My body’s traitorous response to his voice annoys me. I’m not exactly celibate, not even close to it. I get hit on by people here at Puss N Boots so often that I could easily get laid more than a hooker working Main Street during a parade. But the flip side of that is that I see too many no-good cheaters walk through these doors and have seen the fallout of a betrayal firsthand, because Aunt Etta hasn’t been the same since she swore off men after catching her fiancé cheating on her on the eve of their wedding. And that was so many years ago, we measure it in decades at this point.

  So I make it a habit to be selective. To the point of . . . wait, how long has it been? I try to think back, but when I start counting months in the double digits, I decide to examine that later. Much later. And alone.

  “Your pool cue is named Joan of Arc?”

  “Nope, we’re not doing this,” I reply to his question, holding up a palm to stop his get-to-know-you small talk.

  His smile blooms, white and bright. He’s not just lumberjack-magazine sexy; he’s a toothpaste commercial too. “We’re not? It kinda seems like we are . . . I’m here, you’re here, we’re talking.” He shrugs one shoulder, daring me to disagree with the obvious.

  Point taken, I spin in place. Game. Over. “Bye.”

  My plan is to beeline to another pool table, play a stress-free, no-stakes game to relax and forget about Mr. Modern Logging–Sex God–Prince Charming–Asshole.

  “You forgot something.” The deep voice behind me stops me in my tracks, and I groan in annoyance. So help me if I turn around and he says something stupid like “saying thank you” or “your phone number.” I will have to teach him a lesson the same way I was willing to teach Roddy one.

  But when I look over my shoulder, Wyatt is holding up a ten-dollar bill. I grit my teeth and trace the few steps back. When I grab at the money, he lifts it high, using his height against me. “Let’s play a game. Double or nothing.”

  I jump, snatching the money from his hand. Fuck, I hate it when tall guys do that. I know it’s just to make my boobs bounce. “Except this is already my money.”

  The jump puts me even closer to him, though, and a waft of his cologne works its way into my nose and lights up my brain. It’s woodsy and spicy, reminding me of leather and pine trees, a combination that suddenly seems sexy as fuck. My nipples perk up and my ovaries stretch from their long slumber, hopping up like a pair of joyful jelly beans, both of them demanding a little extra attention.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Am I ovulating or something? I’ve heard that can make you hornier. Or maybe Wyatt has some megawatt pheromones that are wreaking havoc on me?

  “Then let’s play for bragging rights,” he suggests, which is honestly a bigger gamble than a few bucks. My reputation’s worth more than money around Puss N Boots.

  “Let’s don’t and say we did. Besides, I don’t play newcomers,” I explain, adding, “for your protection. Grumpy losers are bad for business.” I gesture toward the door, where Roddy stomped out moments ago.

  “Newcomers?” he echoes, his brows pulling together. And then he grins. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “Should I?” I scan him again, making note of the thick thighs, narrow waist, broad shoulders, tanned skin, and gorgeous face. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but if I’d seen him before, I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten him.

  Instead of answering, he repeats, “Let’s play.”

  Nope, no way, nuh-uh. These are all the responses that run through my mind, but my mouth doesn’t get the memo, and to my surprise, I hear myself say, “Okay.”

  Shit, why did I say that? Now I’m going to have to actually spend more time with the devil, and dancing is not what’s on my mind, unless you count the horizontal mambo. Trying to save a little face, I quickly sputter, “Your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Pretty sure you warned me, Roddy warned me, and Charlene over there is currently warning me too.” He hooks a thumb through the air, and I follow it to see Charlene still busting ass with the rush but keeping one eye on Wyatt and me. It’s the stink eye she reserves for the worst of customers.

  I hold off from going straight into my “I was right” victory dance, taking the time to ask, “You know Charlene?”

  There’s the tiniest bit of disappointment in my gut, and it’s threaded through my voice. She’s like an irresistible force of nature. She wants a man, she gets a man. That’s it. Like gravity, or taxes, or death, she just is.

  “Nope. In fact, I just met her when she took my order. Though she did offer a go-round.” He laughs lightly, and I can imagine what Charlene offered.

