Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

“Trust is earned.” Gypsy crossed her arms and leaned against the counter behind her. “Kind of like money. You can lose it all with one bad decision, but you can also earn it back.”

That’s what he’d been trying to do with the house, build trust. “Too bad she just told me she doesn’t want to renovate. Doesn’t want to spend that much time with me.”

Gypsy grinned. A smile Dylan knew well. One she’d gotten as a kid right before she hatched some forbidden plan, like swimming in the lake after dark while their fathers were sleeping in their tents during their yearly camping trip.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing that you own half the house. Because that, technically, gives you half the decision-making power.”

Dylan finished his drink. His pain had faded, and his mind was loose. “True.”

“She’s admitted your idea was good, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She wants to pay off the loans, right?”

“She does.”

“Sounds to me like she’s getting in her own way.”

“Agreed.”

“If I were you,” she said, “I’d spend every day of however long it took to renovate that place to remind her of exactly how much she loves you.”

Dylan thought about it. Nodded. Blew out a breath. “Sounds like one of those situations where it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

“Agreed.”

The front door opened, and Dylan glanced over his shoulder. The Everclear was already tripping through his bloodstream, and the person entering was backlit into a male silhouette.

“Sorry,” Gypsy said, reaching into a box sitting on the bar to pull out bottles of liquor. “We don’t open for another hour.”

The man sauntered in anyway. “Not very neighborly.” His voice held a soft Southern drawl. “Marty never kept me from sidling up to this bar for something as meaningless as operating hours.”

Gypsy’s shoulders fell, and her eyes rolled to the ceiling as she groaned.

The stranger stopped several feet from the bar, hands in the pockets of his Carhart work jacket, and studied Dylan before lifting his chin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Dylan returned. The man was older than Dylan by maybe five or eight years. It was hard to tell.

Gypsy turned her back and replaced liquor on the mirrored shelves. “I’m not Marty.”

The man’s gaze traveled over Gypsy’s backside. “Clearly.” When she turned to glare at the guy, heat filled his eyes. “Marty never filled out a shirt the way you do, sugar.” He tilted his head to

ward Dylan. “You let this guy in. Maybe I need to come back with my knee-melting niece.”

“He’s my brother, and I don’t care who you come in with, what I say goes. Just for the record, you should know that the last time anyone sidled up to my bar, I ended up with that little bundle of joy.”

Her remark had been meant to scare the guy off, but he must have had a pair of steel balls, because he leaned in and said, “And, damn, you wear motherhood well.”

“The road hasn’t been quite as good to you,” she shot back, making the guy laugh. “Go on, get. I have a lot of work to get finished, and I’m sure as hell not waiting on you in the midst of it.”

The man pulled one hand from his jacket and offered it to Dylan. “You’re the brother, huh?”

“Dylan.” He secured Cooper in one arm and shook the man’s hand.

“Wyatt.” He returned his openly interested gaze to Gypsy. “Has she always been this mouthy?”

Dylan laughed, earning him a glare from Gypsy. But this girl had stopped scaring him right around age ten, when he towered over her by at least a foot. “Our mom always said this one came out complaining about everything.”