“H . . . Hazel,” he gasps as I take him into my throat. I don’t speed up; instead I tug on his sack lightly, making him grunt as I hold him, literally, in the palm of my hand. Finally, my nose is buried in the soft tufts of hair at his base, and I look up at him with my eyes full of unsaid words. I stay right there, on the edge of gagging, as long as I can, and then slowly I begin bobbing back and forth on his cock until I can taste the sweet drops of precum on my tongue.

  I’m tempted to have more, but my body knows what it really wants. I flick my tongue in his slit before lying back and opening my arms to him. He comes down to me, and again we kiss. He thrusts his hands into my hair, lifting and supporting my head to take the kiss deeper.

  It’s not as feral as it was at first, but we’re not being gentle either. We’re nipping, biting, and laying sucking kisses everywhere . . . I’m going to look like I got in a fight with a Hoover and the vacuum won tomorrow, but damned if I care. Not when my nipples are red from his sucking, my pussy is pulsing with want, and my skin is covered with goose bumps, sensitive to his every touch. The bruising of hickeys might be the most obvious way he’s marking me, but there is so much more, so many other ways Wyatt is claiming my body.

  With a shift of his hips, I feel him at my entrance, his eyes dark with want. Without saying anything, I wrap my legs around his waist. I score my fingers down his back and he hisses, arching into my touch, and then his hips buck, and he enters me to the hilt in one motion.

  I know we’ve had sex before, but the way Wyatt fills me to capacity and then some takes my breath away. He’s rock hard and insistent as he pins me to the mattress, his hips pulling back just enough to give him space to pound into me.

  All I can do is hold on, my body rocked as my headboard bangs into the wall, the force of his thrusts shaking the whole bed. We buck, hips grinding and slapping, my clit bumping against his body with every stroke.

  In the background, I can hear Lester squawking up a storm, probably startled by the sounds of the crazy humans in the bedroom. I don’t care—all I care about is the feeling of Wyatt inside me, on top of me, claiming me.

  “Not . . . going . . . anywhere!” Wyatt grunts, emphasizing his words with punishing thrusts, and I feel him swell. His words trigger me and I come again, the spasms setting him off, and he comes inside me. “Damn it, Haze . . . squeeze me like that. Fucking . . . pussy vise.”

  I hold him, not letting him go even after he’s spent, his body sagging with exhaustion as he tries not to crush me.

  I pull him down, feeling the ache and sweat of my tired, well-fucked body, and wanting him to melt into me, knowing that I can handle it. In my bones, I feel the truth of his words . . . He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be right here, in my heart, no matter where he physically goes.

  Even if it’s back to Newport, to his life. He’ll be here, the same way I’ll be there, because if he does leave, he’ll be taking a piece of me with him.

  My heart.

  Chapter 23

  WYATT

  The room is absolutely buzzing, the whole town piled into the too-small space at the courthouse. I’m standing at the back with Hazel, watching over everyone. Despite my sudden status as a figurehead for the protest, I’m not trying to take center stage.

  Meanwhile, Dad is sitting at the center of the platform behind a small podium, Mom and Wren are sitting together toward the front, and Jed is standing along the side wall.

  It should make it seem like he’s less important, but quite the opposite. From his vantage point, it’s as though he’s silently pulling the strings connecting everything. In a way, I guess he is, because most of the council is alternating looking at the paper in front of them and then looking at Jed.

  Rinse, repeat.

  There is also a small group of people sitting in the front row, their suited backs straight, jaws tight, and an air of stuffy arrogance surrounding them. I don’t know who they are, but I’ve never seen them around town.

  Were they at Winston’s wedding, maybe?

  I’m not sure, but one thing Dad taught me over the years is how to deduce who the most important person in the room is. And my gut says it’s the guy in the middle of the small group. He’s the only one garnering Jed’s attention, and that’s telling.