  “And you said?”

  “Thank you, but no thank you?” he says, though there’s a hint of confusion in his answer. I guess he’s not used to being questioned boldly about another woman. But I don’t want to step on Charlene’s toes. Sisters before misters and all. Not that she’s my literal sister, but she’s like one.

  “Alright then.” I shouldn’t agree to play with him. I know it from my fingertips to my toes, but I’ve never claimed to make the right decisions 100 percent of the time. I don’t claim it for even 50 percent of the time! I aim for a solid 33 percent responsible, another 33 dumb, and one more 33 percent fun. The last 1 percent? That’s for absolute, purely ridiculous outrageousness. It’s what I call balance.

  We wait for the next available table, then get set up. I’ll give Wyatt credit, he racks like a newbie should, but at the same time nice and tight. He knows what he’s doing as he selects a cue, and I pat Joannie. “I’m good. You need a breakdown of the rules or anything? I don’t want you bitchin’ and moanin’ about me cheating when I win,” I tell him, referring to Roddy’s hissy fit.

  Wyatt shakes his head, taking chalk and rubbing it on the tip of his cue. The movement is practiced and experienced. Curiously, I ask, “Are you sharkin’ me?”

  “Nope,” he says, “but do you mind if I break?”

  I swear to God if he pockets the eight ball and I lose outright, I will slam his face to the felt. But I gesture with one hand, giving him not the floor but the table.

  He positions himself where he wants and takes a strong stance behind the cue ball, and my eyes go to his butt as he leans down. Total dump truck of an ass, I think. In fact, I’m so focused on it, I almost miss him pumping his cue forward to strike the ball.

  Crack!

  The cue ball slams into the ball set with incredible force, sending balls all over the table. Two of them find their way into pockets. Luckily, one is a stripe while the other is solid. It’s still anyone’s table to run.

  Wyatt takes another shot successfully, sinking the one and claiming solids, and then one more before missing.

  Good game so far, Wyatt. But it’s all over now. You won’t get another shot. With the balls or me.

  I try to quell my giddiness as I size up my shot and quickly weigh my options.

  I’m lined up on the nine ball, aiming straight for the left corner pocket. It’s an easy shot, one that I could make with my eyes closed. I’ll have to make sure I use the right English to set my next shot up, though.

  I get into position, angling myself, but I pause, my skin prickling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wyatt looming off to the side, like a giant sentinel watching me. I don’t know why, but it’s so very distracting the way he’s staring at me, which is particularly frustrating because I’m usually good at canceling out any distractions when playing, no matter who I’m playing.

  But there’s something about Wyatt that is throwing me off my game.

  “Good form,” I vaguely hear him say.

  Focus, Hazel, focus! He’s trying to distract you to get in your head.

  Putting my eyes straight on my target and leveling my gaze, I hit the cue ball, and it flies forward, hitting the yellow-and-white ball toward the pocket . . . but double-bangs off the corners before rolling away, missing.

  I stare in disbelief, hot embarrassment burning my cheeks. How could I miss that? I could’ve made that shot when I was ten years old! The fact that I obviously screwed up only because of Wyatt eye fucking me has me shook.

  Serves you right for being so cocky, I tell myself angrily.

  “Sorry to interrupt y’all’s lovely game,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn to see my best friend’s fiancé, Winston, walking up to clamp a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, “but I have to steal my big brother away, I’m afraid.”

  “Give us a few, we’re in a match,” Wyatt growls. “And it was just starting to get good.”

  Brother? It hits me like a ton of bricks.

  Wyatt. Ford. As in, of the Ford family. Jed and Bill Ford.

  That’s why he looks vaguely familiar. I can see the similarities between them now.

  “Winston, did you say this guy is your brother?” I want to be sure before I go off half-cocked again. I like Winston . . . now. At first, when Avery came back from school, talking my head off about this guy she was dating, I was happy for her. Then she told me his name, and my happiness for my friend evaporated into thin air. In fact, it led to the biggest fight we’ve ever had. But Winston has proven himself to be completely different from his uncle. He loves Avery and is totally gone for her—hook, line, and sinker. And if he loves her that much, then I’ll give him a pass on his shitty family. He didn’t choose them, after all.

