Nash Booker was feeling pretty damn good. He’d spent the night with Jade and managed to slip away without too much trouble. Sure, she’d tried the big pouty lips and wide eyes on him—he’d give her solid B for effort—but he was immune to that shit. He wasn’t interested in anything more than the horizontal dance they’d shared, and he’d been clear about that. He politely declined her offer of brunch, citing Thanksgiving and all, and after another round of the horizontal with a bit of the vertical thrown in, he’d headed out.

It was two in the afternoon, and Nash had exactly one hour before his mother was expecting him for dinner. He smiled at the thought. No doubt she was buzzing around the kitchen, barking orders at his dad, when all the poor guy wanted to do was watch football. He wasn’t sure if his brother Cam would show up or not, but his sister would be there with her kids. Melody and her husband had flown in the night before, and Nash was looking forward to seeing the crazy, unfiltered bunch he called family.

First stop, though, The Coach House. He didn’t have time to head out to his place on the lake for a shower, so the small one adjacent to his office would have to do. Being the smart guy that he was, he’d left clothes in his Jeep the day before, and his mom wouldn’t be able to ride him for showing up in clothes she deemed unacceptable. Lisa Booker had one nonnegotiable rule for family dinner: no jeans.

Nash let himself into the darkened bar and headed for his office. He saw the sales receipts from the day before left neatly on his desk and double-checked that the cash and till were locked up in the safe. Humming some random tune, he shed his clothes and hopped in the shower. Twenty minutes was all he needed to clean up and pull on a crisp black collared shirt, black slacks, and dress shoes. He grinned as he tightened his tie, knowing his nephew Tink was going to love it. And for good reason. He’d sent the little guy a matching tie for his birthday a few months back.

Batman had never looked so good.

He grabbed a couple of bottles of wine from his private stock in the cupboard and was reaching for his jacket when overhead, all hell broke loose. A fire alarm pierced the silence, followed by a loud crash and a distinctive female voice imparting an impressive array of the kind of language only a trucker would use.

Nash jogged up the stairs and knocked on Honey’s door, but there was no way she heard him on account of the word vomit and fire alarm. He smelled smoke and reached for the door handle. Luckily, it wasn’t locked. He pushed it open and paused, eyes taking in a sight he was pretty sure he’d remember for a long, long time.

Honey was attempting to clear the air so the smoke alarm would stop. She had one foot on a small rickety table and the other on the countertop in the kitchen area. She was frantically waving her hands back and forth, swearing up a storm and maintaining her balance as she did so. It was no mean feat considering the table she was standing on had four very shaky legs.

She wore nothing but a pair of skimpy white panties, the kind that showed off her perfect round butt, and a matching bra. Her back was to him, so she didn’t know he was inside her apartment yet, and he took a good, long, appreciative look. He was a guy, after all. She had a tattoo that climbed up her spine, and a small birthmark on her left butt cheek.

He’d taken exactly two steps forward when the smoke alarm finally stopped. Honey turned around and, without skipping a beat, demanded, “What the hell are you doing here,

Booker?”

“Figured you needed some help.”

“You figured wrong.”

He didn’t get a chance to reply, because one of the wobbly legs gave way and the table tilted crazily. Nash was there in an instant and managed to scoop up Honey before that cute butt of hers said hello to the floor. She was soft and warm, and he looked down at her with a wide grin.

“What are you looking at?” she asked with a scowl.

“Someone who apparently didn’t need my help.”

“Screw you, Booker.” She squirmed. “Let me down.”

“You make a habit of cooking in your underwear?”

“You make a habit of walking into apartments that aren’t yours?”

“Technically, I own the building, so…”

“Don’t even go there.”

He was teasing, but the dark look in her eyes was enough to stop him cold. She wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but she sure as hell didn’t elicit the warm and fuzzies either. Nash let her slide from his arms and took a step back.

When Honey had walked into his bar all those months ago, he knew she was trouble. She was prickly as hell, had an opinion on everything, including the way toilet paper should be put on the damn roller. Nash didn’t give a rat’s ass if it was over or under. She had a chip on her shoulder the size of Michigan and could freeze a guy in his tracks with one look. Nash and Honey didn’t agree on much, and the first few months had been rough. But there was something about her—hell if he knew what it was—and six months later, she was still living above the Coach House and the customers loved her.

She was one hell of a bartender, he’d give her that, and one hundred percent immune to his charms. Which was fine. It was never good to mix business with pleasure. Everyone knew that. They’d come to some sort of a working relationship, and it was all that mattered.

He glanced at the mess on the floor and the blackened, still-smoking pot on the stove. “Geez, Harrison. I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t hire you to work in the kitchen.”

He didn’t understand what she muttered under her breath as she headed to the small bedroom, but he was damn sure it wasn’t anything nice. He chuckled. That’s what he got for trying to lighten the situation.

