Brent Payton wanted some decent music
while he was working.
Not
this pop-rock crap the radio had been playing but real rock ’n’ roll. Hell,
he’d take George Thurgood right about now. Some “Bad to the Bone”? Hells to the
yeah. That was better than a cup of coffee, which he could really use this
Monday morning.
He’d
volunteered to spring for an iPod and a docking station so he could play his
own music, but his technology-inept father had acted like Brent wanted to buy a
spaceship.
So
that was out.
“Brent,”
Cal’s voice called from the other bay of their garage at Payton Automotive.
“Yeah?”
“What’s
this shit on the radio?” his older brother asked. “Turn it down before my ears
bleed.”
Brent
snorted. Cal was grumpy on a normal basis. But now that he’d quit smoking and
wore a nicotine patch, he was even more insufferable. So Brent didn’t argue and
turned down the music.
A
truck rumbled into the parking lot, and Brent turned around, squinting to see
who it was.
Alex
Dawn, the new employee they’d hired a week ago, strolled into the garage, a
bandana wrapped around her head, wearing baggy jeans and a tight T-shirt. She
held a banana in one hand.
Brent
grinned and walked over to where she stood outside the door to the office,
looking over the schedule for the day. She peeled her banana and took a bite.
He leaned in and inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of estrogen in the morning.”
Her
lips twitched only slightly before she turned around and socked him in the
bicep, hard. The woman could hit.
He
howled dramatically and clutched his arm, swinging it limply from the elbow.
“I’m injured! I can’t work!”
While
Alex gazed at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement, he forgot about his injury,
grabbed her banana, and bit off half of it.
“You
asshole! That’s my breakfast!” Alex smacked him in the stomach, and he started
laughing, nearly choking on the banana. “I’m so stealing the Snickers you keep
hidden in the office.”
He
straightened in shock. “You wouldn’t.”
She
was smug, the witch. “I would.”
“That’s
war, woman.”
She
took the rest of the banana out of the peel and then tossed it so it landed on
his shoulder. “Then don’t mess with my banana.”
“That’s
some grade-D dirty talk,” he said, picking the peel off of his shoulder and
throwing it in the trash can.
“Will
you two quit it and get to work?” his dad, Jack, hollered, sticking his head
out of the office door. “It’s like you’re related.”
Brent
shrugged and walked over to the minivan to continue rotating its tires. Alex
smirked at him from her bay. Brent winked back.
Working
with Alex had been rocky at first. She had a chip on her shoulder—which she
refused talk about—and Brent really enjoyed trying to knock it off, which only
led to their sniping at each other. But when some asshole customer gave her a
hard time because she was a woman, and she told him to shove it—Payton and Sons
Automotive didn’t really have that customer-is-always-right policy—Brent
developed a newfound respect for her. When Brent backed her up in front of said
asshole, she began giving him some respect in return. And so they’d fallen into
this brother-sister type relationship that was actually kinda fun. Brent didn’t
really have friendships with women and especially not women he’d never fucked.
And
the thing about Alex was . . . he didn’t want to fuck her. It wasn’t because
she wasn’t hot, because she was. But the chemistry between them was . . . lacking.
Which surprised Brent. Because he was like hydrogen; he reacted with everyone.
Brent
worked quietly for the rest of the morning, singing to himself when decent
music came on, taking care of the minivan before moving on to the next job.
He
was draining oil from an old Toyota when he heard voices from the front of the
garage. He spotted Dick Carmichael talking to Alex. She pointed toward the back
room, where Cal had disappeared. The Carmichaels had been coming to the shop since
before Brent had started working there. Dick was a retired accountant, and his
wife still cut hair in an add-on at their house.
“Can
I help you, Dick?” Brent asked as he walked closer.
The
man turned to him. “Hey, Brent. Uh, no, that’s fine. I’ll just wait for Cal.”
“Oh,
well if you need—”
Dick
waved him on. “It’s fine. You can get back to work. I’m sure you want to break
for lunch soon.” He patted him on the shoulder, like he was a kid, and chuckled.
“Your dad always says that’s your favorite part of the day.”
Brent
tamped down the irritation. First, whatever Cal could help him with, Brent
could too. Second, yeah, Brent liked eating a hell of a lot, but that didn’t
mean he didn’t do his job.
So
he nodded and walked back to the Toyota. He didn’t look up when he heard Cal
return, when Dick spoke with Cal about some work he wanted to do to his
car—work that Brent would probably be assigned to, but he wasn’t Cal, the
responsible one.
Nor
was he Max, their younger brother, the first of them all to become a college
graduate.
Brent
was the middle brother, the joker, the comic relief. The irresponsible one.
