Saint chuckled. “Coward.”
Havoc’s voice floated from behind the bar. “She’s cute, I’ll give you that. You gonna talk to her without making her run away this time?”
“She tripped,” I said.
“We all saw the part where she fled,” Trigger called.
“Trash,” I said. “Out. Now.”
He went, grinning like an idiot.
I grabbed a pry bar and headed for the warped boards onthe far wall, but I didn’t get three steps before the front door rattled and a familiar hurricane blew in.
“Good morning, boys!”
The Magnolia Ladies marched into the tavern like they owned the building. Agnes in dusty rose. Mabel in powder blue. June in mint green. All three carried covered dishes, thermoses, or foil-wrapped mysteries.
Trigger stopped mid-sweep. “Oh good, reinforcements.”
Agnes pointed at him with her Tupperware. “You look pale. You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?”
“I—”
She thrust the container into his hands. “Biscuits and gravy. Real food. Not those protein bar abominations. We are so happy you boys are fixing this old place up.”
Mabel slid past Saint, patted his bicep, and headed straight for me. “Wyatt, honey, your porch steps are loose. I nearly broke a hip coming up here.”
My stomach clenched. “You okay, ma’am?”
“Oh, I’m fine. My bones are made of rebar,” she said. “But you’re fixing those steps today. We didn’t raise you boys to die on liability issues.”
“You didn’t raise us,” Havoc muttered.
June whacked him lightly with a dish towel. “Don’t sass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said automatically.
The ladies only stayed a few minutes, but in that time they:
They assigned us a rotating dinner schedule (“Because men left unsupervised will eat cereal for every meal.”)
Informed us that the town council was “watching” what we did with the place (“Do not paint anything black,” Mabel warned Trigger specifically.)
And asked a frankly alarming number of questions about our romantic lives.
Saint fielded half of it with his usual good humor. Triggerflirted back shamelessly. Havoc glowered and got his cheek patted like a grumpy grandchild.
Me?
I mostly tried not to get adopted.
When they finally bustled out, leaving the tavern full of the smell of gravy and cinnamon rolls, Trigger opened a lid and groaned. “I would commit crimes for these women.”
“Don’t,” I said, pulling the list I’d written last night from my pocket. “We’ve got enough problems. Saint, you’re with me upstairs. Havoc, Trigger, stay down here and start pulling the floor by the bar.”
Trigger saluted with a biscuit. “Sir, yes, sir.”
We headed up the narrow staircase to the second floor. The seven-room apartment was still a disaster—dusty, cluttered, the kind of place time forgot. But it had big windows, sturdy bones, and one hell of a view over Main Street.
