Rhonda Nelson - The Rule-Breaker

“Micah would have loved it,” Carl remarked, a palpable ache in his voice. “And that’s what counts.”

Yes, he would have, Eli thought. Micah had always said he’d wanted to build a bigger version of the cabin, had planned on logging the lumber himself. Shelby no doubt knew that, too, and had managed to create something that would honor her former fiancé, but capture the spirit of the town, as well. It was a delicate equation to balance, but she’d managed it beautifully.

His gaze strayed to her shop across the street. Though the windows were crowded with well-dressed mannequins featuring her designs, he caught a glimpse of her behind the counter and felt a bolt of warmth land in his chest and spread through the rest of his body, most particularly his groin. Awareness slid down the length of his dick, making him shift to find a more comfortable position. He gritted his teeth as need bombarded him, that of the relentless variety, the kind that he imagined ruined kings and started wars.

He was about to mount the biggest battle of his career, Eli thought...and God help him, it was with himself.

* * *

SHELBY WAS JUST ABOUT to lock up and close the shop when the bell above the door tingled, heralding the arrival of another customer. Though she typically didn’t mind staying late—and had been known to meet clients down at the store after hours in order to help out in a fashion emergency or to accommodate a schedule—today wasn’t one of those days.

She was emotionally wrung dry after her reunion with Eli this morning. She’d also had a steady stream of clients in and out all day, and she had just enough time, if she left now, to go home and freshen up before heading over to the Hollands’ place. As a result, she was not happy when she looked up and even less pleased when she saw who was standing there.

Katrina Nolan.

Micah had briefly dated Katrina during college, before he and Shelby had reconnected, and Katrina, who’d never been one of Shelby’s biggest fans, positively hated her now. She’d never set foot in Shelby’s shop, never spoke to her and had glared white-hot daggers at her during Micah’s service. Sally had told her that Katrina had tried to rekindle things with Micah when their engagement ended, but that Micah hadn’t been interested. Shelby hadn’t been the least bit surprised—that Katrina had made the effort, or that Micah hadn’t been interested.

Katrina had recently gone to work for the local paper and fancied herself some sort of small-town Lois Lane. She was constantly digging around in people’s trash, had supposedly paid spies to troll the beauty parlor and post office for juicy gossip, and just generally made everyone uncomfortable. It was widely suspected that the only person Katrina had any real dirt on was the editor of The Branches, Les Hastings, because any other paper would have fired her by now. Shelby didn’t have any idea why the woman was here, but knew that it wasn’t to plan a sleepover.

This wasn’t going to be good. A skitter of foreboding tingled down her spine.

Shelby didn’t ask if she could help her because she didn’t want to. She lifted a cool brow. “Yes?”

“I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” Katrina asked, completely unrepentant.

“Actually, you did. I’m closing in—” she glanced pointedly at the clock above the door “—two minutes.”

Katrina’s lips slid into a hard smile. “Not to worry,” she said. “What I have to say won’t take that long.”

Shelby returned the same insincere grin, the kind that Southern girls learned to perfect from the cradle. “Wonderful. Because I’ve got to get over to Sally and Carl’s for dinner and it would be rude to be late.”

The dig landed, making Katrina’s mouth harden. While the whole town might be invited to the dedication of the memorial, only the people Carl had picked to help build and design it were invited to their home. Willow Haven was a small town, so there were very few people not on that list...but Katrina was one of them. Mean? Petty?

Yes.

But very satisfying all the same.

“Yes, I wouldn’t want to keep you. Funny how that’s worked out,” Katrina mused, strolling forward. She stopped and picked up a sundress—one of Shelby’s favorites—then grimaced as though she’d smelled something bad and returned it to the stand. “Even when you aren’t part of the family—and never intended to be—you still manage to have a seat at that table.” She looked up, her gaze almost triumphant, knowing. “I wonder if you’ll still have that spot when they find out that Micah’s gun didn’t misfire, that he killed himself because of you.”

A cold sweat broke out over the back of Shelby’s neck and her throat went instantly dry. She’d wondered if it had been Katrina sending the letters, but it had seemed out of character. Katrina, as evidenced, wasn’t sneaky. She was direct. She liked to play with her victims before pouncing.

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