Never
mind that he’d been working at this shop since he was sixteen. Never mind that
he could do every job, inside and out, and fast as fuck.
Never
mind that he could be counted on, even though no one treated him like that.
A
pain registered in his wrist, and he glanced down at the veins and tendons
straining against the skin in his arm, where he had a death grip on a wrench.
He
loosened his fist and dropped the tool on the bench.
This
wallowing shit had to stop.
This
was his life. He was happy (mostly) and free (no ball and chain, no way), and
so what if everyone thought he was a joke? He was good at that role, so the
typecasting fit.
“Why
so glum, sugar plum?” Alex said from beside him as she peered up into his face.
He
twisted his lips into a smirk and propped a hip on the counter, crossing his
arms over his chest. “I knew you had a crush on me, sweet cheeks.”
She
narrowed her eyes, lips pursed to hide a smile. “Not even in your dreams.”
He
sighed dramatically. “You’re just like all the ladies. Wanna piece of Brent.
There’s enough to go around, Alex; no need to butter me up with sweet
nicknames—”
A
throat cleared. And Brent looked over to see a woman standing beside them, one
hand on her hip, the other dangling at her side, holding a paper bag. Her dark
eyebrows were raised, full red lips pursed.
And
Brent blinked, hoping this wasn’t a mirage.
Tory,
Maryland, wasn’t big, and he’d made it his mission to know every available
female in the town limits and about a ten-mile radius outside of that.
This
woman? He’d never seen her. He’d surely remember if he had.
Gorgeous.
Long hair so dark brown it was almost black. Perfect face. It was September and
still warm, so she wore a tight striped sundress that ended mid-thigh. She was
tiny, probably over a foot smaller than he was. Fuck, the things that little
body made him dream about. He wondered if she did yoga. Tiny and limber was his
kryptonite.
Narrow
waist, round hips, big tits.
No
ring.
Bingo.
He
smiled. Sure, she was probably a customer, but this wouldn’t be the first time
he’d managed to use the garage to his advantage. Usually, he just had to toss
around a tire or two, rev an engine, whatever, and they were more than eager to
hand over a phone number and address. No one thought he was a consummate
professional anyway, so why bother trying to be one?
He
leaned his ass against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can I
help you?”
She
blinked, long lashes fluttering over her big blue eyes. “Can you help me?”
“Yeah,
we’re full service here.” He resisted winking. That was kinda sleazy.
Her
eyes widened for a fraction of a second before they shifted to Alex at his side
and then back to him. Her eyes darkened for a minute, her tongue peeked out
between those red lips, and then she straightened. “No, you can’t help me.”
He
leaned forward. “Really? You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Like,
how positive?
“I’m
one hundred percent positive that I do not need help from you, Brent Payton.”
That
made him pause. She knew his name. He knew he’d never met her, so that could
only mean she’d heard about him somehow, and by the look on her face, it was
nothing good.
Well,
shit.
He
opened his mouth, not sure what to say but hoping it would come to him, when
Alex began cracking up next to him, slapping her thighs and snorting.
Brent
glared at her. “And what’s your problem?”
Alex
stepped forward, threw her arm around the shoulder of the woman in front of
them, and smiled ear to ear. “Brent, meet my sister, Ivy. Ivy, thanks for
making me proud.”
They
were both smiling now, that same full-lipped, white-teethed smile. He surveyed
Alex’s face and then Ivy’s, and holy fuck—how did he not notice this right
away? They almost looked like twins.
And
the sisters were looking at him now, wearing matching smug grins—and wasn’t
that a total cock-block? He pointed at Alex. “What did you tell her about me?”
“That
the day I interviewed, you asked me to re-create a Whitesnake music video on
the hood of a car.”
He
threw up his hands. “Can you let that go? You weren’t even my first choice. I
wanted Cal’s girlfriend to do it.”
“Because
that’s more appropriate,” Alex said drily.
“Excuse
me for trying to liven it up around here.”
Ivy
turned to her sister, so he got a better glimpse of those thighs he might sell
his soul to touch. She held up the paper bag. “I brought lunch; hope that’s
okay.”
“Of
course it is,” Alex said. “Thanks a lot, since someone stole my breakfast.” She narrowed her eyes at Brent. Ivy
turned to him slowly in disbelief, like she couldn’t believe he was that evil.
Brent
had made a lot of bad first impressions in his life. A dad of one of his high
school girlfriend’s had seen Brent’s bare ass, while Brent was lying on top of
his daughter, before the dad ever saw Brent’s face. That had not gone over
well. And yet this impression might be even worse.
Because
he didn’t care about what that girl’s dad thought of him. Not really.
