Chapter 4
Josie
I drive the nail in harder than I mean to.
The hammer cracks against old metal, and the sound ricochets through the rafters. Dust rains down from the beam above me, settling in my hair, my collar, the damp line at the base of my throat. I cough, swipe my forearm across my face, and leave a muddy streak over my cheek.
“Of course.” I reach for another nail with fingers that burn. “Of course you would.”
The board wobbles. I shove it back into place and swing again. The strike lands crooked, jarring up my arm. My shoulders ache. My jaw aches. Everything in me is wound so tight I feel like I might splinter right along with the wood.
The barn smells like old hay and damp timber. Sunlight slices through the warped siding in thin, gold blades, lighting the mess I’ve made of the place. Tools lie scattered across the dirt floor. My jacket is crumpled near the door where I flung it hours ago.
I don’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll hear his voice again.
The lawyer’s voice had been measured and kind. “Really, Mrs. Foxwood, your husband just wants what’s best for you.”
Ex-husband, and my name is Josie Hart. I didn’t bother correcting him.
Because underneath the lawyer’s careful tone, I heard Richard.
That same smooth patience. That same calm that always came right before he overruled me.
You don’t understand how these things work, Josie.
The hammer misses the nail altogether and I scrape my knuckles on the board. I ignore the pain and clamp my teeth together so hard my jaw pops.
Let me handle it. You’ll just stress yourself out.
I swing the hammer again. The wood groans. So does something low in my chest.
You’ve never been good with money.
The words land with the same quiet certainty they always had. Like a diagnosis. Like a fact. Like I was too small to argue with it.
My vision blurs for a second. I blink hard and drag my Henley sleeve across my eyes.
I go at the board again.
Harder.
My phone sits face down on an overturned bucket behind me. Silent now. The lawyer’s careful tone still plays in my head. Petition. Fiduciary responsibility. In your best interest.
I drive another nail too deep and split the board clean through.
“Damn it.” The words snap out of me. I drop the hammer and grab the pry bar. My hands shake as I wedge it under the ruined plank. The skin at the base of my fingers is rubbed raw. A blister near my thumb has torn open, and the sting bites deep enough to make my eyes burn.
I blink hard and pull harder.
Boots crunch on gravel outside.
I ignore it.
The barn door groans open on protesting hinges. Another thing on today’s list that might not get done. Sunlight floods in behind me, stretching long shadows across the floor.
“Josie.” Asher’s deep, velvet baritone eases into the tight space between my ribs like it belongs there.
I’m angry, damn it!
“Not today.” I keep my back to him—or them—and lean my weight into the pry bar.
Silence hangs for half a breath, then heavy steps cross the threshold behind me. I don’t turn, but I know which brother it is by the feeling of him at my back, solid and warm.
“Give me that.”
Logan’s voice comes from just over my shoulder, close enough that the words brush the side of my neck.
I shake my head and lean harder into the pry bar, arms trembling as the warped board resists.
His hand settles over mine on the metal. His fingers curl around my knuckles and the tool in the same motion, firm enough that the strain bleeds out of my grip before I can fight him for it. The bar stills. He draws it from my hand with unhurried strength.
My fingers stay curved in the air for a second after the weight leaves them.
Then I drop my hands.
Asher steps in behind me. I tense, ready to step away, but his arms slide around me before I can move. One hand settles at my ribs, the other low at my waist, drawing me back against his chest.
I stiffen.
“I’m not good company today.” My voice scrapes on the way out, thinner than I mean it to be.
Asher’s chest moves against my back with a slow breath. One of his hands shifts higher along my ribs, his palm spreading there, giving me something solid to lean into.
I try to twist out of his arms, but there isn’t much strength behind it. My elbow brushes his forearm, then falls away. He doesn’t tighten his hold to trap me, just stays where he is, weight and warmth steady at my back.
I push out a breath that shakes halfway through and turn to press my palms against his chest, ready to move him. Instead, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
“You don’t have to pretend with us,” he says, his mouth close enough that the words stir the hair near my temple.
Something in my chest gives.