  The hum grows as various people talk about possible outcomes of tonight’s votes. Mostly, they seem to be some combination of fearful and outraged. Scared of what the future of Cold Springs holds if the rezoning passes, and angry at the prospect of what the city council and mayor are doing under the guise of “leadership.”

  Hazel squeezes my hand, and I look over. Her brows lift in question, silently asking if I’m okay, and I squeeze back, reassuring her.

  Etta comes through the open door and stands near us. “Couldn’t get us a seat?”

  Hazel shakes her head and talks out of the side of her mouth, not taking her eyes off the crowd. “We were early, but so was the whole town.”

  I lean over, whispering in Etta’s ear, “Better to stand up. I don’t want to get lost in the crowd and only be able to see the back of Jed’s head. I want to see Dad’s face when he leads this vote, stare him down as he sells his soul.”

  Etta tilts her head, looking at me approvingly. “Ooh, they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but you fell, rolled away, and started a whole new orchard of your own. You, my boy, are nothing like your uncle.”

  That’s nothing like the previous conversation I had with Etta, where she called me a kid and scolded me for not handling my business. It warms me inside.

  “Thank you.”

  I look at Dad, noting the purple smudges under his eyes, and as though he feels my gaze, he finds me. I can’t read the expression there. He seems almost . . . vacant? I remember what Wren said about Dad realizing he’s in over his head with Jed, and want to feel some small degree of empathy, but when he calls the meeting to order, I push that down. Despite any doubts he has, he’s leading the charge here, and while Jed has no allegiance to anyone but himself, Dad is supposed to represent the town’s best interest. A duty he’s failing on miserably.

  “First up, old business. Mrs. Capshaw?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Capshaw, a middle-aged woman in lululemon and a “Chaos Coordinator” sweatshirt, says. She pulls out a stack of papers, and someone in the crowd groans. I guess she’s a regular. “For three months, the council has done nothing as the Circle K out on the highway continues to advertise energy drinks. Numerous health experts, including Dr. Oz himself, have come out against these poisons in a can, but now the advertising is . . . salacious!”

  Sighs fill the audience, and Karen Hicks, one of the council members, speaks up. “Mrs. Capshaw, what do you mean?”

  “The poster outside the Circle K is now trying to push ‘Butt Banging Berry’ flavor drinks! They’re encouraging our children to engage in . . . that!”

  I snort, I can’t help it, but I’m definitely not the only one. “Sounds like someone needs to be butt banged, if you ask me,” I whisper, and Hazel snickers. But I wasn’t quiet enough apparently, because Etta backhands my bicep and gives me a harsh glare. But an instant later, she’s fighting off laughter too.

  “Mrs. Capshaw, while we understand your concerns,” Dad says, “we heard you last month and the month before that. And as we’ve told you . . . that is not in our purview. You need to speak with the Food and Drug Administration, or maybe your congressperson. But the Circle K isn’t even within city limits.”

  She sits down with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest so that the only visible part reads “Chaos,” which seems appropriate. “I’ll be back.”

  “I’m sure you will. Now, new business?”

  A cacophony of voices fills the room, almost all of them wanting to talk about the rezoning plan.

  “My taxes—”

  “Where the hell am I gonna hunt come fall?”

  “I’ll tell you what you can rezone . . .”

  “Lining your pockets—”

  Some of the comments are funny, some are ridiculous, but most are just angry and pissed off. Most of the people here feel one overwhelming thing: they’re not being listened to by the very people they elected to do just that.

  As the roar continues, Hazel whispers, “I thought you said Winston was coming? I know Avery told me she scheduled an aide for Grandpa Joe.”

  I look at my watch, noting that Winston is now twenty minutes late. Since returning from his honeymoon, he’s been working on analyzing every angle of the subdivision plan. Maybe it was the honeymoon phone call, or maybe it was the meeting at Avery’s house, but he’s no longer sitting on the fence on this.

  Still, he’s between a rock and a hard place, professionally responsible for the success of the project, but personally wanting to stop it from going forward. I’ve been helping, researching the way the initial property tax law was passed, but since I’m not a tax attorney, I haven’t found anything suspicious there.

