Nailed: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

Nailed © 2016 Tara Wyatt

Cover design by Croco Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN 978-0-9950381-4-1

Contents

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

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Royal Treatment

Chapter 1

Books by Tara Wyatt

About the Author

Chapter 1

Y ou did what? Adam Hennessy pushed a hand through his hair, his grip tightening on his phone. He toyed with the hammer in his tool belt, waiting for Jared to explain himself. The August sun beat down on him, and he wiped at his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.

I backed my Jeep into my neighbor’s backyard. Took out her fence and her deck.

How the hell did you do that?

I was backing into my driveway, and I hit the gas instead of the brake. I panicked, and instead of taking my foot off the gas, I just, I dunno, I kept going, and I swerved to avoid my house. Went straight into her yard.

Adam blew out a slow breath, shaking his head. Jesus Christ. I love you, man, but you’re a fuckin’ terrible driver, you know that?

Thanks, asshole.

Cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Adam reached into his cooler for a bottle of water. He’d been working for hours now, sweating through his T-shirt. But you’re okay?

Yeah. Neighbor lady just about took my nuts off though.

Adam snorted, twisting the cap off his water bottle and taking a long pull before answering. You drove right into her yard. What did you expect? A welcoming committee and a fuckin’ parade?

Adam smiled at his own smart-assed joke, but Jared didn’t laugh. Hennessy, seriously. This chick’s scary. She tore a strip off me and threw a pot of flowers at my head. She was flipping out, man. Wicked gross mental fit.

Adam laughed, shaking his head at his friend, knowing full well that Jared was laying it on thick. He’d known him for almost thirty years—they’d become fast friends on the first day of kindergarten—and Jared was a lot of things. Loyal. Hardworking. A good friend. A bit of an asshole. And a chronic exaggerator. Can’t say I blame her.

Jared paused before continuing. So, listen. Don’t get mad.

Adam tensed, the muscles in his shoulders stiffening as he paused, the water bottle halfway to his mouth. What did you do?

She was yelling at me and throwing shit, and I…I promised her you’d fix it.

Adam sighed heavily, tilting his head back and closing his eyes against the sun beating down from directly above him. He scuffed the tip of his steel-toed work boot against a two-by-four lying on the ground in front of him beside his open tool chest. "Let me get this straight. You promised the dragon lady I’d fix the fence and deck that you drove through." His voice was flat, irritation rolling through him.

She was gonna kill me. I had no choice. I panicked.

Yeah, I’m sensing a theme here. He rubbed the cool, plastic exterior of the water bottle across his forehead, drops trickling down over his sweaty face. As much as he loved his job—building things, making something from raw pieces, bringing it together in a perfect meld of functionality and beauty—he couldn’t wait to pack it in for the day. A shower, a cold beer, and his couch were all calling his name.

In his empty house. Where all he had to eat were takeout leftovers.

So you’ll do it? Jared asked.

I’m booked solid right now, man. I can’t. Besides, I don’t do pro bono work. I’m not a fuckin’ lawyer.

Yeah, no. I understand. It’s not like I let you crash with me when your ex-wife kicked you out last year or nothin’.

Shit. The leaves of the maple tree in his client’s Back Bay yard rustled softly above him, the breeze drying the thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin. It was so damn muggy out that he might as well have been swimming in the ocean. He pulled at his sweat-darkened blue T-shirt, emblazoned with his Hennessy Carpentry logo, fanning the cotton away from his skin, just trying to move the air.

Goddammit, he did owe Jared a favor—a big one—for the way he’d let Adam stay with him after his marriage had gone down in flames over a year ago. He stared at the intricate lattice he’d assembled that adorned the top of the red cedar tongue-and-groove fence he’d spent the past three days putting up.

Adam? You there?

Yeah, I’m here. I’ll swing by her place tomorrow, see what I can do. Text me the address.

Thanks, man. I really appreciate it. Oh, and Hennessy?

Yeah? Adam took another sip from his water bottle before dumping the rest over the back of his head and down his neck.

You might want to wear a cup.

Charlie Grant stared at her computer screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard as the cursor blinked back at her expectantly. Dust motes swirled idly around her in the morning sun streaming in through the window above her desk. The sunlight bathed the room in a warm, cozy glow, the cheeriness of the morning totally out of sync with her current mood. She pulled her hands away from the keyboard and chewed on a thumbnail, fighting the urge to open her web browser. If she did, she’d go straight to Facebook, and then Twitter, and then ESPN.com, checking out last night’s scores instead of working on her column. Which was due tomorrow. And she had…five words so far.

She flipped through her coffee-ringed notebook, staring at the notes she’d taken during the last Red Sox game, wondering if she was on the wrong track with this week’s column. She’d planned on doing a profile of Dave Rossum, the Sox’s star relief pitcher, but it wasn’t coming together. Although she had lots of notes, all of her ideas felt flat. Uninspired, and uninteresting. She rolled her neck, trying to work out some of the tension gathered in her muscles. Her chest tightened, and she knew it was anxiety. Pressure.

She’d taken over the Boston Globe’s weekly Red Sox column at the start of the season four months ago, and each column needed to be better than the last. Even though it was the twenty-first century, and gender equality blah blah blah, the truth was that women still weren’t entirely welcome in sports journalism, especially not twenty-eight-year-olds with limited experience. So, with each column, Charlie felt the need to prove herself. To shut them all up with how well-written and insightful it was. To show them that her gender and age didn’t matter. Each column was a step forward in her career, a building block for the future she envisioned for herself.

Taking a deep breath, she shook out her hands, knocking over a stack of papers and magazines and an empty beer bottle from her cluttered desk. She rolled her chair back to retrieve the spilled items, the wheels crunching over the chip crumbs she’d spilled the other day and hadn’t cleaned up.

Charlie could do lots of things. Was good at lots of things. She could write. She could run for three or four miles and barely break a sweat. She was kind to dogs and children. She could sing, better than most. She could teach her mother