Chapter Twelve

Running later in the day was a royal pain in the ass.

The weather had warmed enough now that the sun was almost too hot on his head and shoulders, whether he was wearing a shirt or not. But if he wanted to avoid Casey—and Dev had been on a mission to do just that for the two days since the fiancé bombshell—he had to make sure Casey was already ensconced in the summer kitchen with Sylvia before he headed out.

With every pace, every thwap of his trainers against the asphalt, Dev's inner litany was damn damn damn. He'd always prided himself on his ability to judge a person's character. It was a Harrison family trait. They all had it, although Ty preferred to exercise his abilities on animals, not people.

Dev had never been so wrong before. For instance, he'd spotted Nash's inner self-centered asshole from the moment they'd met, but his voice and stage presence had been worth it at first. Their relationship had been secondary to the music for Dev as well, so he could hardly fault Nash for his reaction when Dev left the band.

He'd always suspected that Nash felt that betrayal, his abandonment of POV, more deeply than their own breakup. If Dev were honest with himself, he hadn't been that different. He'd missed the band more than Nash, but both those aches had been buried under the loss of Garlan and Grandfather.

So why had Dev picked up his guitar last night for the first time in months and started picking out a song—an unrequitedlove song, for fuck's sake—about Casey?

Damn damn damn.

Dev had been certain—as certain as he'd ever been about anything—that Casey was a stand-up guy. Loyal. Honest. Hopeless in the kitchen maybe, but a good man.

How could I have misjudged him so badly?So far from being a good man, Casey was a guy who'd cheat on his fiancé, who'd had no trouble putting Dev in the position of being a dirty little secret.

He slowed his punishing pace outside the Market, resting his hands on his thighs. Okay, so I'm a dirty big secret.

The Market door banged open. Shit! Had Casey figured out his avoidance strategy? Dev forced himself to rise slowly and grabbed one foot to stretch his quads. Nothing to see here. Just an average run. At an average pace. On an average route. At the wrong time of day.

But when he glanced sidelong at the Market porch, it wasn't Casey who stood there with a bottle of water and an undoubtedly lying smile on his stupid, adorable face. Nope. Kat Hathaway was planted on the top step, right next to a vintage Ben Jerry's Eat the Weirdness poster, her arms crossed, the usual couple of pencils poking out of her salt-and-pepper bun.

"Morning, Kat." Dev stretched his other quad. Might as well bury himself in the part.

She narrowed her eyes at him from behind her cat's-eye glasses. "Never known you to run like this, Devondre Harrison."

"What can I say?" Dev spread his hands. "Had stuff to do around the house early this morning, so I got delayed."

"I'm not talking about your little jaunt around town."

"Little?" Dev slapped a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Five miles every day, Kat. All summer without fail."

"Don't mince words with me. I changed your diapers."

"Thanks for announcing that to the whole street as though I'm still fucking wearing them. Besides, I doubt you ever came anywhere near any of us when we were babies."

"Well, I could have done, if I'd a mind to." She jerked her chin in the direction of Harrison House. "He's been by at the usual time, you know. Yesterday and today both. Bought water for you, same as ever, then stood out here on the porch, looking up and down the street, waiting for you to show your cowardly ass, until he had to run hisself or be late for that woman's silly school."

A sudden wash of Sally Field euphoria—he likes me!—nearly swamped the anger and disgust wrangling in Dev's chest. Resolutely, he pushed it down. Deflect.

"Sylvia's been running Summer Kitchen here since the first Obama Administration. Don't you think it's time you referred to her by name?"

Kat squinted at him, lips pursed. "I'll treat her like one of us when she starts acting like she is. But you"—she jabbed her finger at Dev—"need to stop running and face your problems."

"See?" He thrust his arms out, palms open. "You admit he's a problem, too."

"Casey isn't the problem. Your attitude is the problem."

Dev frowned. "Wait a minute. You won't call Sylvia by name after fourteen years, but you call Casey by name after he's been here less than a month? What the fuck, Kat?"

"The fuck, Dev, is that I can tell when somebody belongs in Home. Casey does. 'Bout time you figured that out, too."

She turned and marched back into the Market, letting the screen double-bump closed behind her.

"Great," Dev muttered as he stalked down the sidewalk toward Harrison House. Just what he needed—matchmaking services from his friends, who'd apparently been hoodwinked by Casey just as effectively as Dev had been. He strode past the hedge at the Harrison House property line and stopped before his feet hit the driveway.

A latest model silver Lexus was parked directly in front of the front door—but on the lawn, not the gravel. Dev peered at the grass inside the curve of the drive. Sure enough: tire tracks.

"Seriously?" he growled. "What the fuck do you think the driveway is for, asshole?"

Although the sky was clear this morning, they'd had a thunderstorm overnight, so the ground was soft and the tires had left twin runnels in the grass Pete was so proud of maintaining. Water had pooled in the tracks and the tires had kicked up a couple of divots.

Dev marched toward the car. There was no driver behind the wheel, and nobody in sight other than Randolph Scott, who was crouched under a hydrangea bush, eyes half-lidded, a clump of chickweed brushing his nose.

Dev reached down and worked his fingers into the mud to uproot the plant. "Thanks for pointing out the invader, but I'm still not planting any catnip for you."