And
he didn’t want to care about what Ivy
thought of him, but, dammit, he did. It bothered the hell out of him that she’d
written him off before even meeting him. Did Alex tell her any of his good
qualities? Like . . . Brent wracked his brain for good qualities.
By
the time he thought of one, the girls had already disappeared to the back room
for lunch.
“Do you think we hurt his feelings?” Ivy picked at
a stray piece of lettuce hanging out of her sandwich.
She
didn’t meet her sister’s eyes, not even when Alex started making choking sounds
across from her at the small table in the back of Payton and Sons Automotive.
“E-excuse
me?” Alex stuttered.
Ivy
bit her lip and lifted her gaze to her sister’s. Alex had talked a lot about
Brent, and while there was an underlying platonic affection to her words, most
of her talk was complaining about how much of a pain in her ass he was. Maybe
Alex hadn’t been looking at Brent close enough during their conversation out in
the garage, but Ivy had been. She’d noticed the flash of frustration over his
face when they’d shut him down.
What
made her pause was that it seemed like frustration directed at himself, not at her.
Crap.
Ivy dipped her gaze back to her sandwich. This would not do. She and Alex had
basically stamped a big red X over all dicks—literal and figurative—for a good
long time. They’d already moved twice to get away from men who had ruined their
lives. Tory was supposed to be where they settled in, got their lives straight,
and raised Violet.
Ivy’s
defense mechanism was to immediately be cold to Brent. She could have gotten
bees with honey, but she didn’t want bees. Or honey. Or whatever. So she was
all stinger.
She
and Alex didn’t need men. The two of them and Violet would be just fine.
And
yet at this moment, Ivy couldn’t stop thinking about Brent. Alex hadn’t warned
her that he looked . . . like that.
Like six-feet, two-inches of hotness straight out of a Mechanics of Your Dreams
calendar. Jesus. That dark hair, those full lips that smirked, those slate eyes
that did nothing to hide the fact that this man was trouble with a capital T.
“Iv-eeeeee.”
Alex drew out her name in that way only big sisters could do when they planned
to interrogate.
Ivy
poked the wheat bread of her sandwich. “What?”
“Why
are you concerned about Brent’s feelings?”
She
didn’t know. Honestly and truly, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t forget that
momentary flash of emotion that passed over his face before he covered it with
a smirk. “I don’t know; he’s your coworker and—”
“I
know he’s basically sex on legs, Ivy, but he knows it. And I’d be hard-pressed
to find a woman who hasn’t taken a ride in this town.”
Ivy
pressed her lips together, chastising herself for letting her soft heart show.
She needed to focus on finding a job and raising her daughter. Those were her
priorities. Not going toe-to-toe with some cocky hot guy. “You’re right; forget
I said anything.” Ivy held up her index fingers and crossed them in an X. “No
men.”
“Ick,”
Alex spat.
“Gross,”
Ivy said.
Alex
grinned at her, and Ivy returned it, sipping from her iced tea. “So, work going
okay?”
“Yeah,
I like it here. Cal’s fair. Brent’s fun to work with. Jack’s still a hard-ass
but I think he’s warming to me.”
Alex
had told Ivy that Brent and Cal’s dad was a brick wall of gruff and stubborn.
“Good.”
“Violet
off to school okay?” Alex asked.
Ivy’s
daughter was in first grade at White Pine Elementary School in the Tory school
district. They’d moved in time for her start at the beginning of the school
year. “Her teacher called me again, saying Vi cried on and off this morning.”
Ivy knew moving was hard on her, but they hadn’t had much of a choice. “I hate
this.”
Alex
squeezed Ivy’s hand where it rested on the table. “It’s school. You’re not
torturing her. She’ll get used to it.”
Ivy’s
stomach rolled, thinking about it. “I hope.”
“She’s
a good kid. She just needs time.”
Ivy
sighed. “I guess.”
“Alex,”
a deep voice said from the doorway. Ivy craned her head to see a man who looked
a lot like Brent but . . . wasn’t Brent.
“Yeah?”
Alex answered.
The
man nodded at Ivy. “I’m Cal.” He turned to Alex. “Sorry. I know you’re eating
lunch, but got that customer of yours out front from last week. I tried talking
to her, but she likes you better.”
Alex
laughed. “Greta Sherman?”
“That’s
the one.”
She
balled up her empty sandwich wrapper. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,”
she said to Ivy.
Ivy
looked down at her half-eaten lunch. “I can leave—”
“Nah,
I’ll be right back. You finish eating.”
Alex
tossed her trash into the can on the way out.
