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Honey was attempting to clear the air so the smoke alarm would stop. She had one foot on a small rickety table and the other on the countertop in the kitchen area. She was frantically waving her hands back and forth, swearing up a storm and maintaining her balance as she did so. It was no mean feat considering the table she was standing on had four very shaky legs.
She wore nothing but a pair of skimpy white panties, the kind that showed off her perfect round butt, and a matching bra. Her back was to him, so she didn’t know he was inside her apartment yet, and he took a good, long, appreciative look. He was a guy, after all. She had a tattoo that climbed up her spine, and a small birthmark on her left butt cheek.
He’d taken exactly two steps forward when the smoke alarm finally stopped. Honey turned around and, without skipping a beat, demanded, “What the hell are you doing here,
Booker?”
“Figured you needed some help.”
“You figured wrong.”
He didn’t get a chance to reply, because one of the wobbly legs gave way and the table tilted crazily. Nash was there in an instant and managed to scoop up Honey before that cute butt of hers said hello to the floor. She was soft and warm, and he looked down at her with a wide grin.
“What are you looking at?” she asked with a scowl.
“Someone who apparently didn’t need my help.”
“Screw you, Booker.” She squirmed. “Let me down.”
“You make a habit of cooking in your underwear?”
“You make a habit of walking into apartments that aren’t yours?”
“Technically, I own the building, so…”
“Don’t even go there.”
He was teasing, but the dark look in her eyes was enough to stop him cold. She wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but she sure as hell didn’t elicit the warm and fuzzies either. Nash let her slide from his arms and took a step back.
When Honey had walked into his bar all those months ago, he knew she was trouble. She was prickly as hell, had an opinion on everything, including the way toilet paper should be put on the damn roller. Nash didn’t give a rat’s ass if it was over or under. She had a chip on her shoulder the size of Michigan and could freeze a guy in his tracks with one look. Nash and Honey didn’t agree on much, and the first few months had been rough. But there was something about her—hell if he knew what it was—and six months later, she was still living above the Coach House and the customers loved her.
She was one hell of a bartender, he’d give her that, and one hundred percent immune to his charms. Which was fine. It was never good to mix business with pleasure. Everyone knew that. They’d come to some sort of a working relationship, and it was all that mattered.
He glanced at the mess on the floor and the blackened, still-smoking pot on the stove. “Geez, Harrison. I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t hire you to work in the kitchen.”
He didn’t understand what she muttered under her breath as she headed to the small bedroom, but he was damn sure it wasn’t anything nice. He chuckled. That’s what he got for trying to lighten the situation.
Nash had a look at the table, but it was garbage, noting an impressive amount of duct tape on the leg that had given way. He glanced around the apartment. The previous owner of the Coach House, Sal, had used this space for storage. But after Nash bought the building, he’d invested time and money into this apartment with the intention of moving in. He’d installed new hardwood flooring, updated the kitchen and bath with fresh paint and appliances, new cupboards, an island, and new lighting fixtures. The exposed beams and ductwork in the ceiling along with the reclaimed brick walls gave the place an edgy industrial look, while the three large windows let in a lot of light. He would have gladly lived here.
But he’d inherited the Booker cottage on the lake--the reason he’d come home in the first place--and Nash had gone from traveling the world and living out of a duffel bag to owning a business and a home. Now he was responsible for more than just procuring a plane ticket and booking his next adventure. He’d moved into the cottage and grabbed hold of all that responsibility with a zest that surprised pretty much everyone, save for his mother.
The apartment had stayed empty until Honey.
He walked to the center of the room. The place was open concept and large. All the woman had was this piece-of-crap kitchen table, a sad-looking sofa, and a small desk by the window with a large desktop. There were no pictures, no accents—nothing that would suggest this was anything other than temporary.
He strode back to the kitchen, his gaze drawn to the old pot on the stove. Peering over, he made a face. Kraft dinner? Nash looked around the apartment once more and frowned. It was Thanksgiving. This wasn’t right.
Honey walked out of her bedroom just then, wearing a pair of jeans that looked damn near worn out, but in a way he could appreciate, and a plain white T-shirt that hugged curves he would like to say he never noticed, but hell, he’d be lying. Her dark auburn hair was down, waving softly around her shoulders, and she was barefoot. Her expressive eyes settled on him, and he noted how her shoulders were thrown back. How her feet were set wide and her arms crossed. She looked like she wanted to fight, and the air crackled with something electric.
“Why are you still here?” she asked, a delicate eyebrow raised.
He ignored her question with one of his own. “How in hell did you burn Kraft dinner?”
She made a face and headed for the stove. She grabbed the pot and dumped it into the sink, letting it fill with water as she leaned her hip against the counter and watched him.
“Seriously, Booker. Why are you still here?” Her eyes moved over him slowly, her expression unreadable. “You obviously have to be somewhere else.”
“I do,” he replied with a nod. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