"There you are."

Dev's fist clenched around the chickweed, because even though he'd only heard it once, he recognized the entitled arrogance in that voice. He turned slowly. Sure enough, Casey's fiancé was strolling toward him, a tablet in one hand, his khaki chinos creased within an inch of their lives and a pair of designer sunglasses hooked in the collar of his navy polo.

"I believe you know me."

Dev shrugged. "Can't say as I do." Since Casey never mentioned he happened to be engaged.

"Bradley Pillsbury." He glanced pointedly at the chickweed in Dev's muddy fingers, then dismissively over his sweat-dampened T-shirt, and didn't extend his hand to shake.

Good thing, since Dev would have refused it, anyway.

"The driveway's here for a reason," Dev said stonily. "To drive on."

Bradley shrugged. "The gravel could chip the paint." He made a note on his tablet. "That's one of the first things that will have to change."

Dev's scowl deepened. "What are you talking about?"

"I understand you're the owner of this place," he said, without looking up.

"That's right."

"Then we have some things to discuss." He raised his head, but his gaze didn't land on Dev. Instead, it swept Harrison House before returning to his car. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped in an expression of absolute horror. He hurried over and peered at his hood.

"What is that?"

Dev strolled over to take a look. Muddy paw prints looped across the hood, up the windshield, and over the roof. That much mud couldn't have been on the cat's paws at one go. He'd had to have made several trips.

Dev glanced at Randolph Scott, who gave him a slow blink. Good kitty.

Dev buried a smile and put on an exaggerated New England drawl. "Looks like a crittur's been investigatin' your fine vehicle." He deliberately wiped the mud off his fingers on his T-shirt while he rocked from his toes to his heels. "Can't blame 'em, you know. Somethin' that shiny's bound to attract the wildlife."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Bradley crossed his arms and lifted his chin. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Me? Nothing."

"The least you can do is wash it off."

Dev narrowed his eyes. "Since A) I'm not your lackey, and B) I can't control the animal population"—especially Randolph Scott—"and C) I didn't invite you, I don't see how the state of your vehicle is my responsibility."

For some reason, instead of backing down, a hint of a smile relaxed Bradley"s pinched mouth.

"I expect you'll change your tune shortly." He tapped his tablet. "I've done some research, and I'm prepared to offer you a fair price for the place, including the outbuildings." He glanced down at the screen. "And all contents, of course."

Dev crossed his arms. "It's not for sale."

Bradley smirked, although since he was a good four inches shorter, he had to look up at Dev to do it. "Everything's for sale, for the right price."

"Not Harrison House." Not anything, not to you.

Bradley's smirk took on a self-satisfied edge, and although Dev wasn't a believer in violence as a solution to anything, he was strongly tempted to smack this guy upside the head.

"I told you. I've done some research, Mr. Town Manager. The population of this place is decreasing by double digit percentage points every year, so the tax rolls are likewise shrinking. Its businesses are suffering from the lack of tourist traffic thanks to your short-sighted decision to refuse to allow the bypass to run through town. You personally may be land-rich, since your name is on multiple properties in and around Home, but I suspect you're cash-poor. Many—in fact, most—of those properties are vacant, and consequently they're a financial drain rather than an income stream." He made another note on his tablet. "I might be persuaded to take some of those off your hands as well, with the proper incentive."

Heat beat behind Dev's eyes. "Listen, Mr. Whoever-you-are—"

"Pillsbury. Of the Pillsburys."

"I don't care if you're the fucking Doughboy himself, Harrison House is not for sale. My other places aren't for sale. And Home is most fucking definitely not for sale."

Pillsbury's smirk faded, to be replaced by a hard stare out of pale blue eyes colder than the dead of a Vermont winter. "We'll see about that."

He unhooked his sunglasses and settled them on his nose. Then he stood there and waited. And waited. And waited, clearly expecting Dev to move aside. Since Dev chose not to oblige, Pillsbury was forced to walk around him, his loafers skidding on the gravel.

With his tablet tucked under one arm, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and buffed a couple of muddy cat footprints off his hood. He made a disgusted sound at the soiled fabric and then angled his chin toward Dev. He was probably glaring behind his sunglasses, but since Dev couldn't see through the dark lenses, he didn't give a fuck.

Not that he had fucks to give even if he could see Pillsbury's glare, but plausible deniability and all that.

"Just so you know?" Bradley opened the driver's-side door and tossed the handkerchief inside. "I always get what I want. Things. Places." He gave Dev a smug, tightlipped smile. "People."

He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. When he squirted wiper fluid on the windshield, the wipers didn't do much more than smear the mud around, which, yeah, Dev could admit his resulting smile was a little malicious. When Pillsbury gunned his motor and kicked up divots in the lawn as he launched the car forward, though, Dev winced. I'm gonna owe Pete big time. Or maybe Casey would owe him, since it was his fiancé who was being a dickhead.

Randolph Scott sauntered over and sat at Dev's feet, the tip of his tail twitching and tickling Dev's ankles as Pillsbury's Lexus disappeared beyond the hedge. Dev bent over and scratched behind the cat's ears.

"Tell you what, Randolph Scott. You claw your way up that idiot's trousers next time you see him, I just might plant that catnip for you after all."