British Baking Show?”

  His cheek puffed against the side of her head as he smiled. “Whatever you want.”

  Nash held her while they watched, his arm tucked just below her breasts and his permanently stubbled jaw pressed against her temple. He brushed his thumb up and down in a mindless rhythm, almost as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

  About halfway through The Great British Baking Show episode, she was finally relaxed enough after the scarefest that her mind began to wander back to a couple weeks ago at her parents’. Namely, finding out that her youngest sister had no problem making time for everyone else but couldn’t seem to show Rory the same courtesy.

  She’d been attempting to reach Nat since then. Had left a couple voice mails and even more texts—all of which had gone unanswered. Rory and Nat might not get along all that well—or at all—but Rory loved her gran more than almost anything. If Gran wanted Rory’s brat of a sister home, then she was going to make it happen, come hell or high water.

  “Nash?”

  He hummed in response, his fingers seeming to drift a tiny bit higher each passing minute.

  “You talk to Nat much?”

  After the briefest pause in his movements, he shrugged. “Few times a month, I guess.”

  Rory sat up straight and whipped around. “You too? What the hell?”

  “Me too, what?”

  She knew it wasn’t fair to put him in the middle—between one of his best friends and the girl he was sleeping with—although she really, really wanted to. The old Rory wouldn’t have given it a second thought. This new, so-called improved Rory was irritating as hell.

  Blowing out a defeated breath, she turned back around and sank into him. “Nothing. I’ve just been tryin’ to get ahold of her is all.”

  “You text her?” He tucked his arms around her again. “She doesn’t always get great cell service, dependin’ on where in the world she is.”

  “Yes, I tried textin’. I’ve tried callin’ and leavin’ messages, too, and she’s ignorin’ all of it.”

  “Something goin’ on?”

  Rory shrugged. “I decided to throw Gran a big party for her eightieth, and the only thing she wants for her birthday is to have Nat home. I’m tryin’ to make that happen as a surprise, but the little witch is makin’ it damn near impossible.”

  “Maybe she’s just out of touch. Never knowin’ with Nat. She could be in a remote village in Africa right now. Has she posted any Snaps recently?”

  She turned her head to look at him. “What the hell is a snap?”

  He laughed. “Snapchat. Here, let me look.”

  Aft
er a few seconds, he held up the phone for her to see. There was a pic of Nat in front of what looked like the Grand Canyon. Her hair was pink now—an ever-changing rainbow, that one—her smile was huge, and an ache tugged in Rory’s gut.

  They didn’t get along on their best days—and nearly hated each other on their worst—but when it came right down to it, she missed her baby sister. Brat and all.

  There hadn’t always been animosity between them. When Nat was born, Rory’d taken on a maternal role and had treated her like her own real-life baby doll. In those early years, they’d been close. Nearly as close as Will and Mac. But when Nat had hit about eight, something shifted. Shifted and changed…evolved into whatever chasm this was that was now between them. A chasm Rory wasn’t even sure was reparable.

  “She’s stateside, at least,” Nash said. “Give her a couple days. I’m sure she’ll get back to you.”

  Rory knew that wasn’t true because she’d given her a couple weeks, but she kept her mouth shut. She wouldn’t trash-talk one of his best friends to him. Even if Rory’d given Nat years, it still wouldn’t be enough time. Whatever. She was getting Nat home one way or another, if it was the last thing she did. She just wasn’t sure how.

  Nash set his phone on the coffee table, then wrapped his arms around her. This time, though, he didn’t stop below her breasts. He brought those large, callused palms up until they cupped her, his thumbs and forefingers teasing her nipples into tight points.

  Against her ear, he said, “We done talkin’ about your sister now? I’d like to get to the true Netflix and chillin’ portion of the night.”

  Rory could worry about how she was going to get her sister home later. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to forget everything but the feel of Nash’s skin against hers.

  Havenbrook had always been Nash’s home, and he could never see himself living elsewhere. Asher and Nat had both wanted something more, for as long as he could remember. Considering the life he’d led up to now, he should’ve been the one itching to leave. To be able to move somewhere new and start over with a clean slate. A place where he wasn’t known as Little Nash. Where people didn’t see him as the boy whose momma left him or the kid of the town playboy. Where he could just be himself without any stigmas or preconceived notions brought on by his name.

  But the truth was, he loved Havenbrook. Loved the town and the people. Loved that, though there was gossip, the townsfolk cared about and looked out for one another. Loved how it’d always felt like a home to him, even when his had been crumbling around him.

  What he didn’t love was that it was damn difficult to get the supplies and equipment he needed in a town that was little more than a tiny dot on a map.

  His normal lumber supplier hadn’t received the shipment they were expecting, which was how Nash found himself driving an hour to get what he needed. With how many clients he and Rory had booked, there was no room for delay in their schedule, so he couldn’t wait. Unless he wanted to be pulling some eighteen-hour days—and he absolutely did not—he needed to move to Plan B, and that meant a road trip.

  He’d just finished loading up his truck with the lumber he needed for a couple jobs—one of which was Rory’s front porch—when a truck pulled into the gravel lot. Bright-red letters proclaiming Bozeman Builders was emblazoned on the driver’s side door, and Nash clenched his jaw. Another reason he loved Havenbrook—he didn’t have to come face-to-face with King Construction’s closest competition on a daily basis.

  Despite Nash’s prodding, his dad hadn’t told him much of anything since their initial discussion. Hadn’t given Nash a clue as to what Bozeman was offering to take over the business, which meant he had no idea what he was up against. No idea if his dream of buying out his old man was even a remote possibility.

