Dirty Scoundrel

Not that I should be liking anything about her, but I do.

I rub the R on my knuckles again, because I feel a stab of anger and frustration. I should be pissed as hell that Natalie thought she was too good for me and ended up here. This is the same damn town we grew up in, and she’s working at a gift shop? How is that “too good” for a Price? Ain’t we at the same level? Even as I simmer with seven years of resentment, I note that she looks tired, though, and the interior of this place looks just as worn around the edges as the outside did.

“You gonna do this?” Knox asks as we step into the tiny gift shop. He fingers a postcard, and I imagine it’s gonna end up in his pockets before the day is over.

I nod, swallowing hard. Damn. Seven years and it doesn’t matter—one look at her and I still feel like that dumbass schoolkid, thinking with his pecker. No amount of writing on my knuckles is going to erase that. I need to remember how she treated me. How she stomped on my heart and turned her back without giving a shit about how I felt.

If she’d ever loved me like I’d loved her, she’d have never acted like that. I was the only one in love. I need to remember that.

So I step forward and move toward the counter, where she’s listening intently to a family that’s talking to her. They’re tourists, obviously, wearing khaki shorts and T-shirts, and two bored kids moving through the gift shop like mini tornadoes.

“I was under the impression we could get our picture taken with Chap Weston,” the woman is saying, and she’s got a stern frown on her face. “We came here specifically for that.”

“Mr. Weston’s schedule depends on the day,” Nat says in a cheery voice that doesn’t sound like her at all. She gestures at a blackboard on the wall that has CHAP IS written across the top and a scribbly UNAVAILABLE written underneath in chalk. “I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to visit guests today. I really do apologize.”

“Well, is his daughter here, then? I was under the impression she ran this place. Maybe I could talk to her and explain how we’ve driven all the way from Nevada and we won’t be here tomorrow.” The woman’s tone is severe.

“I’m his daughter.”

“I . . . Oh.” The tourist laughs. “You don’t look like what I pictured.”

“Too young?” Nat replies. “I get that a lot.”

“No, that’s not it.” The woman makes an uncomfortable noise in her throat and Nat’s face looks strained. I wonder what the hell she thought Nat would look like. She’s as pretty as she ever was, and her blue eyes still haunt my damn dreams. If anything, she looks better now, because those full breasts of hers are makin’ the buttons on that white blouse strain hard, as if it’s a struggle to stay together and it’s just itchin’ to bust open and show the world her pretty tits and—

And I’m gonna be spankin’ to that mental image tonight, I suspect. I scratch at my beard, frustrated at myself. I came here to put Nat in her place, not feed my jerk-off fantasies.

“We just need one photograph with Chap Weston,” the mom is pleading. “Can’t you talk to him?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Natalie’s voice takes on a sugary sweet tone. “I really wish I could help, but I can’t.”

“Fat bitch,” the woman says, glaring at Nat. “We’re leaving. Come on, kids.” She turns on her heel and storms past us.

I crack my knuckles, grinding my teeth. No one talks to a woman like that. Especially not my woman.

But when I turn, Knox shakes his head at me.

Right. Nat’s not my woman. Never was. She just used me. I scratch at my beard again, nervous. Shit. It’s harder to be a ruthless asshole than I thought. I wanna be an asshole to the wrong people.

I glance over at the counter, and Natalie’s counting postcards, and then making notes in a ledger. She hasn’t bothered to look up at us. Her expression is blank, and I don’t know if it’s because of that monster of a mom that just left, or because she realizes it’s me. Maybe she just doesn’t give a shit at all if she’s driving customers off.

Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving until I’ve had my say. I’ve been bottling this up for weeks now, ever since Eddie’s funeral.

Actually, I guess I’ve been bottling this since the night she told me I was dirt beneath her feet.

That’s fine. All of this is fine. Cold, emotionless Natalie is the one I can deal with. I rub the R on my knuckles one more time and step forward, my jaw set.

Natalie

Fat bitch. The words roll around in my head, ruining what little good mood I had. I’m used to the customers being cranky when they’re told they can’t meet Chap Weston. I’ve been argued with plenty over that one, but “fat bitch” is a new one. It’s not like I owed her an explanation, either. My dad’s having a bad dementia day, sorry. He can’t sit with you so your kids can crawl all over his eighty-seven-year-old lap for a crappy photo.