My shoulders drop. I sag into him, the fight leaking out through my bones like I’ve been holding myself upright for too long.
His arms adjust without hurry, one sliding higher along my back, the other settling more firmly at my waist to take my weight.
I didn’t know how badly I needed that.
His cheek brushes my temple as he shifts, the scrape of light stubble against dusty skin sending a small shiver down my spine. I press into him without meaning to, drawn by the steady warmth of him, and his mouth meets mine before I can think better of it.
His lips are warm and firm, not demanding, not tentative. Just there. Solid. Real. The first touch steals the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I make a soft, broken sound against his mouth, and he answers by angling his head, deepening the contact slowly, giving me time to follow.
I do.
My hands slide up his chest, bunching in the fabric of his shirt as I rise onto my toes without thinking. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the clean scent of soap and sawdust, the steady way he holds me like I might fall apart if he lets go.
His thumb moves at the base of my neck, brushing through grit and tangled strands of hair, not smoothing, just touching. The simple contact makes something tight in my chest loosen, and I lean into him harder, letting the kiss pull the air back into my lungs one slow breath at a time.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t take more than I give. But he doesn’t retreat either. His mouth stays sure against mine, grounding me, steadying the spin in my head until the noise of everything else fades.
For a moment, there is nothing but warmth and breath and the quiet certainty of his hands holding me right where I am.
“Tell us what’s wrong,” he says quietly, mouth still close to mine.
I shake my head.
“Josie.” His voice holds a warning growl.
Something inside me cracks.
“He’s trying to stop the payout,” I whisper.
Asher goes still.
“What do you mean, ‘stop?’” Logan asks, his voice tight from somewhere to my right.
I pull back just enough to breathe. My throat aches like I’ve swallowed glass. “He filed a motion. Says I’m not capable of managing that much money responsibly.” A laugh jerks out of me, sharp and brittle. “Says I’ll give it all to charity and end up homeless.” The words taste like acid.
Logan swears under his breath.
“He wants it placed in a managed fund,” I go on, staring at the warped barn wall because I can’t look at either of them. “I’d get monthly interest. Living expenses. Like an allowance.” My stomach twists, hot and sour. I press my lips together hard to keep them from trembling.
“He still thinks I’m that woman,” I say, voice rough now. “The one who didn’t know how the accounts worked. The one who needed him to explain everything. Like I haven’t learned anything. Like I’m still…” My hands curl into fists. “Stupid.”
I turn away before either of them can see what it does to me, fixing my gaze on the warped barn wall.
Anger sparks through the hurt. “He doesn’t get to decide what I’m capable of.” My voice rises like my vocal cords have a will of their own. “He doesn’t get to keep controlling my life because he thinks he knows better.”
Asher turns me gently to face him again and cups my face. His thumb brushes dirt from my cheek, and his gaze is steady and intent. “We’ll fix this.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “How?”
Asher doesn’t answer but hands me over to his brother.
Logan wraps his arms around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You took classes.” He rests his chin on my head. “I’ve seen the binders. Accounting. Marketing.”
I nod. “Online. Nights. After he went to bed.” My jaw tightens. “I passed everything. Every test. But that doesn’t matter if a judge thinks I’m sentimental and reckless.”
Asher paces away a few steps and pulls his phone from his pocket. He scrolls. “What’s your lawyer’s name again?”
I tell him.
He heads toward the door, phone to his ear before he’s halfway there. His voice shifts from warm and careful to calm, clipped, and focused. A man who expects to be heard.
Logan strokes his palms over my arms and reaches for my hands.
I flinch.
He pauses, then turns my palm gently upward and whistles.
I glance down. Splinters. Dirt. Torn skin.
I shrug, but in truth, my hands sting now that my emotions aren’t running as high anymore. “I needed to get something done.”
He strokes the skin beneath the raw blister at the top of my thumb. His touch is careful and somehow sensual.
“You’re coming inside,” he insists. “We’re cleaning these before they get infected.”
“I have work to do,” I protest, but the fight has drained out of me. Maybe I’m better at taking care of money than I am at taking care of myself.
“Inside, Josie.”
So, we go inside.