Nash had a look at the table, but it was garbage, noting an impressive amount of duct tape on the leg that had given way. He glanced around the apartment. The previous owner of the Coach House, Sal, had used this space for storage. But after Nash bought the building, he’d invested time and money into this apartment with the intention of moving in. He’d installed new hardwood flooring, updated the kitchen and bath with fresh paint and appliances, new cupboards, an island, and new lighting fixtures. The exposed beams and ductwork in the ceiling along with the reclaimed brick walls gave the place an edgy industrial look, while the three large windows let in a lot of light. He would have gladly lived here.

But he’d inherited the Booker cottage on the lake--the reason he’d come home in the first place--and Nash had gone from traveling the world and living out of a duffel bag to owning a business and a home. Now he was responsible for more than just procuring a plane ticket and booking his next adventure. He’d moved into the cottage and grabbed hold of all that responsibility with a zest that surprised pretty much everyone, save for his mother.

The apartment had stayed empty until Honey.

He walked to the center of the room. The place was open concept and large. All the woman had was this piece-of-crap kitchen table, a sad-looking sofa, and a small desk by the window with a large desktop. There were no pictures, no accents—nothing that would suggest this was anything other than temporary.

He strode back to the kitchen, his gaze drawn to the old pot on the stove. Peering over, he made a face. Kraft dinner? Nash looked around the apartment once more and frowned. It was Thanksgiving. This wasn’t right.

Honey walked out of her bedroom just then, wearing a pair of jeans that looked damn near worn out, but in a way he could appreciate, and a plain white T-shirt that hugged curves he would like to say he never noticed, but hell, he’d be lying. Her dark auburn hair was down, waving softly around her shoulders, and she was barefoot. Her expressive eyes settled on him, and he noted how her shoulders were thrown back. How her feet were set wide and her arms crossed. She looked like she wanted to fight, and the air crackled with something electric.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, a delicate eyebrow raised.

He ignored her question with one of his own. “How in hell did you burn Kraft dinner?”

She made a face and headed for the stove. She grabbed the pot and dumped it into the sink, letting it fill with water as she leaned her hip against the counter and watched him.

“Seriously, Booker. Why are you still here?” Her eyes moved over him slowly, her expression unreadable. “You obviously have to be somewhere else.”

“I do,” he replied with a nod. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

She shrugged as if she didn’t care, but she was tense. He saw the way the cords in her neck tightened. She glanced over his shoulder, and he wondered what she saw when she looked at this sparse, empty place she called home.

She didn’t say anything, and the silence dragged on for several long moments. Nash watched her closely and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He thought of his mom barking orders in her kitchen and of his family jumping to get things done. He thought of the turkey and gravy and stuffing. The ham and mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots and turnip. The pumpkin pie and the brownies she always made especially for him. The house would be a zoo, the complete opposite of this apartment, and it was what Thanksgiving should be.

Loud. Messy. Crazy. Warm and comforting.

No one should spend the day alone, staring at a pot of burnt Kraft dinner. He nailed Honey with a look that brooked no argument.

“You’re going to need to change.”

That arched eyebrow shot up even higher. “What?”

“Mom has a dress code. No jeans. No food.”

“Have you been drinking, Booker?”

“Nope. I’m as sober as a church mouse.”

“Quiet, you mean.”

“What’s that?”

“The saying is quiet as a…”

“I know what the saying is.” Irritated, he glanced at his watch. Shit. “Hop to it, Honey Bee, or we’re going to be late.”

Her eyes narrowed to small slits, and she turned from him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You got better plans than burnt crap and this place?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Why do you always make things hard? Why can’t you just live in the moment and go with the flow for once?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he took a step toward her and held up his hand. “Look. It’s Thanksgiving. My mother will kick my ass if she knows you’re here by yourself.”

“Then don’t tell her.” Honey had met Lisa Booker, so he knew she knew how relentless the woman could be.

“Don’t make this a thing, okay? It’s dinner. Nothing more. Go put on a dress or something, and let’s go.” He looked directly into her eyes so she would know he wasn’t bullshitting. “I’m not leaving without you.” Nash turned around and headed for the door. “I’ll be downstairs waiting, so don’t make me later than I already am.”

Once he was back in the bar, he grabbed the wine from his office and his coat. Less than five minutes later, Honey appeared. She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and her lips glistened with pale gloss. Black boots peeked out from under a three-quarter-length black jacket that looked as if it were meant for the South, not winter in Michigan. He wasn’t exactly sure what she’d pulled on clothes wise, but hoped she’d taken his no-jeans, no-food warning to heart.

Honey wrapped a thick black scarf around her neck and pulled on purple gloves as she sailed by him and headed for the door. By the time he locked up and got his butt in gear, she was standing beside his Jeep. There were no words, and Nash hopped inside, the engine roaring to life as Honey slipped on her seat belt.

She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Don’t ever call me that again.” She paused, that whiskey-soaked voice of hers dead serious as he glanced her way, a questioning look in his eyes. “Honey Bee.” She settled back in her seat and looked ahead. “Never again.”

Nash wasn’t sure what to make of her request, but there was no denying the name had struck a chord with her and not a good one. He slowly nodded and put the truck in gear. “Okay.” He put on some music, and as the snow began to fall in big flakes that drifted on a lazy breeze, the two of them headed to his parent’s place.