The blond man nodded, a smile creasing one corner of his mouth. “And who’s the message from?”
Magnus had a sinking feeling, his gut plummeting, although he wasn’t sure quite why. “Magnus Shelton. I own—”
“Page Turner Collections,” the blond man said, his smile breaking free. It was a little like the sun coming out. “I’ve been in a time or two, but I haven’t seen you. I like books.” Then the man added drily, “About cowboys.”
“I’ve been cleaning up the mess my aunt left me; most of the days, Narcisa works the register.” Then the last bit of what the blond man had said sank in, and Magnus covered his face. “Oh no.”
The blond man’s smile was huge. “Oh yes.”
“You’re—”
“Nickolas Knight.” Taking Magnus by the hand, Knight helped him to his feet. His grip was strong, and so warm it felt almost hot against the slush soaking Magnus. His eyes raked Magnus up and down, and he said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Shelton. I hope the feeling’s mutual.”
“It’s not,” Magnus said, ripping his hand away and stalking toward the minivan. “You heard what I said: I’m not letting you bulldoze the old downtown. It doesn’t matter how much money you throw at these people; we stick together.”
Knight moved faster than Magnus expected, his long, lean form flying over the wet gravel. Interposing himself between Magnus and the van, Knight held up both hands. “Hold on, Mr. Shelton. You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, and I’d feel like a total heel if I let you drive home with a concussion. Let me take you up to the house. You can warm up, maybe shower and put on some spare clothes.”
“Not a chance,” Magnus said, trying to force his way past.
Laughing, Knight caught his arm, wrestling just enough to slow Magnus down without seeming like a threat. “Easy, easy,” Knight said with that infectious grin. “I won’t bite.”
“There is no way in hell I would ever—” But before Magnus could finish, the world swam, and he stumbled. Knight caught him before he could hit the ground.
“That settles it,” Knight said. “Come on; I’ll drive you up to the house.” Magnus opened his mouth, but before he could object, Knight added, “Or to the hospital. It’s your choice.”
Grudgingly, Magnus allowed Knight to help him toward his car—a showy Mustang that belied the cowboy veneer. As he did, Magnus slipped a white envelope out of his jacket and passed it to Knight. On the white paper were three words in chicken scratch: A Sexy Complication.
“This isn’t too stupid?” Hazard asked in a small voice.
“This,” Somers whispered with another of those mile-wide grins, “is the best thing of my entire life.”
III
FEBRUARY 23
SATURDAY
5:59 PM
TOWELING HIS HAIR, Magnus studied the guest suite in Knight’s home. Home was a small word for the building; it verged on a mansion. But it wasn’t ostentatious, at least, not in the way Magnus had expected. Marble instead of granite, solid-wood furniture instead of particle board, and room after room after room. But oddly impersonal. No sense of Knight himself anywhere in the building. And no sense that Knight felt at home inside these walls. It wasn’t anything Magnus could put his finger on, but he’d noticed it in the way Knight had carefully toed off his shoes near the front door, in the way he’d fumbled doors, checking one after another until he seemed to find one that Magnus could use.
Magnus’s clothes, dirty from when he’d fallen on the wet gravel, were gone. A spare outfit had been provided in their place—a big, fluffy, well-worn Mizzou sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans that fit Magnus just right, which was surprising since Magnus was bigger than a lot of people. Barefoot, he left the bedroom and padded through the house to find Knight.
The blond man was sprawled in front of the TV on a sofa that had probably cost as much as everything in Magnus’s apartment, legs kicked out on the table, slumped so far down on the cushions that he was practically horizontal. He glanced up at Magnus, smiled, and got to his feet. Every movement was lazy and easy on his long, lean build. His smile faded as he studied Magnus.
“Thank you,” Magnus said. “My head’s fine, really. I’ll just take my clothes, and if you could drive me back to my car, I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry about that,” Knight said. “I threw your clothes in the wash. They’ll be clean and dry in—I don’t know, a couple of hours. Sit down and relax. Let me get you a beer.”
Magnus tried to think of a way to say no, but he couldn’t find one that wouldn’t make him sound like a petulant child. After another minute, he sat down. True to his word, Knight got him a beer, and they watched a Tigers’ game against Mississippi. Magnus had never really followed basketball, but he tried to pretend he was interested while sneaking glances at Knight, who was lolling on the sofa again, taking up way more space than he needed and raking his fingers up and down his stomach absently.
A bell rang, and Knight grinned and stretched and sat up. “Dinner.”
“Dinner? When did you order pizza?”
Knight held out a hand, and before Magnus knew what was happening, Knight was helping him up again, his hand warm and pleasantly callused. “I promised myself,” Knight said, “that if I could ever afford a personal chef, I’d make them ring a bell to call me to dinner. That’s the way my grandma always did it.”
It was a surprisingly personal opening, and Magnus almost seized it. Almost. But then he remembered that this was the same guy who was trying to raze half of their town, including Page Turner Books, and he grimaced and worked his hand free of Knight’s.
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal. I’ll just get an Uber.”
“They don’t come out here,” Knight said.
“I’ll call a friend.”
“If you want,” Knight said, with
