Flutter: The Nash Brothers, Book Three Page 2

I fluff my hair, give my minimal makeup a once-over in the mirror, and decide I look just good enough to be acceptable in public. As a mom of a three, I deserved a golf handicap on my overall appearance.

  “All right, everyone in the car. No touching, no fighting, and maybe we’ll get Chick-fil-A for dinner.”

  A round of yay and okay, Mom resounds from the back of my Toyota Highlander, and I pray as I drive the route to Ames’ pre-school that this day would work itself out better than the morning had.

  After dropping my youngest off at daycare, and the two older boys at the elementary school, I head for Fawn Hill High school.

  Parking in my regular spot reserved for the school nurse, I grab the cognac leather tote I bring with me everywhere and sling it over my shoulder. The day is breezy and warm for mid-March, and I have a feeling I’ll have a bunch of spring allergy cases on my cots today.

  As the only nurse at the high school, of about four hundred students, total, I saw it all. Girls with bad period cramps, a broken limb or two, boys with bloody noses or split lips from exchanging punches over a girl. I had the diabetics I doled out insulin to, the students who needed their inhalers or meds throughout the day, and those kids who almost cut their fingers off in shop class.

  My late husband, Travis, decided to join the military at the ripe old age of eighteen, and we were married shortly after he went through basic training. During his first deployment, I was pregnant with our first son and knew I needed to do something to contribute and keep my mind off every possible scenario of him dying while he was gone. So, I enrolled at the community college in the nursing program, and two years later had my RN degree. Because the prior school nurse just happened to be retiring the year I came out with my RN, Fawn Hill High School allowed me to take the job without a bachelor’s degree. And I’d showed them, over the last eight years, why I didn’t need a higher degree and was fully capable of mending teenage hearts and scars.

  “Good morning, Olivia.” I smile at the young Spanish teacher whose turn it was to facilitate morning bus drop off.

  “Hey, Penny! Beautiful day, at least I got stuck on this duty while the sun’s out.” She was a little too sunshine and rainbows for my sarcastic tastes, but that was better than a sourpuss.

  Plus, better her than me. I already wrangled three boys this morning, I am not up for herding hundreds more.

  But when I walk into the front entrance of the high school, I almost wish I had just stayed out near the bus duty station. Because standing at the plexiglass window to the school receptionist and administrative office, is Forrest Nash.

  I stop in my tracks, speechless for one of the first times in my life. As if on cue, as if he feels my presence, the infuriating man turns away from where he is talking to Georgia, the receptionist who has worked at Fawn Hill High since before I was a student here.

  That iridescent blue gaze locks in on me, rising from the tips of my toes to the top of my dry-shampooed hair. It lingers on my hips, my breasts, my lips … and each time his eyes stop to assess their targets, I tingle in those places. By the time Forrest is done drinking me in, my nipples are hard and I try to conceal my panting breath.

  A smirk graces his full lips, and I want to smack it off his olive-toned cheek. All of that smugness contained in such a gorgeous package … it’s honestly fucking annoying. This man has long, lean limbs … the body of a swimmer with wiry muscles and a tapered waist. His face is something out of Roman art. Maybe not as classically handsome as Keaton or broodily attractive as Bowen … but Forrest is a pretty boy with a dark edge just underneath his skin. I know that underneath that plain gray T-shirt is a set of abs to fawn over and that he’s not wrong for the cocky strut he puts on because he’s more than packing down below.

  And those hipster glasses he wears, thick-rimmed and black so that his baby blues and cheekbones seem even more intense … God, they just do it for me. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt out, rather harshly.

  “Good to see you, P,” Forrest says in the tone of a man who has seen you naked.

  No one called me by the first letter of my name, and it annoyed me that Forrest did.

  “Wait a minute, are you still in high school? That’s right, I didn’t remember you graduating.” The comeback is elementary, but I haven’t had my coffee yet and I’m shocked by his occupying my workspace.

  Lowering his voice so that the woman sitting on the other side of the plexiglass can’t hear, Forrest walks two steps toward me and says, “Now, if I were young enough to still be a student here, that would not be good for you. You know, because of the whole sex thing.”

  I swear, I try to stop the blush that breaks out on my cheeks and chest, but I’m a blonde who hasn’t seen the sun all winter so it doesn’t work.

  We slept together twice, and both times had been under the influence of alcohol. At least I could blame my actions on being drunk. The first time had been after a night out at the bar when both Lily and Presley abandoned me for their men. I’d had one too many tequila shots, because Forrest kept buying them for me, and ended up riding him in the front seat of his Tesla.

  Who the hell was a big enough asshole to drive a Tesla around Fawn Hill? Forrest Nash, that’s who.

  And then, after Keaton and Presley’s wedding, I’d been so wrapped up in both the celebration of love and feeling sorry for myself that Travis was gone, that I fell into bed with him again. And if I were being honest with myself, the sex was hot. I remembered that about the car hook up and wanted another taste at the wedding.

  But that was that. The end. No more. It had been months ago, and I’d both tried to ignore Forrest and give him shit when we were in public.