  Then I tried looking into Jed, but he’s as slick as always. Nothing illegal, just an asshole. As far as I can find, he’s not even cheating on Aunt Chrissy, which is something I’ve always assumed based on his history.

  I check the door, which hasn’t moved, and tell Hazel, “He should be here.”

  Finally, the council gets some semblance of order, and a line forms behind the microphone. The cavalcade of comments goes on for a long time, person after person having their turn behind the microphone. Sue-Ellen even waves around the petition before reading off every single signature. All this in an attempt to persuade council members to vote one way or the other.

  Well, no one is speaking in favor of the rezoning, but Jed’s presence is felt all the same.

  Finally, the door opens silently, and Winston comes in, turning around to hold the door for Avery and Grandpa Joe. Avery helps Joe to the back row of chairs, where he taps on the leg of the aisle seat with his cane, making the guy sitting there move so he can sit down.

  Once he’s settled, Avery comes to stand with Winston next to me. “Grandpa Joe refused to stay home,” she explains, “so it took us a while to come to an ‘agreement.’” She uses her fingers to make air quotes.

  Grandpa Joe turns around and hisses, “You mean it took too damn long for you to give in and help me to the car. We missed most of the hearing now.”

  Avery rolls her eyes, used to Joe’s grumpiness, and he turns back around, grousing and muttering to himself.

  Now that Winston is here, I ask, “Find anything?”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Winston says, before pausing.

  I cut my eyes to him hard. “But what? Can it stop this shitshow?”

  Winston looks to Avery, obviously having already talked about this with her. She nods encouragingly. Before Winston can give me a clue about what he’s discovered, Dad speaks. “If there’s nothing further, we’ll hold the vote.”

  I push Winston forward, and he stumbles over his own feet but recovers quickly enough to glare at me. Holding his hand up, he says, “Excuse me, may I speak?”

  Dad’s eyes narrow sharply, and Jed takes a step forward, his jaw tight.

  Winston ignores both silent orders to stop and steps up to the microphone. “My name is Winston Ford. Full disclosure seems prudent, so Mayor Bill Ford is my father, and I work for Jed Ford as lead architect.”

  He scans the table full of council members, several of whom smile back, likely thinking they know what side of the issue Winston is on. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Jed’s face . . . and he knows.

  “It’s been my role to oversee the Springdale Ranch subdivision, from inception to design, and depending on tonight’s vote, potentially to actualization. I feel it is necessary for all parties to have complete information so that you can make the important decision you’re tasked with tonight.”

  I whisper to myself, “Get on with it, Winston.”

  At my side, Avery bumps me with her elbow. “This is hard for him. He’s torpedoing his career over this.”

  “What did he find out?” I whisper, keeping my eyes on Winston.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Avery explains. “Just by getting up there against Jed, he’s done.”

  I wonder if she knows about Jed paying for the wedding, and how much of a hold Jed has over Winston because of that. But now isn’t the time to have that discussion.

  “You’re being asked to vote on a rezoning proposal for land just outside city limits of Cold Springs, making this area single-family use, which will have consequences for the farms currently located there,” Winston continues. “They will no longer be legally able to farm, which is their current livelihood. Adding in the previous property tax changes, the expected end result is that these families will be unable to afford the properties. At that point, Jed intends to purchase this land as the site for Springdale Ranch.”

  He pauses, letting that sink in. It’s the first time anyone from Jed’s company has officially, and on the record, spelled out their intentions so succinctly.

  “In researching the land in question, it was up to me to do a full analysis—”

  Jed interrupts him, snapping, “Winston!”

  Winston’s head jerks to the left so that he’s looking at Jed, the same way everyone in the room does. We all see Jed’s anger rising, and the small shake of his head. That alone is telling that Winston has information Jed doesn’t want made public.

  Dad clears his throat, the microphone amplifying the sound. “Why don’t we take a short break. We can reconvene in fifteen minutes?”

