Then

Word of advice, darlin’—might be you’ll want to keep a closer eye on that kid sister of yours.”

I’ve been at Hawthorne House for a few days, which is long enough to realize that, while Nash Hawthorne might not be the type to order me around, he isn’t above making suggestions, in that slow-talking, casual, we’re just having a little chat over a game of pool kind of way.

Casual suggestion, my ass.

“Avery is fine,” I tell him. I’m not usually prone to arguing with people, but (a) he’s wrong about my sister, who wants to major in something called actuarial science and who wouldn’t know teenage rebellion if it bopped her on the nose, and (b) I kind of like arguing with Nash Hawthorne.

He lines up his next shot and gives every appearance of being casual about that, too, but I’m not fooled. The cowboy might take his time with things—and people—but we both know damn well, before he ever takes the shot, that he’s going to sink it.

I’m pretty sure he could do it with his eyes closed.

Within a minute, two more balls have gone down, too, and his cowboy hat comes off.

“Avery,” Nash Hawthorne drawls, going around to the far side of the pool table, “is trouble.” His gaze flicks up toward mine. “That’s not a criticism, by the way. My brothers and I—we’re trouble, too.”

That is an understatement.

As Nash casually lines up another shot, I try not to notice the way the muscles in his shoulders and back pull at his white T-shirt, the kind of shirt that looks like it’s been worn a thousand times.

“Avery has never been any trouble,” I insist. “She takes care of herself.” What I don’t say is that I wish my little sister was more trouble. I wish I was the strong one. Or the smart one. The sister with a plan.

“You take care of her.” There’s something soft and deep in Nash’s voice when he says that.

I look away. “When she lets me.” My eyes find their way back to his.

Down, girl, I tell myself. Even playing pool with Nash Hawthorne is probably a mistake—see also: muscles beneath that white T-shirt. But my life has been turned upside down, and Nash is pretty much the only one I have to talk to in the grand mansion that is Hawthorne House. This place is a forty-thousand-square-foot Wonderland with a basketball court and a bowling alley and two theaters and a spa, and left to my own devices, I am almost certainly going to get lost or break something or sneeze on some priceless artifact that’s just lying around.

Nash Hawthorne is the lesser of two evils. He stays on his side of the pool table, and I stay on mine—but he sure doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to look away from me.

He sinks his next shot without ever looking down.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

Nash straightens and lets the end of his pool cue rest on the ground. “There’s a difference,” he says in that Texas drawl of his, unhurried and smooth, “between showin’ off and deciding you’re done giving a damn about people who expect you to dim your light so they can feel more like the sun.”

It sure doesn’t feel like he’s talking about himself.

Wordlessly, he passes his pool stick over the table to me. “Your turn.”

It has not escaped my attention that he never missed a shot, but I don’t argue—about that. “You’re wrong about Avery,” I say, as I sink my own shot, determined to change the subject back to the one thing that feels safe, the reason I’m here at all. “My sister isn’t trouble. She’s like a miniature adult.” A strand of blue hair falls into my face, and I blow it out of the way. “She’s better at being a grown-up than I am.”

“That so?” Nash saunters around the table from his side to mine, and there’s just something about the way he moves, like he would approach a herd of wild horses the same way he’s walking toward me now. “Because from where I’m standing, sure looks like you’re giving up everything for the kid.”

“Yeah, well…” I look down “Everything wasn’t much.”

“Some of us don’t need much.” Nash’s voice is quiet now. “Just something small to call our own and the feeling that we’re doing something—anything—right.”

Yes, something in me whispers—and I stop myself right there. Right freaking there! Do not pass go, Libby! Do not collect two hundred dollars! Nash Hawthorne is the grandson of a billionaire. He grew up here, in this mansion of mansions, the world at his fingertips.

What does he know about small dreams?

The cowboy responds like he’s literally read my mind. “Never was too fond of all this.” Nash looks up at the soaring ceilings and shrugs. “Give me a one-bedroom apartment on top of a dive bar any day—preferably with a few things that need fixing. Maybe some books the previous resident left behind.” Nash leans against the pool table. “A place I can go to see the sky.”

“You have all of this, and you don’t even want it?” I can’t help the question, can’t help wanting to understand him, even though I know exactly how dangerous that desire is.

I have a history of bad decision-making—VERY BAD DECISION-MAKING—when it comes to men. And he’s a Hawthorne.

“I want other things.” Nash shrugs again. “But this is where I’m needed, and no matter how often I take off for parts unknown, I always come back.”

“For your brothers.” I don’t phrase that as a question, because it’s not one. You take care of people, too. I miss my next shot and pass the pool cue back to him.

The cowboy beside me has the audacity to wink as he lines up his next shot with the cue behind his back. “Now,” Nash drawls, “I’m showing off.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m also grinning—not a good sign, but I need a friend right now. Just a friend, I tell myself sternly.

A friend who takes care of his little brothers.

A friend who’s watching out for my sister.

A friend who wears worn white T-shirts that look soft and thin.

“I’ll make you a bet, Libby Grambs.” Nash nods to the pocket in which he’s getting ready to sink the eight ball, does the deed, and sets the pool cue down. “If that sister of yours proves me wrong on the trouble front, I’ll stop showing off.”

I shouldn’t bite, but I do. “What happens if Avery proves you right?”

“If I win…” Nash’s smile is slow and steady, a match for the pace of his words. “You promise to start showing off.” He picks his cowboy hat up off the side of the pool table. “And I’m buyin’ you a hat.”