Don't You Wanna Stay Page 3

  The receptionist at the front desk beamed a sunny smile as he came through the door. “Hey there, Wyatt! I saw the latest episode. The house turned out great.”

  “Thanks, Jeannie. Just closed on it this morning.”

  “That’s so exciting! What’s your next project?”

  He thought about spilling the beans about the upcoming meeting with CMT. Better not, just in case there was some kind of secrecy surrounding the network’s potential move into home improvement television.

  “Haven’t settled on one just yet, but I’m hoping it’ll be a bigger challenge.” A full production show counted on that front, for sure. “Can you check the schedule and tell me where my brother is?”

  Jeannie’s fingers flew over the keys of her computer. “Looks like he’s in with his occupational therapist.”

  Wyatt frowned. That was important rehab. The new therapist had started with Scott six months ago and was one of the biggest reasons for the improvement. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “Oh, they should be wrapping in ten or fifteen. You go on back. I know Scott will want to see you, and he’ll sure want that milkshake.”

  Following her directions, Wyatt made his way to the therapy room. The snarled curse stopped him from knocking on the door.

  Inside, brow glistening with sweat, Scott flopped into a chair. “I’m never going to get this.”

  “You know how I feel about that word.” The therapist’s quiet voice was full of rebuke.

  “It might as well be four letters,” Scott said, clearly reciting an oft-repeated phrase.

  “A huge part of your recovery is mental.”

  “I have a fucking traumatic brain injury, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Unperturbed, the guy just packed up the light weights. “And look how far you’ve come in the last several months. You’ve been motivated. You believed you could improve, so you did. Why should that change now?”

  “It’s your fault. You made me believe I have a shot at independent living again.”

  “I believe you do.”

  Wyatt jolted. His brother might have a chance at a life on his own someday? It was an outcome he hadn’t dared hope for.

  “Then you’re crazy.”

  “You’ve clearly had enough for today. We’ll come back to this tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got homework for you.”

  “Of course you do.” Scott rolled his eyes. Or tried. It was more like rolling his entire head. “What is it?”

  “Think about Chimney Rock.”

  Wyatt didn’t understand what the man meant, but he didn’t miss the pulse of tension that flared between them.

  Scott blew out a breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The therapist turned and only then did either of them notice Wyatt. “You must be Scott’s little brother.”

  “I am.”

  “Alton Howard. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “I wager maybe fifty percent is true.”

  “It’s all true,” Scott declared. “Best little brother ever.”

  “Now I know you’ve got a head injury.”

  Scott stuck out his tongue. “Is that a peanut butter milkshake?”

  “Might be more like peanut butter milk at this stage. It kinda melted.”

  “It’ll still taste good. Gimme.”

  Wyatt handed the cup over, making sure his brother had a good grip on it with both hands before letting go.

  “I’ll just let you two visit. I need to get ready for my next appointment. See you tomorrow, Scott.”

  Scott grunted agreement, attention apparently focused on the milkshake. But Wyatt saw the way his eyes tracked Alton’s progress out of the room.

  Rolling over one of the giant balance balls, he sat, sucking down some of his own milkshake. “So. How long have you been crushing on your OT?”

  Scott’s eyes flew to his. “I… I’m… I…” In his haste to rebut the statement, milkshake dribbled down his chin.

  Since his hands were full, Wyatt dabbed at it with a napkin, adding conversationally, “I mean, he seems like a nice calm match for you in your surly bastard phase, and he’s pushing you past what you think your limits are. Seems like a good fit.”

  Wyatt knew he’d hit pay dirt when Scott didn’t shout at him for wiping his face.

  “It’s not like that. There’s that whole therapist-patient thing.”

  “And if there wasn’t that whole therapist-patient thing?”

  Scott dropped his gaze and gave a rough jerk of his shoulders. “I’m a fucking mess.”

  “Seems like he’s working to help you be less of one.” He set his own milkshake aside. “I didn’t know you were working on progressing to independent living.”

  “Didn’t feel like mentioning it. It’s a long shot. We all know that.”

  “But Alton thinks you could achieve it?”

  “I’m pretty sure Alton is smoking crack. But I’m gonna try.”

  Wyatt didn’t give a damn how the occupational therapist motivated his brother. Whatever he was doing was working. “Good for you.” Not wanting to belabor the point, when Scott clearly didn’t want to talk about it, he picked up his milkshake again. “In the category of other long shots, guess who has a meeting with an executive at CMT to talk about a real show.”

  “Seriously? How did that happen?”

  Wyatt told him the story, no longer censoring his excitement. “I think this could really be my big break.”

  “That’s fucking fantastic, bro. Really. I’m proud of you.”

  Throat going thick, Wyatt shrugged off the compliment. “There’s that whole counting chickens thing. It may come to nothing.” Not that he really wanted to entertain that possibility. Not when he was so close he could taste the success.

  “Power of positivity, Wyatt. You go in there with your head held high. Don’t take no for an answer. You’re a fucking Sullivan. Sullivans know their worth.”

