“I want this shit moved—yesterday,” Nash muttered, heading for the office.
Christ, they’d only just dealt the last of the previous load, and with Con’s death still hanging in the air, Nash had been crystal clear with the supply chain: keep the product away from Clifton until the heat died down.
So when Boone had called at the ass crack of dawn and said there was another shipment, Nash had been forced to drop Junie half-asleep at Addison’s and haul ass up into town with his nerves strung tight as a wire.
He checked the padlock on the office door, then checked it again before testing the latch on the back bay.Not because he didn’t trust his people—because he knew what panic could turn people into—and he knew better than to trust timing that didn’t match the plan.
Finished with the locks, Nash claimed an empty station and started working—but not before firing off a text asking Cassie to call him when she woke up.
By mid-afternoon, the garage was nearly empty.The last of the boys were packing up the last of the shit, moving with that quiet, efficient speed that meant they wanted it gone as bad as he did.
Standing alone in the bay, Nash checked Cassie’s thread again.He’d sent another message later that morning.Nothing crazy…just seeing what was what.
Still no reply
He hit call anyway, letting it ring until her voicemail cut in, ending it before the beep.
“Yeah,” he muttered, shoving his phone in his pocket.“All right then.”
He wasn’t the kind of man who chased women—even when the woman was Cassie Berry.
He’d only just turned to leave and was in the process of locking up the place when his phone rang.His hand was on it before his brain caught up—and the second he saw the name, whatever had lifted in him fell straight back down.
“What?”he ground out, heading for his truck.
“Junie left her pack in your truck,” Addison snapped.
Nash opened his mouth, shut it again.“Be there in ten,” he muttered, and hit end, shoving the phone away.
Inside the cab, sure enough, Junie’s blue backpack was on the floorboard, half shoved beneath the passenger seat.
Fifteen minutes later, after he handed the bag off and was back in his truck, he tried calling Cassie again.Because while he wasn’t the kind of man who chased women, that apparently didn’t apply to Cassie goddamn Berry.
Voicemail.
So that was it.She was ignoring him.Or she’d cut and run and was already on a plane back to somewhere else—New York, France, hell if he knew.Somewhere that wasn’t here.
Tossing his phone onto the seat, he told himself he was headed to the clubhouse—just to put his hands on something.Find something that needed fixing.Anything that wasn’t this.
But instead of taking the turn toward the club, he found himself headed into the ridge.Just for a look, he told himself.Just to see if her car was there.Just to shut his fucking brain up.
Margie’s place came up fast, Nash slowing the moment he saw the empty space beside Margie’s truck.He pulled in anyway, killed the engine, and sat there for half a second with his hand on the wheel.
“She ain’t back yet,” Margie called out.She stood with a groan in the middle of her wild yard, a pile of fresh-picked tomatoes tucked up in her shirt.
Nash’s shoulders loosened some.“Where’s she at?”
“County.Went to the market this mornin’ for my bacon, then she was stoppin’ to see that girl—the one Con was always runnin’ around with.Should be back any minute now.”
“Goddammit,” Nash muttered, heat rising fast.“I told her I’d take her.”
“Oh for the love of God and sweet tea—Cassie’s a big girl, Nash.You think she can’t manage at a hospital on her own?”She jerked her chin toward the vines.“Now c’mon.Get your ass over here and help me bring in the tomatoes.”
He almost said no.Almost told her he had shit to do—mostly because part of him was already halfway down the road, headed for Wierswood Medical to tear Cassie a new one for going without him.For not even telling him.For making him feel like a fucking idiot standing here wondering where the hell she was.
Instead, he swallowed it down and did as he was told.Wouldn’t do him any good for Cassie to see him like this—pissed off and possessive, the same ugly streak she only ever seemed to like when he had her pinned beneath him.
By the time they finished dinner—Margie’s infamous cornbread and tomato gravy—Margie and Charlie were at the sink, Margie washing dishes while Charlie dried, while Nash killed a second cup of coffee and stared down at his phone.
