Oh. My. God.
2
CHAMP
I stood in the center of the construction zone that had once been my bedroom and stared down at the text on my phone in annoyance.
Quinn (Gorgeous, blue eyes, drinks Howling Turtles): Missing anything?
Was the man kidding?
Fuck yes, I was missing several somethings. My patience. A large part of my sanity. And three of my favorite shirts, which had required me to leave Quinn’s wearing nothing but my windbreaker and stop by my house for a change of clothes when I should have been behind my desk at Champion Security already.
What the hell was the man doing with them? Mopping his floors? Making a doll of me that he could stick pins into? Or was he just trying to get under my skin?
If so, mission accomplished, because I couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to start my day by dealing with Jericho Zachary, the world’s shittiest contractor, who’d turned a simple kitchen fix-up into a whole-house remodel that was entering its second year.
And Quinn thought I owed him an apology? Hell no.
At least I’d found a clean shirt protected in dry-cleaning plastic on one of the wall hooks that served as a temporary closet. I threw the shirt down on my still-made bed and typed a response to Quinn.
Me: Uh, yeah. Already told you I’m missing THREE shirts.
After hitting Send, I pulled on the starched shirt and did up the buttons before shoving the shirttails into my trousers with a sigh. I had a meeting with a potential client later in the day, and it was probably a good thing to show up looking more professional than my usual cargo pants and T-shirt anyway.
After leaving the Marines, I’d been eager to start my own private security company, to get out on my own and be my own boss. I hadn’t fully realized back then that running the show would mean as many early mornings, late nights, and starched shirts as I’d ever had in the military.
Still, Champion Security was my baby. I was proud of the company I’d built, doubly proud of our reputation for going the extra mile for our clients, and prouder still of the men I had working for me. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep it safe.
The phone buzzed with a response text, but I was running too late to check it. I raced down the elaborate but shabby wooden staircase, being careful to avoid the two rotten steps—lesson learned the hard way—before coming to a sudden stop at the bottom when I spotted an unexpected man in my foyer.
“Well, well, well. Percival Champion. It’s been a while.”
Jesus.
Okay, I lied. There was something far, far worse than dealing with Jericho.
“What in the holy hell are you doing here?” I demanded of my very ex-boyfriend. As far as I knew, he should have been in DC, working for the DEA, a comfortable five hundred miles away.
“Manners, Percy,” Vince chided, smoothing down the lapels of the bespoke suit no ordinary government employee could afford. No doubt he’d hooked himself another wealthy guy and was spending that guy’s money the way he’d tried to spend mine. “What would Bunny say?”
“We are not talking about my mother.” My mother and I didn’t see eye to eye on many issues, including my career, my insistence on living in the Thicket rather than her gated country club community in Nashville, and the fact that Vince was still on her Christmas-and-birthday-card list. “Just tell me what the fuck you want and leave. I have a job to get to.”
“We have that in common. I’m here for work also.” Vince strolled around the foyer, running his hand over the smooth wood of the wainscoting… and then quickly brushing the plaster dust off his fingers. “Looks like your dream house is really coming along, hmm? I can see now why you refused to consider buying the new construction down in Franklin like I suggested. Who’d want a place with luxurious amenities when you could live in a house like this, in a hotbed like Licking Thicket?” He chuckled to himself.
I felt a burst of lightning-hot anger.
I didn’t bother reminding him that when I’d bought this big, old, run-down house, I’d gotten it for both of us, along with the adorable poodle Vince had just had to have. At this point, I could no longer remember what I’d ever seen in the guy or how I’d ever found him attractive, and I was really fucking glad he’d left me to take his DEA job.
But I’d be damned if I listened to him make fun of my home. Yes, the town was ridiculous. Yes, the puns were ruthless and terrible. And fuck knew this house was going to bankrupt me one day. But the town and the house were mine to make fun of and roll my eyes at. Not his. Never his.