  But Winston says sharply, “No. I don’t need a break.”

  Dad looks at Jed uncertainly.

  Winston takes advantage to press on. “This land has been farmed for generations and has a history.” Jed inhales sharply, but Winston forges on. “A long and varied one.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, his dry delivery not doing him any favors. I’ve never heard my typically trash-talking brother’s professional voice, and it’s surprisingly trustworthy. I believe that if he feels he’s sharing important information, he most definitely is.

  He glances back, his eyes asking if I get what he’s saying, but I’m missing something Winston needs me to see.

  “Help him,” Avery whispers.

  I step forward before I know I’m doing it, making my way to Winston’s side. Dad’s eyes narrow, his tone concerned as he says, “Wyatt?”

  I’m still working it out, so speaking slowly, I say, “It’s important to preserve Cold Springs, especially the history—”

  Winston nods, and I know I’m on the right track, but he has to give us more information. He’s the one with the research, but I will stand by his side in support.

  “Which is . . .”

  Winston picks up the sentence: “In rereviewing the property analysis, I recently discovered that the section of property at 812 Bellsy has a small carriage house. It was once a hideout for Beauford and Mildred Craft.”

  Someone in the back yells out, “Who the hell is that?”

  I know this, remember it from a book I read for school once.

  “Beauford and Mildred Craft were a married couple who escaped slavery in the eighteen forties by what became known as the Underground Railroad. They fled for their freedom from Georgia to Boston, and later England. Their story inspired and encouraged many.”

  Winston nods excitedly, probably thinking that I would be the least likely to actually know something of historical relevance. But I know this story.

  “Exactly,” he says. “And while the Crafts might not be as historically famous as some others, it’s important to consider preservation before we make any moves that would lead to the destruction of our town’s history.”

  Jed blurts out, “Nobody gives a shit about some old, falling-down barn.”

  An elderly woman stands up, leaning on the chair in front of her for support. “I do. It’s my barn. That carriage house is where my favorite horse was born, it’s where I hid when the Prohibition police would search for my daddy’s moonshine, and it’s where I store my old car now, on account I can’t drive no more. And that it was part of the Underground Railroad too? You can’t tear it down! Especially not for some cookie-cutter houses and Johnny-come-lately strangers that don’t give a damn about Cold Springs.”

  Jed scoffs, and several of the council members are looking at each other like they don’t care about some old lady’s storage shed. I need to remind them about what’s at stake here.

  “If we destroy what made Cold Springs special, we’ll be destroying Cold Springs. I move that we petition the state to make the carriage house a historical site, an important place in our town from the days of Beauford and Mildred Craft to today, when it’s Ms. . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  The old lady smiles, holding her skirt out daintily, though I doubt she can bow at her age. “Mrs. Eugenia Hackwood, but you can call me Geni.”

  Her left eye twitches, and I’m not sure whether it’s supposed to be a wink or an involuntary tic. Either way, I smile back warmly. “From the days of the Crafts to Mrs. Eugenia Hackwood.”

  Wren stands up, declaring in a loud voice, “I second that motion.”

  Dad stands, too, his face pale. “Members of the public can’t make motions, nor second them. Tonight’s hearing is about rezoning.”

  He sits back down, straightening his tie and likely wishing he could control this meeting and his family as easily. But it’s not over yet. Etta calls out from the back of the room, “We might not be able to make a motion, but anyone sitting up there at that fancy table sure can. By the way, on a completely unrelated note . . . Councilman Hancock, I sure do appreciate you sending Officer Milson over to see me. He mentioned we could sit down to some mediation if necessary to work out your criminal-mischief concerns. You want me to bring your favorite Fat Pussy double bacon, extra mayo burger with fries to that meeting? Because you sure as shit aren’t welcome at Puss N Boots no more.”

  She raises a brow, looking cunningly wicked.

  I see why when a woman stands up, pissed off. “Harold! You are on a diet for your cholesterol! You can’t eat things like that.”