Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

“I’m not even sure those things exist,” I say to Harper. “So maybe I’m bound for a happy-less life.”

When she doesn’t respond, I look at her over my shoulder. She’s watching me with a slightly amused look.

“What?” I ask.

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, really? Do you know where there’s a secret chocolate factory that we can break into and befriend the little orange men in white-and-green jumpsuits?”

She laughs as she flips over the sign indicating we’re open for business. “Not what I was talking about. Now, are you ready for today?”

“Ready as I’m ever going to be.”

“Good. Because here comes trouble.”

“Great,” I mumble, turning my attention back to the speaker.

No matter where I tap, the hollow thud of a studless wall echoes back. I’m trying to figure out what to do when the door squeaks behind me.

“Hey, Harp,” someone says.

The voice is definitively male—the kind of sound that is both a delicious whisper and a heady scratch against your skin. The southern twang to the tone is the kind of thing that dreams are made of. A smile touches my lips as I revel in the idea of living in a place where voices can almost be foreplay.

“Hey,” Harper chirps.

I roll my eyes at the giddiness of her tone. If there’s a chink in Harper’s armor, it’s her love of men. Give her a pretty face or great abs and she’s toast.

Moving the bracket a little to the right, I mock a nail up to the top hole. I give it a tap. Instead of going in the wall, the nail shoots sideways and drops to the floor with a ping.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

“What are ya doing up there?” The caramelly voice rings from behind me as I take two nails out of my pocket.

“Trying to hang a speaker.” I put one nail in between my lips and hold the other against the hole.

“Need some help?”

It’s clear he’s entertained. That only makes me more determined to show him I can do it by myself.

“Nope,” I say, biting the nail a little too hard. “I got it. Thanks, though.”

“I’m just going to stand here and make sure.”

“You do that.”

I mock up another nail. Before I swing the hammer, I ensure my weight is evenly distributed and the bracket is poised exactly where I think it might work. Now that I have an audience, I can’t fail.

“You know, if you move that about two inches to the left, there’s probably a stud,” he says. “I mean, there’s one behind you, too, but you probably aren’t looking to nail the one with the great abs. Or are you?”

My eyes roll so hard it almost hurts. I blow out a breath in exasperation. “I’ve nailed a lot of great abs. Unfortunately, the abs are usually where the greatness stops.”

Harper’s laugh barrels across the room and mixes with my self-appointed supervisor’s chuckle. If I weren’t so focused on getting the speaker hung and mildly irritated at his confidence, I’d probably really enjoy the timbre of his voice.

“All jokes aside, there’s an outlet by the floor underneath you. Outlets are always on a stud. So if you really want to hang that thing, move it over two inches like I said, and you’ll be fine.”

“I was doing just fine without you,” I say. But as I think about the logic behind his remark, he’s probably right. Damn it.

“Suit yourself.”

I wait for him to move into my line of sight. He doesn’t. He stays positioned perfectly behind me so I’d have to actually look over my shoulder to see him. The thought crosses my mind that he might be checking out my butt, and I’m thankful I wore my good jeans today.

I want to see him but don’t want to turn around. That would be obvious. I also don’t want to move this bracket two inches to the left and prove him right, but I have to.

Ugh.

Sliding the metal across the drywall, I hold my breath and wait for him to say something. I put the nail into the hole and wait again. Still nothing. Just as I draw the hammer back, he speaks.

“Are you new around here or what?” he asks.

My hands drop to my sides as I spin around. The bracket pings as it hits the floor. “Why do you ask so many quest . . . ions . . .”

It’s like his gaze is waiting for me. It plucks mine out of the air and locks it in place. As soon as our eyes meet, an audible gasp escapes my lips.

Holy. Shit.

I’ve seen those eyes before. They were lit up by a makeshift fire beside Dogwood Lake as we dined on a bag of cheesy chips and a can of soda from a machine by the bait shop.

He’s smiling up at me with the deepest, sexiest dimple that God ever gave a man. “You are definitely new around here. I’d remember seeing you.”