The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(6)

A slow grin spread across my face. “Pierce didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Earlier today, on the sidewalk outside The Refinery, Nellie had been genuinely shocked to see me. Which meant she had no idea. She probably thought I was here on vacation.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Do you think that house across the street is for sale?”

She gulped. “You’re moving here?”

“I’m moving here.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

I leaned in closer. “Tell you what. I’ll do you a favor. I’ll cart one more box upstairs. Since it’s the neighborly thing to do.”

“You cannot move to Calamity.”

“Watch me.”

Her hands balled into fists. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Watch that foul language.” I tsked my tongue, then grabbed the closest box and hauled it upstairs.

Taunting her was like trash-talking the best lineman on a fourth-down conversion attempt. Either I’d find a way to get the ball down field, or I’d get my ass sacked. Regardless, the game was a rush.

Nellie Rivera was my most formidable opponent.

The sound of the front door opening and closing rang through the house. I stepped toward the office’s window, spotting Nellie and Elias in the yard again. She’d found a ball for him to toss.

She had a smile on her face but there was a tension in her shoulders. A tightness to her moves. I’d known her long enough to know the difference between riling her up and truly getting beneath her skin.

And today, I was in there deep. Nellie did not want me moving to Calamity.

A better man would have walked away. A better man would have given her this town to claim as her own.

But, like she’d said, I was an asshole.

I plopped the box beside my feet. The top hadn’t been taped shut like the others, and as it landed, the flaps popped loose, revealing rows of books inside. One with an orange spine caught my eye, so I picked it up, inspecting the cover. It was a compilation of articles from the Harvard Business Review.

I flipped it open, skimming through the pages. A few of the articles I recognized, having read them myself. Most people, Nellie included, probably thought I’d spent the past decade reading only playbooks.

But I’d read and researched and put my money to work. I used the Harvard degree I’d worked my ass off to earn. They’d needed a star quarterback, and I’d wanted an Ivy League education. It had been a win-win. My father had paid my tuition, but after graduation, I hadn’t taken a cent from that man. Not even a birthday or Christmas gift. I’d sworn never to be indebted to him again.

It was bad enough knowing his blood ran through my veins.

I returned the book to the box, rifling through the pile. Maybe there’d be one I hadn’t read yet. Except the educational texts stopped midway through the box. Beneath them were leather journals. My fingers skimmed a suede cover, and I pulled it out, unwrapping the strap that bound it together. One glance inside and I knew exactly what I held.

Nellie’s diary.

A better man would have left it at peace.

My fingers began flipping, stopping on a page filled with Nellie’s precise, clean handwriting. A familiar name jumped out from the paper. Phoebe McAdams, the head cheerleader. And a bitch, according to Nellie’s entry—which wasn’t wrong.

The date in the upper right-hand corner put this journal nineteen years ago. We’d been fourteen. This diary was from our freshman year at Benton. A lot had happened that year. A lot had changed.

Flipping to the next page, I found Pierce’s name. Nellie was on a rant about how he’d scored higher on an algebra exam and how all she’d wanted was to beat him for valedictorian. In one of these other diaries, the one from senior year, I’d likely find the gloating entry where she’d won.

I should have expected what came next. I should have expected to see my name in this book. Still, my hands tightened on the diary as I read. My heart thumped hard against my sternum.

I hate Cal Stark.

That was it. Four words, written so many times on the page that my eyes began to cross.

On the next entry, there was a different date in the corner, but those same four words sat alone on the top line.

I hate Cal Stark.

Damn. Maybe deep down, I’d hoped . . .

Who was I kidding? There was no hope.

The sound of the door opening jolted my gaze away from the book, and I slammed the cover closed.

“Unka Cal!” Elias called from downstairs.

“Coming!” I hollered back, bending to right the books and resecure the box’s flaps. Then I jogged downstairs, ruffling Elias’s dark hair when he hugged me at the knee.

“Pierce just called,” Nellie said.

“Okay.” I tried not to let it bother me that he’d called her instead of me. I tried not to see those written words but they were burned into my mind. Nellie hated me. No surprise. So why couldn’t I look at her face?

“Everything is going well, albeit slowly,” she said. “Kerrigan and the baby are both doing fine. Kerrigan’s mom is going to come by in a while and pick up Elias. She’ll take him home with her.”

“Great.” That was what I’d needed to hear. Now I was clear to leave. I crouched in front of Elias, holding up a hand for a high five. “Bye, champ. I’ll see you soon, okay?”