  “Good morning, Georgia. I’ll call up when I’m ready to have the sick list,” I call over Forrest’s shoulder and begin to walk off.

  After I got my morning emails out of the way and set up the medication cups for the morning, I always call down to the office to see which students were out sick. If it was the second or third day, I checked in with parents just to see if I could help. It wasn’t something all school nurses did, but I took a real interest in my community and the kids I looked after.

  A large hand catches me by the elbow as I turn the first hallway. “What’s the problem, Pen?”

  I turn to see Forrest grinning at me and grit my teeth. “Why are you even here?”

  “Police business.” He waggles his eyebrows at me as if he’s important.

  “So get to it. Pretty sure the department isn’t paying you to annoy the shit out of me.”

  “Don’t you have to watch your language in this place?” he teases.

  “Only when interacting with children. Oh, wait …”

  Forrest’s blue eyes flare with temper. I twist the knife about our age difference because I know it pisses him off. Always has, ever since I brushed him off as a pesky little boy during my high school years.

  “Funny, that’s not what you were saying the night of Keaton’s wedding. So, after I’m done with my deep dive on the computer system, maybe I can stop by the nurse’s office and do a deep dive on your network?”

  The way his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip has me almost considering the proposal. And then I shake my head, disgusted by the balls on this guy. He had the nerve to corner me after the wedding, sleep with me for a second time, and then never call me after. Not that I wanted anything with Forrest Nash, but what kind of man doesn’t even follow up with a woman he’s just fucked?

  Again, an asshole, that’s who.

  “In your dreams, Little Nash.” I throw out the insulting nickname and walk off without a backward glance.

  “You’re right. I do dream about it, P. A lot.”

  Forrest’s husky voice echoes down the hall and I duck my head, hoping to God no one heard that or glimpsed the scarlet blush on my cheeks.

  3

  Forrest

  Watching Penelope Briggs’ sweet ass walk away from me is something I
am getting all too familiar with.

  The woman is a knockout, with curves like a back road, long, silky blond hair, skin the color of smooth buttermilk and eyes so green, they almost look fake. Putting my hands on her was one of the single most arousing moments of my life, and I wasn’t lying when I said I dreamed about it. Often.

  I’ve had a crush on Penelope since … well, since I could remember. I first met her at one of Bowen’s summer league baseball games. She was there with her best friend Lily, who is now my sister-in-law, to watch my brother strut around the field like the egotistical player that he was. I was eleven, and she was seventeen. Which meant Penelope was completely out of my league, but as the typical young boy who hadn’t been rejected by women or the world yet, I thought I had every chance.

  Even then, she’d been with Travis. I hadn’t understood what that meant, even when they got married. All thirteen-year-old Forrest knew was that her guy left her alone, and that left the door open for me. I wrote her love notes, tried to show up wherever she and my older brothers were hanging out, and …

  I finally got the message at fifteen, when she had her first baby and it clicked in my brain. Penelope would never pick me. And that led to the path I find myself on now …

  Fucking any woman I wanted and downright loathing the only one who had ever rejected me.

  Not that it had kept me from fucking her. But, in my defense, any man would want to taste the candy he’d always lusted after if it was presented to him. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want another lick, because goddamn was she luscious. The sounds she made when I dove between those pretty thighs …

  If I didn’t stop accessing my spank bank in the hallway of my former high school, I was going to get a boner. Not something that’s never happened here before, you know, puberty and all, but I had a job to do.

  And that job was not to taunt the woman who’d rejected me and continued to downplay my masculinity. Hell, was today a blast from the past. That sentence could sum up my entire high school existence, rejection and labeling. It hadn’t mattered that I was a Nash, or that Fletcher, the most popular guy in our graduation class, was my twin. I was a nerd, hands down, and had been stereotyped as one through my four years here.

  To say I was bitter was putting it mildly. But, I grew out of the awkward phase, got ridiculously hunky, installed a gym in the basement of my house, and now the girls who wouldn’t date me in high school looked at me with longing gazes.

  “Forrest, you can’t just wander the halls without a visitor pass. There have been major security protocols put in place since you graduated from here, boy.” Georgia, the ancient school receptionist, scowls at me as she walks back into her office.

  I follow, ready to get to work. “I need to see the server room for the school and talk to the IT specialist you keep on staff.”

  “No, I’m fine. Glenn is good as well, kids are coming to visit this weekend …” She trails off, eyeing me as if I’m being rude for not asking her how she is.

  “Cool.” I shrug. “Now can I see the server room?”

  I know people think I’m a dick, but I just don’t bother with flattery or small talk unless I’m trying to get something. That might be rude or insensitive, but my brain just doesn’t function that way. With the surgical precision of my thoughts and the way that I can figure out a motherboard in less than two minutes, apparently, the genetic pickers left out a soft side in my makeup. It’s how I’ve always been, and for a time I tried to model some of my behavior after my brother Keaton.

  Acting like I had a genuine concern, lending an ear, and more … all of it lasted for about three days when I was twenty and had just left MIT to come home. I thought that developing a caring side to my personality would make me … I don’t know? Easier to work with? Better in my craft? I’d been given a serious talking to by a group of professors at the top-notch tech university for my lack of respect for authority, rules or basic human kindness. That had pissed me off, and I’d left of my own accord because I was grasping the concept of their lessons in one class anyway. But, I had second thoughts once I moved back to Fawn Hill. Maybe I did need to infuse a general sensitivity to my abrasive ways.

