Page 51 of Small Town, Big Storm

But she’s still talking.

“I have prosecco,” she cajoles.

The tightness between my shoulder blades softens.

Not even Storm Harrison could keep me away from gorgeous smelling flowers and crisp, bubbling prosecco.

I loop my arm through Clover’s.

“You’re on.”

Fifteen

Storm

“Higher,”Rain orders.

I grunt and heft the beam higher.

“Higher,”Rain says.

My arms are burning—and fuck, even my trainer at the Hawks isn’t this cruel.I shove the heavy ass chunk of wood up another inch and his drill starts whirring.

Thankfully it’s not too much longer before he tells me I can let go.

I step down from the ladder, roll my aching shoulders, and look around the space.

Objectively, it looks worse.

A whole fuckinglotworse.

In just a matter of a day, most of the drywall has been pulled off the walls.The floor is torn up.The kitchen is demolished, and we’re surviving with only a fridge and microwave in the garage.Which means we’ll be surviving by grilling meat and drinking beer and eating at the diner and Molly’s Bakery for the foreseeable future.

At least I’m getting my meal plan’s protein in.

But I will definitely need some variety.

Or something green.

Maybe I’ll get a salad at Molly’s this afternoon.

Except…the muffins.

How can I possibly choose a salad over those peaches and cream muffins?Or their rosemary and cheddar topped focaccia?

Or their apple and brie grilled cheese with fig jam and homemade kettle chips?

My stomach rumbles and I look, see that it’s well past lunch.

We’ve been so focused on destruction—ha, ifthatisn’t a Harrison Classic through and through—that we haven’t paid attention to the time.

“I need to eat.”

“Got some steaks in the fridge I can grill up,” Rain says.

The only thing that’s new on this entire fucking property is the grill.

And perfectly fucking clean.