Miss Trailerhood by Carina Taylor (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📗

"Louis Nathaniel Mercier!" I called when he stepped out of the Jeep. He hated it when I called him by his full name. "What are you doing here?"

“You know that guy?” Tony asked. I ignored him.

I thought I had cleared it up with Nate. I'd hoped that I'd been mean enough that he wouldn't want anything to do with me. I needed to burn that bridge—possibly blow it up. I needed Gabe the Gunrunner.

“Oh, I see. Did he steal your Jeep for you too?” Tony kept going.

“For the last time, I bought that Jeep. I didn’t steal it,” I ground out.

Why would Nate come back? For my sanity, I couldn’t be around him. It would be best for him to not be around me.

At the same time, I missed him. I missed Nola. I wanted to be with him again. I wanted to be back with the Mercier family—the closest thing I had to a family of my own.

But I couldn't. I’d made my choice to leave them before they could leave me. There were too many complications.

I didn’t want him coming here and reminding me of what I’d given up.

Shaking my head, I was tired of the back-and-forth battle in my head. I had to do what was necessary.

I stepped toward the single-wide. He would not live here. I wouldn't let him just waltz back into my life like this.

I would go in there and drag him out. Whether it was figurative or literal, I wasn't sure yet—that depended on him.

I didn't even knock when I reached the narrow porch in front of the single-wide. I opened the door and walked in.

Nate was setting a box down on the kitchen counter. The single-wide had seen better days, but it wasn't the worst in the park.

No one had been cooking up anything illegal inside—at least not in the last couple of years. And now, Nate would make this his home unless I did something about it.

"You are not staying here."

He glanced up with a small smile on his face, as if he’d known I would come. "I'm not?"

"No, you are not," I replied firmly. I marched into the kitchen, grabbed the box off the counter that he had set there, and walked back outside. I set it down on the small porch and then walked back inside, planted my hands on my hips, and glared at him.

I took a deep breath, determined to not lose my temper at him. He assumed I’d outgrown my rash temper; he was wrong. I was barely containing it. “Were you not listening yesterday when I told you you were not welcome here?"

He started whistling a tune as he walked past me, his shoulder brushing against mine as he opened the door. When had his shoulders become so sculpted? He grabbed the box off the porch and carried it back into the kitchen to set it on the counter again.

"No!" I exclaimed. He glanced over his shoulder at me, raised his eyebrows, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a knife and slowly flipped it open.

I watched in horror as he used it to cut open the box. He whistled a tune and dragged the knife against the tape.

Who did a ceremonial opening of the first box in a new house? He exaggerated his motions and accentuated it with the song he was whistling.

"Home sweet home,” he said as he pulled out several frames and leaned them against the wall.

"No," I whispered.

"Right. They'd be much better on that wall over there." He picked up a frame in one hand while he grabbed a hammer and nails with the other. “Now, do we want this one to be the centerpiece, or should we make a collage?”

“You need to put that back in the box,” I exclaimed. “You are not living here. Don’t you have a life?”

“Well, you said you had your own life here,” he replied. Then he grinned. “What's enough of a life for you is enough for me!"

"I wish you had a life," I retorted. "You need to get out of here."

"I don't think so. I own this house and a nice house it is." He tapped his fist against the counter and a piece of laminate countertop chipped off and fell to the floor with a soft click. He cleared his throat, and I did my best to not laugh. He marched past me into the living room and held up the frame. “Picture it right here! I think it’s the perfect spot,” he said. He stuck a nail in his mouth and readied the hammer, all while juggling the frame.

This was it. This was him putting down roots. It was like a homesteader driving a stake. He couldn’t. If he stayed, I would become too attached—again—and then he would leave me, just like everyone else did. I preferred to be the one in charge. I controlled who was in my life now. I couldn’t afford to be hurt—not when I needed to look after Wren.

"Put it down!" I stomped across the empty living room. It took me three steps in such a small space. Wrapping my hand around his wrist, I pushed the hammer back down. Next, I gently took the nail from between his lips. The tips of my fingers brushed against them. I jerked my fingers back and set the nail down on the windowsill with a slam.

The thin trim below the window fell to the ground with a crash.

Nate sighed loudly. "This is why having guests is such a pain. They always break things. They never take care of your home the way you would."

He leaned the picture frame against the wall. I glanced at it. It was a picture of him wearing a suit and posing like a James Bond character. I wished it surprised me. I wished I could take my eyes off of it. Nate was all grown up. Why couldn’t I think of him as a little boy anymore? He was