  Except he wasn’t a Sullivan. Not deep down where it actually mattered. He knew well enough that Scott was worth ten of him. But mentioning it to his brother risked sending him into a conniption fit. Scott was the only Sullivan left who still counted Wyatt as family, and that meant he’d do whatever it took to make his brother proud.

  Chapter 3

  The Pyrex dish of Jiffy mix had hit her in the head. That was the only reason Deanna could come up with for why her skull pounded like a Nine Inch Nails concert. On a groan, she cracked open her eyes and spotted the wine bottles on the coffee table.

  Oh right. That.

  Bennet lay sprawled half on the other end of the couch, half on the lone ottoman, one arm thrown over her face. Her breath eased in and out on a little whiffling snore.

  The room tipped in an alarming fashion as Deanna worked to shove herself vertical. Regrets. She had so very many regrets. The last time she’d drunk that much alcohol, she’d been celebrating the finalization of her divorce, and she’d learned then that she absolutely was not in college anymore. But she still remembered hangover protocol.

  Electrolytes and grease. And maybe the entire contents of Old Hickory Lake.

  But first she needed to pee.

  After taking care of the essentials, Deanna staggered into the kitchen, pawing through the fridge for the coconut water she’d bought as a smoothie component and discovered tasted like ass. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that. On a grimace, she guzzled it down, along with some ibuprofen. Another inventory of her fridge confirmed that nothing here fit the parameters of greasy breakfast. She wasn’t sure she could cook just now, anyway. Maybe she could have something delivered. What time was it?

  The microwave said nearly eleven. She was late for work. Thank God the firm allowed partial telecommuting now. So much of her job was on the road or out in the field. She’d work from home today so no one would see her looking like warmed-over death instead of a put-together professional.

  “Please Lord, let none of my charges need anything today.”

  On autopilo
t, she put on the kettle for tea. Ginger wasn’t her preference at this hour, but she figured it might settle her stomach. While the water heated, she ordered food for the two of them, then headed to her email to check for alerts about her clients on social media. She’d learned long ago that finding out about things early meant a better shot of controlling the narrative.

  There was nothing about Mercy Lee and the cornbread debacle, but another subject line caught her attention.

  Congratulations new homeowner!

  Deanna frowned and started to delete the message unread. It had to be spam. She was as likely to have won a house as to be betrothed to an African prince. But some inner instinct urged her to open the email to check, just in case.

  The message appeared to be the receipt from an online auction site. The picture in the listing was the historic home she’d been drooling over last night. And the total listed at the bottom? The entire contents of her savings.

  The phone nearly slid straight from numb fingers as all the blood drained straight out of her head. Dizzy, she slumped against the counter. “No. No. No, no, no, no, no.”

  She had not drunk-bought a house, sight unseen. No way. She wasn’t that foolish.

  Ignoring the kettle that had come to a boil, she stumbled into the living room and dove for her laptop. Sure enough, her browser was open to the auction site. The listing of Blackborne Hall showed as sold. To her.

  “Oh my God.”

  Bennet stirred. “Dee?”

  Maybe the charge hadn’t processed yet. If she could get in, put a stop payment on it… Frantic, Deanna logged into her bank account. But it was too late. Her savings showed a balance of three dollars and eighty-two cents.

  Drowning in horror, grief, and dread, she sank back against the cushions with a groan.

  “Are you crying?” Bennet levered herself up, scooping glossy black hair out of her face. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  She made no effort to wipe away the tears steaming down her cheeks. “I bought a house last night.” Saying the words aloud didn’t make the situation feel any more real.

  “You what?”

  Reaching out, Deanna spun the laptop so Bennet could see. As her friend studied the page, a dim memory surfaced of marathoning DIWyatt and feeling invincible and capable, like she could do what he did. And in drunken, girl power fashion, Bennet had agreed.

  “Oh, damn. This is bad. But maybe it’s not final. Go check the terms of the auction site.”

  With a renewed spark of hope, Deanna clicked through, searching for some kind of escape clause. But that spark winked out almost immediately as the fine print made it very clear that all sales were final. There’d be no getting out of this.

  “What the hell am I going to do? I can’t afford a house!”

  “I mean, apparently you could. That’s a hell of a price for that much square footage and land.”

  Deanna couldn’t even think about that. This wasn’t the well-planned purchase and renovation she’d dreamed of doing. This was a disaster. “It’s a project house.”

  “You wanted a project.”

  “Not now. Even if I could do the work myself, I have literally no money to renovate.”

  “Okay, so you sell it yourself.”

  “That listing had been up for something like two years, with multiple price reductions. I can assure you that it needs more than a thorough cleaning and a few coats of fresh paint.” She buried her face in her hands. “How could I be so stupid? I couldn’t afford to make another mistake, not after Blake. And here I’ve leapt without thinking—again.”

  “Maybe your family could help?”

