In all her years with Sean, she’d never responded like she had when Nash had kissed her. And the curious part of her—the part that was trying desperately to figure herself out—wanted to know what one night of that would be like.
Without a word, she stepped back and opened the door wider, gesturing for Nash to come inside. Holding her breath as he strolled over the threshold and blew all her best intentions out of the water.
Nash had known this was a mistake in the making from the moment he’d walked out of The Willow Tree with his sights on Rory’s house. Yet as soon as she’d opened the door wide enough for him to slide through, he strode straight into her kitchen without looking back.
When he’d decided to show up with only a bottle of Grey Goose and a smile, he hadn’t thought much beyond that. He’d only been thinking that Rory didn’t deserve to sit at home drowning her sorrows by herself—certainly not when those sorrows centered around her ex—so he figured he’d drown them with her.
Without asking, he riffled through her fridge for something to mix the vodka with, not interested in replaying the night at The Willow Tree of shot after shot of the clear liquid. After settling on a pitcher of lemonade, he filled a couple glasses with a shot of vodka. He reached for the pitcher to finish their drinks, but then thought better of it and picked up the glasses, holding one out to her.
“For old time’s sake?”
Rory stood against the counter a few feet away, her eyes never straying from him. Something settled over her expression at the reference to that night so long ago, but it was gone before he could decipher it.
She lifted her chin toward the bottle she’d brought back into the kitchen with her. “What makes you think I don’t wanna drink my wine?”
“Happy to uncork that for you if you want something a little more mellow.” He shrugged, the unspokenchickenhanging in the air between them. Why was goading her so goddamn fun? “Your call.”
After a few silent moments, she reached out and took the proffered glass. He clinked his against hers before downing the shot, never taking his eyes from her. She did the same, cringing as she swallowed the liquid.
He laughed at her full-body shudder. “And just think, we downed half a bottle of that shit. Don’t worry—once I mix it, you won’t even taste the alcohol.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mumbled, so low he wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear.
He filled both their glasses with a healthy dose of vodka, then added the no-doubt freshly squeezed lemonade. The drink would pack a punch but wouldn’t get either of them drunk.
Glass in hand, Rory watched him with a careful eye. Scrutinizing him in a way that made him itch, made him want a glimpse into her mind just so he knew what she thought of him. Did she see the kid she used to babysit? Her youngest sister’s best friend? A slacker who couldn’t even get a high school diploma? Son of the town playboy…just a guy to have a little fun with?
And what business did he have hoping so fucking badly she sawhimthrough all the other bullshit?
After a few tentative sips and a whole lot of silence, she finally asked, “Why’d you come here, Nash?”
He held her gaze as he downed half his drink in one gulp, attempting to feign a nonchalance he didn’t feel. Why had he come? Because he hated the thought of her out here all by herself, drinking an entire bottle of wine while her ex fucked with her head. Even more, he hated the possibility that the reason she might need a little alcohol fog was because she was still hung up on the asshole.
Gripping the glass tighter in his hand, he forced himself to unclench his jaw at that thought. With a shrug that felt way too forced, he said, “Thought you could use an unbiased ear tonight.”
“Unbiased, huh?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
Well, shit. She had him there. Apparently he hadn’t been as covert as he’d hoped regarding his feelings for Sean. When it came to Rory’s ex, there wasn’t anything unbiased about Nash’s interest. He’d wanted to strangle the douchebag since the infamous night at the bar. Longer than that, if he were being honest. Against all odds, that smarmy asshole had somehow managed to snag Rory fucking Haven. And then the idiot had gone and cheated on her.
He’dcheated onher. The girl who looked like goddamn royalty and presented herself as such. The woman who’d actually been Miss Mississippi, for fuck’s sake.
Tonight, she was a far cry from the royal air she normally exuded while strutting around Havenbrook. She wore plain black leggings—thin and clingy andJesus Christ—paired with an old, threadbare T-shirt. And, God help him, no bra. He knew because her nipples had been saluting him since she’d opened her door to find him there.
He’d always take this version of her over the one others saw. Casual Rory meant Real Rory. She wasn’t hiding behind pleasant smiles or silk dresses or perfect hair. She was just her, for better or worse.
And damn if Nash didn’t love it.
“Unbiased in that I won’t storm over there, guns blazin’, and do something you definitely wouldn’t wanna bear witness to,” he said.
She laughed, tossing her head back. Pink dotted her cheeks, a slight flush already spreading down her neck to her chest, and hell if she wasn’t the best thing he’d seen all day. “Is that what you think I need? You fightin’ my battles for me?”
He pushed off from where he’d been leaning against the counter and stepped closer to her. So close the air grew charged between them. “C’mon now, princess,” he said, his voice full of gravel. “Anyone who thinks you need your battles fought for you isn’t payin’ attention.” He had absolutely no doubt she could handle her shit on her own. Rory was a force of nature, and anyone who doubted that was an idiot. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to fight them all on your own either.”
The smile slowly melted from her face, and her eyes darted back and forth between his. Studying him. Assessing.
Shit, had he said too much? She was all hard edges and pleasantly veiled directives around town, but it was obvious she was getting tired of it all. Obvious she put on a front with everyone, especially since the divorce. Wasn’t it? Or maybe it was just obvious tohim. Like recognizing like and all that. Because God knew his nothing-much-matters facade was little more than an act.
Nash may have been only twenty-five, but he was already so fucking tired of trying to climb out from behind the dark shadow his old man had cast on their shared name. So bound and determined to prove to the people of Havenbrook he was so much more than his pops and the marriages he’d destroyed all in the name of a good time.
