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Chasing her attention, fighting to be the favored son, stealing girlfriends.
Well.
The stealing girlfriends part was mostly me.
In my heyday, I’ve had at least a hot make out session in the back of a pickup truck with ninety percent of the eligible women in Heart’s Edge.
Back then, I thought I was sly. A born player.
New York City taught me I don’t know what sly even is.
While I thought I was cutthroat, it chewed me up and spat me back out to the weird little town I started in.
That’s not something I grieve.
I’m ready to come home and continue un-fucking my life.
Ready to make right.
But that doesn’t mean people are ready to let me.
So, I think, staring up at the sky, watching a single cloud go skipping along, moved by winds I can’t feel down here where I’m stuck in the mud in more ways than one, I can’t quit.
I’ve got to keep trying.
But I’ve also got to know when it’s time to call it a day, and this conversation’s done.
Sitting up, I drag myself out of the muck and stand with as much dignity as I can muster.
First I bite my tongue. Then, pretending I’m not dripping wet and caked in crud, I adjust my lapels, then dip a brief bow to Sierra.
“Miss Potter,” I say politely, and then bow to Libby, too.
Sierra’s staring at me with her eyes wide and stunned, but Libby…hell, she looks like the cat that got the cream, her eyes glittering with laughter.
Damn little minx.
“Miss Potter,” I repeat, adding, “it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to repeat the pleasure again. A little less dirty talk next time, maybe.”
I can’t resist.
But it doesn’t wipe that smug look off her face in the slightest.
If anything, it grows.
Libby uncurls one of the hands planted on her hip and goes for something almost as deadly as that shotgun.
She merrily flips me her middle finger.
Awesome. There’s my cue to go.
I nod one more time, then turn and walk away, my spine stiff.
There’s a very undignified squelch as I pull the door of my Benz open and settle in behind the wheel, dripping muck all over the leather seats.
Yeah, fuck, it’s definitely time to call a time out.
I focus on ignoring how cold and clammy and uncomfortable I am as I start the engine and back the car out of the long winding unpaved driveway.
I’m officially done with the day.
Even if I’m not giving up.
Not on myself.
Not on my chance to rebuild my reputation.
And not on the fascinating hellcat named Liberty Potter.
* * *
By the time I’ve cleaned myself up and changed into my work duds, my ego’s feeling a little less bruised.
Though my ass is still complaining plenty after taking the brunt of a fall twice in a row.
Still, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself as I do a final walk-through of The Menagerie. It took some convincing with Blake to get Doc to agree on my crew doing the job. But we did it in record time and under budget, leaving his insurance people happy.
My boys did solid work rebuilding Doc and Ember’s veterinary clinic. I think they’re as happy as their critters to have a proper place again after that botched arson attempt earlier this year left some serious damage.
I just wish it hadn’t taken so long to get to it, but there’s a lot of work around town, and my crew’s not that big. I’ve been trying to handle it all myself, building up our reputation before the city calls in outside contractors, but considering how shit goes down in Heart’s Edge?
Yeah.
Calling this place unlucky in the ruins department would be a serious understatement.
First the town museum, after that crazy jackhole blew it up. Then the collateral damage around that blast, working on building a new site where the Paradise Hotel used to be, restoring old buildings, and now this possible supermall project.
I’ve got my hands full.
It’s nothing I can’t handle.
Thankfully, there are plenty of college kids home for the summer and looking for work.
Right now, though, my skeleton crew—just a few loyal fuckers who stuck with me and came all the way out to Heart’s Edge for a fresh start—did a damn good job with The Menagerie.
I’m as proud of them as I am to know them.
It’s nice to be around Doc and Ember, too.
With both of them being old transplants to the town, they aren’t quite as familiar with my lifelong—ahem—reputation.
They treat me straight up.
Handshakes, gratitude, and compliments on the hard work done to put their practice back together. It leaves me beaming, satisfied I’ve done something useful with the day besides pissing off Ms. Libby Congeniality.
I don’t do everything with my tongue.
Sometimes I let my fingers do the talking, too.
After handing me the check, Doc digs around in the pocket of his pressed slacks, pulls out his wallet, and hands me a crisp fifty-dollar bill. I look at him, cocking my head.
