Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(6)
Connor kept in touch periodically via e-mail. Or at least he had during his last stint in the service. Donovan hadn’t heard from him since then. He had no idea if his buddy was still deployed in Afghanistan, or if Evergreen Cove had also lured him back into her clutches.
But Donovan wasn’t returning to the Cove permanently. No, he was only here because—irony of ironies—he now owned the mansion he once fled.
The sun was down and March’s cool air was downright cold the closer he drove to the lake, making him regret taking Trixie’s top off. First time he’d ever regretted taking a girl’s top off, he thought with a grunt.
He drove by Cup of Jo’s, eyed the CLOSED sign on the door. Just as well. He wasn’t ready to face Jo, or any other Evergreener who wasn’t expecting his presence back in town. Scott Torsett was enough.
Passing the darkened windows of Fern’s Floral Shoppe, he parked along the curb next to Torsett & Torsett Law, his destination. He pulled the key from the ignition and glared at Trixie. If she knew what was good for her, she’d start right up when he came back out, no bitching.
He may be bound and determined to vanquish his demons, to finish the unfinished business he’d left behind, but that didn’t mean he cared to be bent over the hood of his Jeep in the middle of Endless Avenue on a Tuesday night.
The Cove wasn’t exactly a small town, but everyone who lived here had known of his grandmother; knew Pate Mansion. He couldn’t take a round of condolences from some overly friendly passerby. Not now. Not ever.
One of many reasons he’d skipped the funeral.
The law offices of Torsett & Torsett were decorated with burgundy and mahogany guest chairs, pine green carpet, and shiny brass light fixtures. Cliché. Ugly.
An older woman, her fingers on the keyboard as she ticked something away on the screen, glanced up as he came in. “Help you?” she asked, eyes behind her thick lenses showing no signs of recognizing him.
“Donovan Pate to see Scott Torsett.”
She depressed a button on the phone on her desk. “Scottie, Donny’s here.”
He cringed at his old nickname, hoping the woman wouldn’t start up a polite and needless conversation, or worse—
“I’m so sorry about your grandmother,” she said. “She was an amazing woman.”
Amazing. Sure, okay.
He clamped his teeth together and offered a curt nod, then turned his back to her and watched the hallway for the guy who used to sit on his battered couch and smoke enough pot to make the entire neighborhood high. Scott stepped out of an office a second later wearing a streamlined dark suit, his former scraggly goatee shaved clean, his eyes clear, not glassy.
It was a blast from the past in the weirdest way.
“Holy shit, Donny. You look grown up.”
“Donovan,” he corrected. He ditched the nickname when he’d ditched Evergreen Cove. After his father had died.
Swear to God, Donny, you are a worthless waste of space. What’d I ever do to deserve a piece of shit like you for a son?
Wasn’t any wonder why he’d skipped dear old Dad’s funeral, too.
“Donovan, it is. Coffee?” Scott offered as they passed a carafe on a cart.
His stomach had soured at the mention of his “amazing” grandmother, at the memory of his father’s words. Words often followed by fists. Donovan shook his head. He was only going to be in Scott’s office long enough to iron out the kink in the will, then he was out of here and heading straight to the House of Pain.
He sat across from a big, antique desk wondering how the hell Scott had managed to get it through the narrow doorway, when Scott pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder and said, “Problem.”
“Another?” Fan-f*cking-tastic.
“We didn’t know about this contract until Make It an Event put an ad in the paper announcing the dinner. Then we started digging.”
Contract? Dinner?
Donovan took the sheet of paper and read it over quickly. “A charity dinner.”
“Yep. Your grandmother has been hosting these things at the mansion for the last few years, and this one was contracted with the event planning company before she died. It’s a binding contract, signed by your grandmother’s hand.” He clucked his tongue in an aw, shucks manner and added, “Hope you weren’t in a hurry to sell.”
Right. Because what Donovan really wanted to do was stay in this town for… he skimmed the type searching for the date of the dinner. “Three months from now.”
Scott folded his hands on his desk. “You’re stuck, buddy.”
Donovan felt his lip curl. He wasn’t Scott’s “buddy,” and he refused to be “stuck.” He’d decided seven years ago, after his old man died, that neither his father nor his grandmother would have control over one single aspect of his life. Not ever again.
He groused at the paper in his hand.
Gertrude seemed to have gotten the last laugh.
Last year when he received the call from Scott about the will, Donovan thanked him, then did nothing. He didn’t want the mansion or the trust. He didn’t need the mansion or the trust. Over the years, and thanks to a man in a very high place, he’d been able to carve out a nice living doing stonework and building custom fireplaces in the Hamptons.
When Alessandre D’Paolo offered up his guesthouse, Donovan had looked at it as temporary digs. Aless lent him the garage where he stored his stones and worked on his designs, and where he was planning to repaint Trixie before he drove her here wearing nothing but primer gray. Donovan ended up living there by default. He liked his life in New York. He was able to keep busy, keep his head down, live honestly.