  No idea what he’d do if it wasn’t.

  Construction had been all he’d ever done—had been all he’d ever wanted to do. Building was in his blood…was him down to his very bones. And while Nash’s dad hadn’t been the ideal fatherly example, his granddad had always been there until the day he’d died. Family meant something to Nash…probably more than it should’ve, all things considered.

  While he’d had no intention of seeking out Bozeman and getting information from them on the deal, he also wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip right past him when it fell into his lap.

  He affixed a red ribbon to the wood sticking out of the back of his truck bed and kept an eye on the competitor’s pickup as it parked next to Nash. Before the guy even got out, Nash recognized him as the face of the business for the past couple decades—Henry Bozeman. A guy right around Nash’s dad’s age, son to John Bozeman—who was nearly as old as dirt—and current deal-maker for the business.

  Bozeman Builders was only one of a select handful of businesses that Nash kept tabs on. He’d always made it a point to know the goings-on of his competitors, just to stay on top of things, but that’d never been more necessary than now.

  Henry stepped out of the truck, doing a double take when he spotted Nash. He snapped his fingers and pointed in his direction. “You’re Nash’s boy, huh? Shit, you look just like him.”

  Yep, he’d heard that a time or two in his life. Which just proved that he could do everything the exact opposite of his father, could repair his name and reputation, but people were still going to see his old man whenever they looked at him.

  “Seems you and my dad have been busy.”

  Henry laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Tryin’ to, but he’s holdin’ strong. At least for now.”

  There wasn’t a doubt in Nash’s mind Henry would never willingly give up any details if he knew Nash was looking to cut him off at the knees, so he had to play this just right. Get him talking enough to glean some information that’d clue Nash in to exactly what he was up against.

  “Those are some interesting terms y’all’ve talked about.”

  Henry’s brows lifted. “If by interestin’ you mean highly competitive and extremely generous for the current market, then yeah.”

  “Y’all surprised he didn’t go for it immediately?”

  The other man shrugged. “A little. But I’m not worried. It ain’t every day a family-owned construction company in a tiny town like Havenbrook gets offered six figures for a handful of clients, a glorified shed, and a few tools.”

  That was a load of bullshit, and they both knew it. King Construction offered a hell of a lot more than what Henry’d reduced it to. Nash had busted his ass to gain a steady stream of new clientele, traveling to neighboring towns to do so, as well as repairing their name with Havenbrook’s residents who were hesitant to trust a King. Nash’s granddad had built that five-thousand-square-foot “glorified shed” decades ago, and it’d been where King Construction had thrived.

  And that was exactly why Bozeman had offered six figures. Because King Construction was a genuine competitor that was finally making a name for itself—mostly thanks to Nash’s hustle and reputation—and Bozeman was worried about what might happen in the coming years.

  But six figures… Goddamn. Nash had no idea if that general ballpark was low, mid, or high, and there wasn’t a way to ask without showing his hand. Low, he might be able to swing. He’d been living in a studio apartment above The Sweet Spot since he’d moved out of his old man’s place, exchanging his handyman services for rent. Because of that, he’d been able to save a lot of pennies over the years and had a nice little nest egg in preparation for this very day. He’d just always assumed he’d have a bit more time to accrue the money. But mid-six? No way. And high-six? He’d be completely and utterly fucked.

  Henry continued as if he hadn’t just shit all over everything Nash had made of their family business. “Your old man’s only in his fifties, but I bet he’d like to retire early. Christ knows I’d love to!” He chuckled. “He might be playin’ the long game, but we all know it’s only a matter of time till he says yes.”

  He res
ted a hand on Nash’s shoulder and squeezed, like they were old friends. “Would love to have you on board when everything gets finalized. I’ve seen some of your work, and I’m impressed. But we can talk more about that later. Put in a good word for us, will ya?” With a wave, Bozeman ambled off toward the lumberyard.

  Fuck, Nash hated that guy. He was a condescending prick who did shitty work for too-high prices simply because he could get away with it. There wasn’t a whole lot of competition in the area, which was no doubt why they were so keen on buying out King Construction. Get a major player out of their way—one who delivered on time and on budget, who did quality work for a fair price—and they’d be golden.

  Well, fuck that. Nash wasn’t going to work for a business that cared more about stuffing their pockets full of money than they did about their clients. He just had to figure out how the hell he was possibly going to go up against a deal like the one they’d offered.

  In a perfect world, Nash’s dad would pass along the business to him, just like his granddad had done. He had no idea the details on the exchange—and hadn’t been old enough to even contemplate asking his grandpa before he’d passed—but Nash knew, without a doubt, his dad couldn’t have possibly paid much for it, if anything at all.

  He also knew it’d be too much to ask for his old man to be quite so generous. It wasn’t in his bones—not with his time, his attention, or his love. And certainly not with his business.

  Rory had hoped Nash was right and her sister would return one of her twelve hundred calls or texts. But by the following week, when she still hadn’t gotten a response, she’d had enough. Time was ticking down to Gran’s birthday, and she needed to make shit happen whether Nat wanted to or not.

  She snuck in to her bedroom even though her house was empty. Ella was outside with Nash, serving as his right-hand girl while he repaired the front porch. Ava was at her daddy’s for a sleepover, despite the fact that it was Rory’s weekend. They’d just fought over it that morning, which had set the tone for the day. Rory’d eventually relented for the sole reason that it was Kelsey’s birthday, but she wasn’t happy about it.