Hard to Handle

HARD TO HANDLE HOW YOU GET THE GIRL BOOK 2 MEIKA USHER Copyright © 2023 by Meika Usher All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum To all the badass women in my life. You know who you are. ALSO BY MEIKA USHER THE BREAKAWAY SERIES: Something So Sweet Goodnight & Go Ready to Run HOW YOU GET THE GIRL: Make a Move CONTENTS 1. VAUGHN 2. ANYA 3. VAUGHN 4. ANYA 5. VAUGHN 6. ANYA 7. VAUGHN 8. ANYA 9. VAUGHN 10. ANYA 11. VAUGHN 12. ANYA 13. VAUGHN 14. ANYA 15. VAUGHN 16. ANYA 17. VAUGHN 18. ANYA 19. VAUGHN 20. ANYA 21. VAUGHN 22. ANYA 23. VAUGHN 24. ANYA 25. VAUGHN 26. VAUGHN 27. ANYA 28. ANYA 29. VAUGHN 30. ANYA 31. VAUGHN 32. ANYA 33. VAUGHN 34. ANYA 35. ANYA 36. VAUGHN 37. ANYA 38. VAUGHN 39. ANYA 40. ANYA 41. VAUGHN 42. ANYA 43. VAUGHN Acknowledgments About the Author 1 VAUGHN “Come on, Vaughn. Haven’t you ever wanted to save a damsel in distress?” I looked up from a mountain of paperwork to find my waitress, Birdie, leaning over the bar. The pendant lights above her caught a spark in her blue eyes as she gave me her most convincing smile. I blinked at her, unmoved. “No.” “Okay, but. Hear me out.” She pushed away from the bar and walked around it, stopping beside me. “Nate’s brother is staying at our place, and my sister’s out of town, so she can’t stay with her.” She paused, probably for dramatic effect. “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” I growled. Birdie knew full-well that I had a comfortable couch upstairs and a habit of letting people crash on it. She’d crashed there more than a few times in the years we’d known each other. But Anya… I looked across the bar as Anya tossed a fried mushroom into the air. Her blue hair fell over her shoulders as she tilted her head back to catch it. She leapt from her seat, arms up in victory. The chair clattered to the floor, drawing stares from all three people currently enjoying a drink on this fine Tuesday evening at Heathcliff’s. I gathered up my stack of papers and shoved them into a folder. I had payroll to go over and I was getting nowhere out here.“That’s no damsel,” I said as I pushed away from the counter. “And she hardly looks distressed.” “Where ya going?” Birdie stepped in front of me, halting my escape. “Office,” I grumbled. “Got shit to do and can’t hear myself think out here.” I started forward, but Birdie sidestepped, stopping me again. “Anya’s a pussycat, I swear.” As Birdie spoke, Anya crossed the bar and plopped into the chair across from Cranky Carl, one of the few regulars we had left. The old man glared, but, undeterred, Anya reached across the table and stole a few fries from his plate. I winced. Any minute now, Carl was going to march across the bar and demand— A raucous laugh echoed throughout the space. I watched, shocked, as Carl leaned back and opened his mouth for Anya to throw a fry into. I folded both arms over my chest. “You know the last time she was here, she drew a penis with a man bun in the women’s room?” Birdie tried to hide her smirk of amusement, her eyes traveling to my hair, which was currently pulled into something that eerily resembled the dick ‘do. I glared. “That won’t happen again,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’ll, uh, make sure of it.” “Something tells me Anya’s not really the type you can rein in.” I shot another glance her way. “Not that I think women should be reined in, I just…” “You hate her. I know.” Birdie scooted in next to me, resting her head against my shoulder. “But she’s desperate,” she continued. “She’s desperate and alone and in need of a kind soul to help her out.” She tilted her head to grin up at me. “By way of providing a couch for her to crash on.” I grimaced at the thought of this…creature invading my personal space. Generally, I was all for helping where I could. But this was a line I wasn’t sure I wanted to cross. From the moment Anya walked into my bar last year, flanked by Birdie and her boyfriend, she’d rubbed me the wrong way. She was loud and rude and…loud again. And I valued my peace and quiet. Especially after a day like today. I wasn’t feeling very generous. I was feeling like a failure. I’d been keeping my family’s bar open with sheer stubbornness and a dwindling savings. Today, I’d met with the bank to apply for a loan. It…had not gone well. I ignored the echo of words like debt-to-income and collateral and no, and returned my attention to Birdie. Today was not the day to appeal to my generosity. “I don’t hate her,” I grumbled as my grip tightened on my folder. “I just don’t like her very much.” “She’s a grower, for sure.” Birdie squeezed my arm. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought there was a chance it would end in mutual murder.” That brought me pause. “Wait. She doesn’t like me, either?” The look Birdie gave me answered my question. “So, why’s she okay with this arrangement?” “Again. Damsel. Distress.” Just then, as if she could sense me looking at her, Anya glanced our way. Her eye caught mine and, for a flash, I swore I caught a hint of vulnerability. Or maybe it was gas. She looked away before I could decipher the difference. “What if I say no?” I asked Birdie. “Motel,” she replied. “Or car.” That