  Deanna whipped her head up and instantly regretted it as the room spun again. She fought back a wave of nausea. “No. No. They can’t know. They already treat me like an irresponsible idiot. I can’t give them this kind of ammunition.”

  “Fair point.” Bennet laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. It’s old, right? Maybe there are some historic home restoration grants or something. There’s an answer out there somewhere. We’re going to find it.”

  Deanna wished she had Bennet’s faith. She was pretty sure she’d just ruined her life. Again.

  “The meeting was a disaster.” Wyatt punctuated the statement with a jab and a right cross that sent the heavy bag swinging.

  Mateo Guerrero slid in behind the bag to stabilize. “What happened?”

  Wyatt attacked the bag with renewed vigor. “I don’t even know why the guy met with me. As a favor to Curt, maybe. I barely got a chance to say a word because this asshole is too busy telling me that while my skills with actual renovation are impressive, my following isn’t big enough. The show isn’t a unique enough premise. There’s no story. No hook. I’m just small time and not ready for the big leagues.” The next punch sang up his arm as it connected.

  “Dick,” Mateo pronounced. “Keep your wrist straight and fix your stance.”

  Wyatt did as instructed. When a former MMA title holder corrected your form, you listened.

  From the next bag over, Griffin Powell glanced up. “Do you know what kind of car he drives?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Too bad. We could have put sugar in his gas tank.”

  Levi Roth grinned from where he braced the bag for Griff. “Or egg the paint.”

  The two men exchanged a look that made it abundantly clear that they’d gotten up to a whole host of troublemaking during their time with Joan. Wyatt was almost sad he’d missed it.

  Mateo glanced over, one black brow winging up. “I thought you quit that shit after you got arrested back in high school. The Marines was supposed to be your straight and narrow.”

  Griff’s grin flashed white in his close-cropped ginger beard, transforming his usually serious face. “I know a lot more about not getting caught now.”

  “I was good enough not to get caught in the first place,” Levi boasted.

  “You were fucking lucky is what you were,” Griff told him.

  “Keep telling yourself that, bro.”

  Wyatt’s mouth kicked up on one side in a reluctant smile. What would it have been like if he’d stayed with Joan instead of being adopted by the Sullivans when he was twelve? If these three had been his brothers growing up? He wouldn’t have had the same opportunities he’d had in a suburb of Nashville if he’d stayed in Eden’s Ridge. But in the end, what had those opportunities mattered? He’d have been surrounded by a big, messy family that likely would have been as loving as they were maddening. And he’d have had longer with Joan, who was the best mom he’d ever known. Certainly she’d been more comfortable in the role than Marjorie Sullivan ever was.

  But… he wouldn’t have had Scott. The idea of that made his chest ache even as he acknowledged that his big brother might have been better off. Might still be the golden boy attorney on a fast track to greatness instead of living in a residential rehab facility for the traumatic brain injury that had effectively stolen his life.

  A voice in the back of his mind whispered, It should have been you.

  Shaking off the thought, Wyatt dragged his attention to the two men cheerfully suggesting various forms of payback. The great thing about having been one of Joan Reynolds’ fosters was that they always considered you family. God knew, there were countless others she’d taken in. Her adopted daughters maintained the tradition of an annual family reunion now that they’d converted the house into an inn, which meant he’d reconnected with others who’d gone through her care. Some, like Mateo, he’d known before. Others, like Griff and Levi, he hadn’t. But all had helped supply that sense of family he’d lost since the accident.

  He needed that now more than ever.

  “Earth to Sullivan.”

  Wyatt blinked at Mateo, realizing he’d missed everything his brother had said. “Sorry. What?”

  “I asked what you were going to do now.”

  Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?

  “I don’t know.” With another series of irrit
able punches, he admitted the fear that had been dogging him since he left the producer’s office. “Maybe I’ve gone as far as I can go with this. Flipping houses for a moderate profit and being a substitute bartender when things are lean.” His college girlfriend and his parents had told him he’d never amount to anything. Maybe that was true after all.

  “You actually giving up?” Levi asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Though he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Not really.

  Velcro shrieked as Griff unfastened his gloves. “That sounds like the chickenshit response.”

  Bristling at the insult, Wyatt couldn’t help slapping back. “Because you’ve got your life all figured out since you left the Marines?”

  “I’m doing okay. I made enough money as Kyle’s bodyguard on tour that I can afford to take time to figure out my shit while he retreats from the public eye to do the daddy thing. And anyway, we’re not talking about me. Are you really gonna let some network blowhard reduce what you’ve done almost single-handedly to nothing? Because fuck that shit. You’ve worked hard, and it shows. I bet his pansy ass doesn’t have a single callus on his hand.”

  “Not from work anyway,” Levi snarked.

  He had busted his ass to become a master of his craft. It was good honest work, and no one got to diminish that. “You know what? You’re right. Regardless of what he thinks, I love what I do, and I’m damned good at it.” He might have all kinds of self-esteem issues, but none of them centered around building and restoring things. That he’d always been good at.