  It didn’t stick, though. And for almost five years, I’ve been gallivanting around the Internet and my hometown without handing out apologies for what I couldn’t change. This was the way I operated, take it or leave it.

  Georgia calls one of the students from the AV club up to the front office to show me to the room I need.

  The high school’s network room is measly, with just two towers in a musty enclosure. “This is the main server?”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes when the kid, a gangly boy with glasses too big for his face, nods. “Can I … can I watch you work?”

  “Top secret police business, kid, or I would let you.” I shrug, knowing I wouldn’t even if I could.

  Biting humor and harsh comments are my suit of armor. I am an introvert at heart, who much prefers the company of no one and is exhausted by too much conversation. The personality categorization comes out, even more, when I work; I don’t allow anyone to look over my shoulder.

  The student leaves awkwardly, and I make sure the door locks behind him. Sitting down, I pull my laptop from its bag and plug into the network, putting in some simple codes to decrypt the shitty security system they’ve put in place.

  “No wonder they’ve been hacked …” I muse aloud to myself.

  Exploring their elementary computer set up, I find myself shaking my head and clucking my tongue in disapproval several times. I’ll have to talk to the Board of Education about ramping up their security. Of course, they’ll agree, because I’ll do it for free and it’ll take me no time at all. Call it a fun side project.

  I did this for most of the businesses in town, at no cost. They were easy busy work, and I liked knowing that even if I couldn’t give them neighborly affection, I could help out most of Fawn Hill by ensuring that the town was digitally secure.

  “Gotcha,” I murmur when my mouse lands on the exact bit of information I was looking for.

  Right there, in the athletic budget, were the inconsistencies. The hacker had disguised the monetary theft well, cloaking the expenditures as uniform deductions or track meet fees. Travel costs, team dinner bills … you name it, this guy had used these false expenses as a way to cover up his stealing.

  But I noticed it in the way he coded. You see, hacking could be detected no matter how you did it if you had the eye to spot it. Each computer vigilante left his signature, and that made him traceable.

  So, while I might not be able to put a name or face to this asshole, I did know his style and the clues he left. And now, I could trace his trail of wreckage throughout the other networks in the county.

  To me, that was so much better than a sketch or a description.

  4

  Penelope

  Ames squirms in my arms as I lug him across the parking lot to the field.

  “Come on, buddy, help me out,” I whine, hiking him up my hip while the muscles in my arms protest.

  My baby boy is refusing to walk today. Something about the sea level rising or whatever notion he’s got in his head today. By the third kid, I didn’t care what they put on TV. I just needed to focus long enough to get lunches made, and that helped. Ames, he’s my hippy dreamer slash activist. Uninterested in video games or causing a ruckus out in the backyard, he’d rather watch Planet Earth and teach his classmates about recycling.

  It’s adorable and so noble, but on the days where it made me suffer, I was cranky about it. Especially the days where it meant I had to carry a forty-pound child up the bleachers to watch his brother’s T-ball game.

  “Hi, sweetheart. And hi to my lovey.” My mom’s face lights up when we reach her in the stands, and her arms outstretch to take Ames.

  He curls into his grandma’s arms and starts babbling about the newest Earth documentary he found on Netflix. My mother just watches him in awe, hands him a cup o
f carrots and ranch dressing, and still has time to look up and cheer when Matthew knocks the ball from the stand at home plate.

  “Go, buddy, go!” Travis’ Mom cries from the other side of my mom, the two grandma’s sitting side by side to cheer on their grandson.

  “Run, run, run!” I whoop, standing up and making the biggest scene I can for my middle boy.

  Sometimes, I feel like I need to take on the enthusiasm of two parents, just to show my kids how much they are loved and supported. It’s exhausting, but most of the time, I can’t wait to see what they’ll do next. And I think our whole family feels the same.

  My parents and Travis’ mom show up for every single event, whether it’s T-ball or a choir concert. They alternate picking the boys up from school or playdates and keep them one night every weekend according to the schedule they’ve worked out with each other. My mom has always been this involved; she and my dad were all about their three daughters when we were growing up. But now, with me being the only one to stay local, and have three crazy children to wrangle, it helps that she is so willing to lend a hand.

  I wasn’t sure, after Travis was gone, whether his mom would stay around. Of course, we all live in Fawn Hill so she’d be here physically, but I hadn’t expected much from her. After losing Travis’ father ten years earlier, Marion had always been a shell of the person my late husband once knew. He even said as much, noting that his mother wasn’t the same person after his dad passed at a relatively young age from a battle with heart disease. I thought that losing her only child would wreck her … and it did for a while.

  Losing Travis wrecked both of us, but it helps to have someone who knew him just as much as I did to lean on. It had taken almost a year and a half to finally get her to see the light again, and now she’s one of the boys favorite people. She can tell them stories about their father in a way I can’t and often finds old things of Travis’ to gift them.