Without waiting for a response or a goodbye from his dad, he walked out the door. He’d learned a long time ago not to expect either.
Nash’s plans toavoid Rory were completely shot to hell. Since his conversation with his dad yesterday, he’d worked through every possible scenario. Had crunched numbers, looked at the year’s projections and his bank account balances, and had come to the same conclusion. He was fucked.
Unless he figured out a way to dramatically increase the number of clients in the pipeline and the revenue from them, he wouldn’t be able to buy King Construction. That meant that not only would his family legacy be gone, but he could find himself working for a shitty operation doing shitty work. Or worse, out of a job completely.
Last night, after too many beers at The Willow Tree, he’d been spinning his mug around on the bar top, trying to figure a way out of this mess. It’d been in the haze of alcohol and commotion that the idea had come to him. Every time he went into the bar, someone stopped him to comment on the joint work he and Rory had done in the place. There was no denying it—their personalities might not mesh well, but their work sure as hell did.
And that was how he found himself easing down the long dirt road that led to Rory’s new home. He hadn’t been to Old Man Marley’s place for years—not since Nash’s pops had replaced the front porch. That had been almost two decades ago, and well before Miss Rory Haven had taken up residence.
Nash rolled to a stop in front of the dilapidated house. Not exactly the lap of luxury he’d pictured Rory living in, but he had to give her props for holding her ground and not giving in to her daddy. If Richard Haven had his way, she’d be living on his land in a brand-new house he’d wanted Nash to build for her. The Havens had more land than they knew what to do with. Mac already lived on the property—along with Will, before she’d moved in with Finn a couple months back—and Daddy Haven had wanted Rory to join in the tradition.
Apparently she’d put her foot down, because after Richard’s initial inquiry for a quote, Nash hadn’t heard anything more about it. Much as he could’ve used the paycheck from a job like that—now more than ever—he couldn’t say he wasn’t happy about how things had turned out. He hated the idea of Rory swapping out one controlling man for another, especially when she was perfectly capable on her own.
The front porch obviously hadn’t been worked on again since the last time Nash had been there with his pops. He climbed the steps, careful to avoid the rotting boards. Music poured from the open windows of the house, and the rustic screen door banged against the frame in time with the breeze.
“Son of abitch! This stupid fucking thing! Juststay.Put.” Rory’s voice came from inside, but instead of going on in, Nash just stood there, stunned stupid.
The only time he’d ever—and he meantever—heard Rory swear was the night last year when she’d been lit at The Willow Tree. The night she’d found out exactly what kind of man her ex-husband was and exactly what kind of extracurriculars he’d been getting up to. The night she’d told Nash how attractive she found him.
“Listen to me, Aurora Jane,” she said. “You’re gonna put up this godforsaken thing, and you’re gonna do it all by yourself. Why? Because you don’t need any damn help. And because it makes for a gorgeous design aesthetic and will turn this shithole into a semi-decent home, even if puttin’ it up is akin to slappin’ lipstick on a pig. ’Sides that, there’s no one else to deal with this shit butyou, so suck it up, buttercup.”
Nash grinned at her little self-directed pep talk, amused by the fire in her tone. He pulled open the screen door, irritated that she hadn’t locked up. She shouldn’t be out here in the middle of nowhere with the doors open so just anyone could walk in. He was proof enough of that.
The house had a fairly open floor plan, which meant he could see her from where he stood just inside the door. She teetered on an old wooden chair in what he figured would soon be the dining room. Holding up a long piece of crown moulding in one hand and a cordless nail gun in the other, she was attempting to keep it level before nailing it in. Seamless crown moulding meant it was a two-person job—no ifs, ands, or buts about it—but damn if Rory wasn’t dead set on doing it all by herself.
“Need some help?” he asked.
Rory screamed, spinning around to face him and letting go of the piece of crown moulding in the process. Nash jerked forward, though there was no way he could get there before it crashed to the floor.