  But Wyatt?

  I feel duped for some reason. It’s not like we exchanged last names, phone numbers, preferred positions, and post-fuck snack recipes, but c’mon, he knows the weight his name carries around here. Hell, I’m surprised he didn’t lead with that since those four little letters are probably enough to get him a legs-open invitation from some women.

  “Guilty as charged. He’s home for the wedding,” Winston tells me. To Wyatt, he says, “As I was trying to tell you before you charged off, Hazel is Avery’s best friend and she’s in the wedding, so you’ll see her there.”

  “You’re in the wedding?” Wyatt repeats, sounding just as surprised as I feel.

  “Yeah,” I drawl out, not liking his tone. “Don’t worry, I clean up real purdy and won’t embarrass your kinfolk by leaving my POS car on the front lawn or picking my teeth with a shrimp fork.” I have no idea if a shrimp fork is even small enough to get between my teeth, but the point stands. I’m not in the same class as these two. Not in the same world.

  And if there was ever a man for me, his last name would not be Ford, because he would not be related to the man who is turning my hometown into a battleground and who broke my Aunt Etta’s heart.

  “The little plastic swords from the appetizers are better toothpick substitutes,” Wyatt suggests casually, almost sounding . . . amused?

  I scowl, not liking this back-and-forth. Why can’t he just take the burn and slink away like most guys do? Is that so damn hard?

  Winston looks from Wyatt to me. “Uh, okay . . . so there’s that. But we do need to leave, Wyatt. Avery wants me to bring her dinner.”

  That’s enough to stop the mental formulation of my next attack plan. “Is she okay? Why hasn’t she already had dinner? It’s late.”

  Avery is a giver through and through, and if she’s asking for dinner, it means she’s at the end of her rope.

  “She’s fine. Grandpa just wanted Tayvious’s chili, so I offered to take him a bowl. And I can’t very well take him dinner without taking Avery some, right? So I got her a big burger. I’m gonna have Wyatt drop me off, and I’ll stay over to make sure she eats.” He pauses, then corrects himself: “Make sure they both eat.”

  Avery’s grandpa is still a lively, slick one. His mind’s sharp as Tay Tay’s favorite knife, but without the nastiness a lot of old folks get when their bodies start to betray them. But he needs a lot of care, enough that Avery spends the majority of her time supervising him. It sounds like she’s got Winston to help with that now too.

  “Yeah, of course. Tell her to call me if she needs anything.” It’s a safer conversation than the one Wyatt’s eyes are trying to have with me—one filled with confusion at my whiplash cold shoulder. “Bye!”

  I try to make it sound breezy and casual, but I’m pretty sure I fail.

  The brothers turn and make their way out. And though I try to fight it, I can’t help but watch Wyatt as he walks away, his stride strong and powerful, his well-defined ass looking magnificent in those jeans of his.

  More than one woman in the room has her eye on him, too, some of them literally looking like they’re in heat with their tongues hanging out. Charlene herself looks like she’s about to pull the seltzer hose from underneath the bar and start hosing people down, starting with herself.

  It’s at that moment I make a firm decision.

  Whatever happens, and whatever I do, I’ll be sure to keep far, far away from Wyatt Ford. No matter what, I have to avoid him at all costs . . . wedding or otherwise.

  Chapter 4

  HAZEL

  I bump the front door with my hip, trying to open it without dropping the precious bag of goodies I’m balancing in my hands, all the while knowing the highest-value item is the to-go cup of white wine I had the bartender pour. Thankfully I’m successful, but my inner celebration is cut short by a siren followed by a loud automated voice . . .

  Woo-ee-woo-ee

  Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Call 9-1-1!

  Police have been notified.

  Woo-ee-woo-ee

  This would be concerning . . . if I actually had an alarm system. But I don’t. What I have is a loudmouthed gray parrot, who is currently perched on the back of one of my dinette chairs and giving me an evil glare.

