Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(4)

Nope. I didn’t want to be judged because of her, nor did I want to be fawned over due to her name. I wanted someone to like me for me, and I think he did that night, even if he thought my name was Abby. And so far in my three days in town this time, Dogwood Lane has been as sweet to me as it was then.

I hold a nail through the hole in the speaker bracket. “I can live cheaply. Who knows? Maybe I can bring some new styles to the people.”

“When was the last time you gave a perm?”

“That was an eighties fad.”

“Eh, not so much.” She snickers. “I think the people here are going to bring you some new skills.”

“Maybe,” I say, patting my pockets with my free hand. “Where in the heck did I put the hammer?”

Harper sighs. She marches across the room, picks up the hammer from the floor, and holds it out to me. “Why don’t you just let me get someone to help you?”

“Because I’m entirely capable of hanging a speaker.” I raise a brow as I take the hammer. “Thank you. Now stand back and watch me work.”

“What I’m gonna watch is you breaking your damn neck, and I have no idea what I’ll tell your mother. She blames me for all your wild-child tendencies the way it is.”

“Dyeing my hair black during my emo phase, not being a fan of no-carb diets, and vetoing the offer of breast implants to, and I quote, ‘get ahead in the world’ aren’t exactly wild-child tendencies. But yeah, I get ya.” I grip the hammer. “I never did tell her you sent me that hair dye. Or the condoms.”

“You know, that was one time I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. You were seventeen. You didn’t need to be having sex.”

“Like you weren’t having sex at seventeen,” I scoff. “Besides, I didn’t end up sleeping with that guy.”

I line the hammer up with the nail and give it a swift hit. The force shakes the ladder, and I yelp as Harper grabs my legs to hold me steady.

“You’re going to fall,” she says.

“I am not.” I pause and look over my shoulder. “But if I do, just tell Mom something along the line that her daughter decided to perform manual labor for fun. Her reaction after she processes the words ‘manual labor’ should entertain you for a while.”

Harper and I exchange a grin.

People have always said that I take after my aunt. We look alike with our rich dark hair and full, curvy figures. Our personalities are fairly similar, too, with penchants for romantic comedies and coconut rum. And we both chose to go to beauty school—a lowly service-oriented job, as my mother so kindly calls it.

Harper, though, is stronger than I’ve ever been. She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to go after it. When she realized she couldn’t take the LA life anymore, she literally threw a dart at a map on the wall and trucked it to Dogwood Lane the next day. She gave no thought to what anyone said. It took me years to get the balls to leave. Of course, she also felt the need, somewhat crazily, to marry the same man three times. But that’s not the point.

“If I could just get steady, I could get this nail in here and be done with this thing,” I say, widening my stance as far as I can on the little platform. “I just want music. Music makes me happy.”

She flashes me a grin and walks to the window. Her smile grows wider as she peers out at the street below. “What else makes you happy, Avery?”

“Chocolate factories,” I say, trying to figure out where the stud is in the wall. “Waterproof mascara that comes off without scrubbing my eyes until they bleed. Men with great shoulders and amazing hearts that actually want to do the work to get to know me instead of flashing me a killer smile and pickup line.”

I realize that I’m just pressing aimlessly on the wall. Stud-finding, at least in the construction department, isn’t something I know how to do. I didn’t think it would be this hard.

“I’m not even sure those things exist,” I say to Harper. “So maybe I’m bound for a happy-less life.”

When she doesn’t respond, I look at her over my shoulder. She’s watching me with a slightly amused look.

“What?” I ask.

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, really? Do you know where there’s a secret chocolate factory that we can break into and befriend the little orange men in white-and-green jumpsuits?”

She laughs as she flips over the sign indicating we’re open for business. “Not what I was talking about. Now, are you ready for today?”

“Ready as I’m ever going to be.”

“Good. Because here comes trouble.”

“Great,” I mumble, turning my attention back to the speaker.

No matter where I tap, the hollow thud of a studless wall echoes back. I’m trying to figure out what to do when the door squeaks behind me.

“Hey, Harp,” someone says.

The voice is definitively male—the kind of sound that is both a delicious whisper and a heady scratch against your skin. The southern twang to the tone is the kind of thing that dreams are made of. A smile touches my lips as I revel in the idea of living in a place where voices can almost be foreplay.

“Hey,” Harper chirps.

I roll my eyes at the giddiness of her tone. If there’s a chink in Harper’s armor, it’s her love of men. Give her a pretty face or great abs and she’s toast.