Holding the nail gun at her side, she clutched her chest with her other hand, her eyes narrowed on Nash. She lifted the nail gun and shook it in his direction. “I’d think you, of all people, would know better than to scare someone holdin’ one of these. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you with it! I don’t know why you’re dead set on givin’ me a heart attack, but I’ve had just about enough of it.”
She stepped down from the chair and bent to retrieve the fallen moulding. “And,no, I do not need any help. I’m a perfectly capable, independent woman who can take care of herself. If that tiny thing on HGTV can rehab houses all by herself, I can certainly put up some stinkin’ crown moulding.”
He pressed his lips together to stop a grin from spreading. She’d just sworn like a sailor, and now that she had company, it was back tostinkin’? “You sure about that? ’Cause if you did need help, I’ve got some time in my schedule, and I’d be willing to offer my services.”
Ignoring the daggers she shot him through angry eyes, he strolled over and held up one end of the moulding, pulled out a small level from his tool belt to double-check that everything was straight, and gave her a nod.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her hesitation over accepting help as obvious as if a pink elephant were perched in the corner. He just wasn’t sure if it washishelp in particular she wasn’t fond of receiving, or if it’d be the same if anyone had offered. Finally, she lifted the nail gun, pressed it against the moulding, and pulled the trigger.
They didn’t speak as Nash continued to hold the moulding up while Rory nailed it in place, even when she stood so close, he could smell the hint of floral coming from her hair. The Rory he saw in public was enough to haunt his dreams, but this Rory? She was going to haunt him every single moment for the rest of his life.
Not only had he never heard her swear, but he’d never seen her less than perfect. She’d always been made up—gorgeous, sure, but beautiful like a glass sculpture you didn’t want to touch for fear of mucking it up. Now, though, her face held no hint of makeup. Her hair was piled on her head in some kind of knot, and she wore a pair of the tightest workout pants he’d ever seen, showcasing her ass in an obscene way. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, she also worehisshirt, tied at the back in deference to their size difference.
“Tell me, princess,” he said, his throat rough, his cock thickening behind his zipper. She was so close, her tits eye level with him as she stood on the chair, and he had to physically restrain himself from closing the distance between them. “Would your impeccable manners dictate that you strip off your shirt if I asked for mine back right now?”
She smiled down at him—the fake smile she used on everyone else, and he absolutely hated that she tried to pass it off on him. He’d take her anger over her smiles any day of the week so long as what she gave him was real. “Sorry, sugar, but I’m currently usin’ all my manners to keep from kickin’ you outta my house, so the shirt’ll have to wait.”
A slow grin spread over his mouth at her sass. “You gonna respond to my proposition, then?”
She stepped down from the chair, going to get another piece of the moulding she’d already apparently trimmed down to size. Goddamn if it didn’t get his dick even harder with the evidence that she knew how to use power tools. Especially when everything about her screamed diamonds and champagne.
“Does it look as if I’m livin’ like royalty here?” she asked, sliding her chair over to another wall and hefting the moulding over her head. “I can’t exactly afford your services.”
Without a word, he followed behind and propped up one end of the moulding, once again ensuring it was level for her. While her attention was focused on the task, Nash allowed his eyes to slide over her every inch, from her feet encased in sneakers, to the long line of her legs wrapped up in black lycra, to the tool belt hanging off hips so thick he wanted to take a bite out of them.Jesus. Christ.A sliver of her stomach showed as she shot another nail into the moulding, and he wanted to taste that too. Wanted to know what her skin smelled like…what it felt like on his tongue.
By the time he spoke, his voice was husky with need, but he didn’t bother trying to hide it. No sense in doing that after he’d run his mouth the other day and told her exactly what he thought of her. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
She whipped her head around to face him, her cheeks flushed and her breathing coming faster than normal. “Nash King,” she said, except it came out feathery and light instead of forceful like she’d no doubt intended. Straightening her shoulders, she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re implyin’, but I’m certainlynotthat kind of woman. So I’ll thank you kindly, but the answer is no.”