  “Lester! Shut up! You better not have called the cops again.” The or else is heavily implied.

  “Bawk! Bitch! Bawk!”

  There are times I really wish that bird couldn’t talk. Meanwhile, I beeline for the kitchen, setting the bag of food and Styrofoam cup on the counter to grab the phone from the wall. I listen to see if there’s an open line anywhere in the house but thankfully get only a dial tone.

  The 9-1-1 operators know Lester well, considering the number of times he’s actually called them. But that was mostly when he was my Gran’s companion, and she did occasionally need help, so we were thankful for that particular party trick of his. Since she passed a few years ago and I inherited Lester, the operators have taken to double-checking before sending anyone out, mostly because of an incident involving me, Deputy Milson, and a baseball bat. In my defense, he peeked in my bedroom window while I was changing clothes and I thought he was a Peeping Tom. I was well within my rights to swing that Louisville Slugger. The first time.

  “Bwahahawk!” It’s Lester’s version of gotcha as he laughs, his big feathery head bobbing like he’s really proud of himself.

  “I oughta pluck your feathers and cook you up for Sunday dinner,” I threaten, not meaning a word of it. Truth be told, Lester and I are buds. But sometimes, the best friends are the ones who give each other shit.

  “Lester too salty.” And now my bird is talking about himself in the third person. Great. “But he’s a pretty bird. Bawk! Pretty bird!”

  I can’t argue with that. He is a beautiful specimen, gray with a white mask around his eyes and a shock of deep red feathers as a tail. “You are a pretty bird. And do you know what pretty—and well-behaved—birds get to do?” His beady black eyes flick around, then focus on me intently. “Go visit Aunt Etta. You wanna go for a visit?”

  Aunt Etta’s little cottage is visible through the window over the kitchen sink. Back when she had the pink house with white trim and shutters built, it was a compromise with Gran, who needed some careful supervision but refused to have anyone, strangers or family, living with her. Independent until the end, she did things her way and left a legacy of strength, boldness, and take-no-prisoners sass. All of which means Aunt Etta, Mom, and I are peas in a very small pod.

  After Gran’s death, Aunt Etta didn’t have any interest in moving into Gran’s house with her own so close by. Mom also refused, wanting to keep her space above her downtown bakery so that she could go between work and home at the drop of a hat. We also didn’t want it to be sold. I mean, the house meant a lot to us.

  So it seemed only natural for the house—and Lester—to go to me. I happily moved into the small ranch house that held so many of my childhood memories.

  “Bawk! Let’s go, bitch!” Lester flies over, perching on my shoulder. His claws dig into my skin a little bit, but I’m mostly used to it and he’s exceedingly careful to be gentle.

  I should do something about his foul language, but it’s too late now. He learned from Gran, Aunt Etta, Mom, and me. And there’s no telling what my brother, Jesse, has taught him. Hell, he probably has old Lester spying on me and reporting back details of my actions. I wouldn’t put something like that past Jesse. He’s my brother and I love him, but he forgets that I can handle myself sometimes and acts like he’s the only thing keeping me from a shallow grave or prison, which is ironic considering he had the chance to move into Gran’s house, too, but he laughed his ass off at the idea of bringing a woman out here: “I’d be lucky to live long enough to date. More likely, Aunt Etta would call me a ‘typical dick-led asshole’ if I tried to get laid and bury me in the back forty after running off anyone I tried to spend time with.”

  Trusting Lester to not fly off, I grab the food and wine and head out to walk the one hundred feet to Aunt Etta’s.

  This is a walk I’ve done hundreds of times. Anytime Jesse and I would come to see Gran, we’d inevitably end up at Aunt Etta’s, a double whammy of fun and spoiling we fully enjoyed. Jesse and I would chase each other around the big yard, then chase fireflies after dark. Aunt Etta taught us how to shoot bows and arrows, ride horses, and of course, shoot pool. And then Gran would cook us a delicious dinner topped off with a melt-in-your-mouth sweet potato pie.