Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(23)

“Yes.” His thick brow arches at me.

I’m about to fight back, but Willa turning her strawberry lips up at me stops me in my tracks. “Come on. It will be good for you.”

My brows knit together as I stare down at her.

The nanny.

The nanny. The nanny. The nanny.

The nanny shouldn’t look this fucking good to me. The nanny shouldn’t know or tell me what’s good for me.

And I shouldn’t listen.

But I’m an idiot, so I respond with, “Fine.”

Luke cheers and runs over, flying into his grandfather’s lap. Probably because he knows they’ll eat food that rots their teeth and stay up too late watching movies that I’d never approve of.

The small smile on Willa’s angelic face catches my eye, and without even thinking, I give her a small one back.





We walk into The Railspur, the best bar in town. It used to be the only bar in town before Chestnut Springs started growing with city folk moving out this way to live the country lifestyle or some cheesy shit like that.

And I’m pretty sure Honky Tonk Sundays are designed just for them. It’s the night when they all play cowboy dress-up and line dance or two-step, and just generally pretend they aren’t high-rolling city slickers.

If I weren’t so annoyed by it, I’d find it funny.

It feels like everyone in our group is a local celebrity of some sort. Rhett the retired rodeo king, Beau the military hero, and Jasper the hockey sensation—even though he avoids attention like the plague.

I’m just the brother who runs the ranch, the one whose woman left him with a child and more responsibility that he reasonably knows what to do with.

It’s the nudge of Willa’s shoulder against mine that keeps me from diving into a huge well of self-pity. “This place is so cool.”

I thought she’d take off with Summer. The two of them had a serious case of the giggles in the back of my truck on the way over here. I’m pretty sure I heard Summer say something about peeing a little, and that’s when I tuned them out.

“Yeah, I guess.” I survey the bar as we make our way toward our favorite spot at the back. The one with big green leather couches and a roaring fireplace.

What do people call this? Cowboy chic? That term has always amused me. Cowboying has never seemed all that chic to me.

The place is warm, all dark woods and fireplaces, ornate chandeliers. It’s changed a lot since the days when I’d come here more regularly. Now I only ever come when my brothers drag me out.

“Do you come often?” Willa asks.

“What?” My brain takes that question in a different, sex-starved direction.

Her lips roll together, not missing a goddamn beat. “To this bar? Do you come here often? God, I don’t know if that’s really any clearer. I mean come like c-o—”

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for patience and a flaccid dick, holding up a hand. “I know what you mean and the answer is no.”

When I open my eyes again, she’s smirking. We come to stand in front of the couches. Everyone files in and she watches them carefully, eyes assessing where everyone sits. As always Jasper takes the back corner seat facing away from the rest of the room and Beau takes up position across from him—always facing the room.

Willa doesn’t even glance at me when she murmurs, “You don’t come often?”

“Not here,” I bite out.

She peeks at me from behind a silky curtain of her copper locks. “Yeah, no. That would be rude.”

I opt to glare back at her. Because my wish for a flaccid dick is not being granted with this line of banter. Or are we flirting? I don’t even know what flirting looks like anymore. “Willa, sit down.”

I point at the only spots left. A love seat facing the end of the low-slung table. She moves effortlessly, with an inherent grace. There’s something kind of . . . magical about her. Her laugh, her voice, the fluidity of her movements. It’s not sexual, it’s just an appeal I can’t quite put my finger on.

An appeal I’m now going to be stuck sitting beside all night. And living with all summer. I absently wonder if putting up with one of the other applicants who didn’t catch my eye at all would have been preferable, even if it meant putting up with their overt advances for a couple of months.

Our server, Bailey, swings by once we’re seated. The girl works her ass off here and at the hospital as a porter. It’s like every ounce of focus and drive that could be shared by her family was all just packed into her. The Jansens own the farm next to us, and she’s the youngest of them. The best of them. The only one without a criminal record, most likely.

“I’ll have a Guinness,” Willa says, surprising me by ordering a thick, dark beer. And maybe I’m a dick for expecting something else. I had her pegged as a prissy city girl who’d order some frilly Sex and the City drink.

“I’ll have what she’s having.” I hike a thumb at Willa and give Bailey a terse smile. Bailey blushes and drops my gaze. I’m not sure how the hell she works here. She’s young and painfully shy.

Willa elbows me, before leaning close and whispering in my ear. “She gets smiles. You should go for it. She’s cute.”

I glance at Bailey’s retreating form and shake my head. “Nah. No way. Bailey’s way too young. I just like her.”