Sad thing is, my dad would sit with them. He loves having his photo taken and loves meeting fans. It’s just that today, he wouldn’t know where he was or who anyone is, and I don’t like for that sort of thing to get out to the public. Pride is everything to my dad. If his name was ever “sullied” in his eyes, it would destroy him. I’ve always been very conscious of that.

And, well, damn. I’m not that fat, I don’t think. At least, I hope not. I mentally stab a fork into the rude woman’s face. Of course she’d had to say that in front of other customers. Figures. I’ve ignored them for long enough, trying to compose myself. Nothing else I can do about it, so I glance up from the ledger where I’m pretending to take inventory and paste on my “customer service” smile. “Welcome to . . .”

The words die in my throat.

I know that guy standing in front of me. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a big bushy beard, or that his hair’s overgrown and sticking out from underneath a ratty baseball cap. Doesn’t matter that he’s wearing an equally ratty T-shirt, and it sure doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen him in seven years.

I’d know Clay Price anywhere.

My heart pounds at the sight of him.

God, he looks good. His shoulders are broader than ever, and even though he’s scruffy with that beard, he’s got a tan and his eyes are that same intense green they ever were. I can’t stop staring at him as he takes a step toward the little counter. What’s he doing back here? I’d heard that he’d left our small hometown a few days after I’d dumped him and he’d never returned.

But here he is, looking delicious and so close I can touch him.

And . . . a customer just called me “fat bitch” in front of him. Oh god.

I can feel my face heating with shame. I’ve packed on a few pounds since high school, when I struggled with constant diets thanks to my overbearing stepmothers. I’ve decided that I prefer eating to starving, but as he gazes at me, I wish I was still that skinny size-two instead of a size eighteen. “C-Clay,” I stammer out. “Oh my god.” I glance behind him, and there’s a dark-haired, dark-eyed guy about the same age with a bored look on his face. One of his brothers, maybe, judging by the way he holds himself. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Driving through.” His voice is as sultry and slow as I remember, and I can feel parts of me warming up that haven’t felt warm since he left. “Surprised you’re still in town.”

Him and me both. But I guess he doesn’t know what happened after he left. “Yeah,” I say lamely. A thousand excuses spring to mind, but all that screams through my head is the fact that I never texted him.

Never, never. He still thinks I hate him. That I never wanted to marry him. That I was fine with him walking away. I want to scream at the awfulness of it.

“Heard this place was a museum.”

“Yeah.” I grab a postcard from the turnstile, my hands shaking, and hold it out to him. “Want to buy an admission ticket? They’re five dollars. Or a cookie? Oatmeal-walnut.”

He just stares at me with that intense gaze. I feel like an idiot. I’m offering him cookies and a ticket to view my dad’s furniture. He must think I’m insane.

But he’s polite enough. Clay glances around, then back at me. “Nah. Just wanted to come by and see if it was true you were here.”

My mouth goes dry and I lower the postcard. I’m not sure what that means. “If I’m here?” I echo, confused. “You were looking for me?”

Clay nods, and then glances at his hand. He rubs his knuckles absently. “Seem to recall you saying you were gonna leave for Stanford.”

Oh god. I remember that. Funny how it seems so long ago. He hasn’t forgotten, though. My stomach gives a queasy little lurch. “Long story.”

“I’ll bet.” He studies me for a long moment, and then a hint of a smile curves his mouth. It’s not his regular smile, with its wide, white-teeth-displaying mischievousness. This one is something else, and it throws me for a loop. So much that I almost miss what he’s saying. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a proposal for you, if you’re interested.”

And before I can ask what that means, he turns and walks back out of the gift shop.

Chapter Four

Clay

“You didn’t ask her?” Knox states, giving me a curious look as we head back to the limo. “Why not?”

“Need a night,” I tell him. I rub my knuckles, over and over again. I don’t feel ruthless. Hard to feel ruthless when she looks so pretty and soft and vulnerable. Fuck, now in addition to my regular dreams about Nat, I’m going to be dreaming about fucking those big tits of hers. Seeing her again was the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me.

She didn’t look like I expected. Gift shop didn’t, either. The whole placed reeked of desperation and of someone that’s been forgotten, and that’s not something I associated with Nat. I remember her from high school, quiet and aloof in the crowd, always dressed in demure designer sweaters and wearing elegant jewelry, like she was going to a garden party instead of class.