Ivy
took a sip of her tea and picked at her sandwich. She’d spent all morning on
the computer, applying for jobs in and around Tory. It wasn’t necessarily a
mecca of job opportunities, but Alex had found a place she fit in, and the pay
wasn’t bad. Ivy had some savings, but it wasn’t going to last forever, and she
wanted to pull her weight in the little family they’d created.
Her
résumé was a bit slim. She had a high school diploma but no college degree,
having spent her early twenties raising Violet. Her job options in Tory were
working as a secretary for a lawyer, selling furniture at a department store,
or being a nanny.
None
was appealing.
But
at least they all paid.
The
chair across from her squeaked, and she lifted her gaze, opening her mouth to
tell Alex about her job options.
Except
Alex wasn’t sitting across from her.
Brent
was.
He
leaned back in his chair, feet up on the table and crossed at the ankle. He
held a packet of peanuts and tipped it so a couple fell into his mouth. He
chewed, steel eyes on her.
She
clenched her jaw shut.
He
swallowed. “You looked like you were going to say something.”
“Sure
I was. To Alex. But you’re not Alex.”
“No,
I’m not. But I’m a great listener.”
“I’m
sure,” she said drily.
His
lips quirked. “Want to hear about what other things I’m good at?”
“Not
particularly.”
“Because
I can do this thing with my tongue—”
Good God. “I don’t do this.”
“Don’t
do what?”
She
waved a hand between them. “This. Flirting.”
He
raised his eyebrows. “Babe, I haven’t even begun to flirt.”
She
took a deep breath to calm her rising blood pressure. “Don’t do that either.”
“Jesus!
Now what?” His exasperation might have been cute if she still had a heart.
“Nicknames.”
“Babe?”
“My
name is Ivy. I-V-Y. Three letters. Two syllables.” Even she wanted to cringe at
how much of a bitch she was being.
He
was studying her now, his face a little less amused and more . . . thoughtful.
She didn’t like thoughtful Brent. Amused, flirting Brent? Harmless. Thoughtful
Brent, who tried to look deeper? Dangerous as hell.
He
ran two fingers over his lips and then dropped his hand to the table, cocking
his head. “You’re just thorns everywhere I touch, aren’t you?”
She
froze at his words, like a deer in headlights because yes—yes, she was a whole
lot of thorns because she’d learned long ago they were necessary to protect all
her soft parts.
Brent
wasn’t done, though; his voice was softer when he spoke again. “You born that
way, or something make you that way, Ivy?”
She
swallowed. Yep, Brent Payton was dangerous in a sexy-as-hell package. His words
were seeping past those thorns, hitting all the spots where she was weak. So
she gathered herself and clenched her fists at her sides. “You’re just acting
like this because I’m the first woman who hasn’t fallen at your feet.”
He
laughed at that. “Fallen at my feet? Nah, there are plenty of women who’ve told
me to go to hell. My percentage is good, though. Maybe eighty-twenty.” He
grinned that shit-eating grin. “But you got me curious now. I wanna keeping
prodding until I find a place that isn’t a thorn. How long do you think that’ll
take me?”
Shit,
no; that’s exactly what she didn’t want. With those eyes that were smart and
trouble at the same time.
She
swallowed and straightened her spine. “You’ll never get close enough.”
He
cocked his head. “No?”
“No.”
He
hummed a little and leaned back in his chair again. He threw a peanut in the
air and caught it in his mouth. Then he chewed, with those steel eyes daring
her to look away. “Guess I gotta plan my attack better next time, huh? You
better work on those defenses.”
She
heard Alex’s voice as her sister made her way back to the lunchroom. Ivy smiled
and lifted her chin. “Who says I’ll be the one who needs defense?”
He
laughed sharply, like he was surprised. “Oh, babe, bring it.”
She
gritted her teeth. “Ivy.”
“Babe.
I call it as I see it, and you’re definitely babe.”
Ivy
growled.
He
smiled, and then he was up out of his chair and walking out the door as Alex
made her way in. Her eyes trailed Brent as he retreated to the garage.
Alex
turned to Ivy, eyes concerned. “Was he bothering you?”
Bothering
didn’t even touch it. “No, he’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Alex
shrugged. “I can talk to him—”
“Alex,
I swear, it was nothing, and even if it was, I could handle it.”
Her
sister eyed her and then stole a bite of her sandwich. “Fine; now eat. You’re
getting skinny.”
“Quit
mothering me.”
Alex
pointed to the sandwich with raised eyebrows, and Ivy glared at her as she took
a bite.
Megan Erickson grew up in a family that averages 5’5” on a good day and
started writing to create characters who could reach the top kitchen shelf.
. Published
September 15th 2015
by Avon Impulse. Source: eARC provided in exchange for an honest review
