The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series

by Miller, Cassie-Ann L.

  A shot of adrenaline zips through my veins and I lose my grip on the fork. The rush of blood from my brain to my groin is instant, not a sensation I'm thrilled to be experiencing while I'm standing next to my mother, mind you.

  The clang-clang-clang of the metal prongs hitting the PVC floor tiles causes Angie to jolt. With lethargic movements, she massages her temple and straightens into a standing position, a candy bar clenched in her fist. Her pretty, wincing face pivots in our direction.

  I laugh internally. She’s hungover from last night. It’s cute as hell.

  Her brows furrow as she squints at me through her glasses. I’m not surprised that she throws me a quick and nasty scowl. But her jaw drops into a wide ‘O’ when her sights land on my mother. “Mrs. Riggs?”

  Mom’s hand grasps at my forearm and her nails dig into my skin. She blinks a dozen times in rapid succession as if she’s staring right at a ghost. "Angela? Is that you?"

  Suddenly wide awake, Angie shoves the candy bar into her pocket as she comes charging down the hallway at high speed. "Oh my god!" she shrieks as she and my mother collide in a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

  "Benjie didn't tell me you were back in town!" Mom exclaims as she cups Angie's cheeks in her hands. Her attention flits to me for a fraction of a second. "Ben, did you know she was back in town?" The woman doesn’t even wait for an answer. She's already resumed her gushing over Angie.

  The two of them were obsessed with each other back in the day. No doubt, in part because Angie had such a difficult relationship with her own mother. I can't count how many Saturday afternoons they spent together baking cookies or poking at the tomatoes that used to grow in our backyard. Mom was so devastated when I broke up with Angie. It didn’t help that she was still mourning my father at that point. She got closer to disowning me than she ever has.

  Anyway, right now, the two women are picking up right where they left off, like they haven't skipped a beat. I can’t take my eyes off of Angie. She’s sexily disheveled and completely unassuming with her unkempt bangs and the pillow wrinkles on her cheek. I could stare at her forever.

  But when she glimpses at me with her adorable what-are-you-looking-at? expression, I realize that my doting gaze may be a little bit creepy. Just a little.

  With an impish grin, I slip my empty container into my mother’s purse and start backing away into the cafeteria. “I'll just be over here picking up some lunch for Clyde...y'know, in case you're looking for me."

  Angie glares at me again. Nope—she definitely won’t be looking for me.

  Chuckling under my breath, I pick up a clean tray and move along the counter, checking out the meals displayed behind the glass. I’m guessing that last night is still fresh in Angie’s mind. That’s what all the frowning is about. She’s pissed. When we were together at the bar, I made her feel something even though she was determined not to. I made her remember what things were like between us even though she was fighting to shut those memories out.

  I wish she’d just sit down with me, talk with me. Then maybe I could make her see that I still love her. But she thinks I’m a cold bastard. She probably thinks I went home with another woman last night after she walked out of the club. That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

  When Angie left the Opal Lounge, so did I. She refused to let me take her home but there was no way I'd let her stubbornness get her hurt. So, I kept a safe distance and watched her stumble down the sidewalk to the street corner. I watched her lean against the light pole at the intersection on a red light. Then she limped across the street into the hotel lobby. Like a freak, I peeked in through the front door to make sure that she got onto the elevator safely to make her way up stairs.

  Y'see, Angie may hate me because she doesn't know the truth and I may never get the chance (or the nerve) to tell it to her but now that she's back in my sights, I'll do what I have to do to make sure she's all right. No amount of her tough-girl posturing will make me forget about her.

  She’s not the type of girl you can just forget.

  She’s the most complex, interesting, quick-witted person I know. She could be extoling the miraculous properties of coconut oil one minute and then effortlessly segue into decrying the covert dictatorial regimes of Southeast Asia and then transition to a discussion of the hottest trends in Brazilian women’s fashion, all without skipping a beat. Plus, she’s beautiful. Doe eyes. Soft skin. Lush curves. Every part of her is pure temptation. She’s also kind, thoughtful, generous and she can never turn down someone in need of help. She’s the whole package. It’s rare to find all those traits in one person.

  Seeing her standing there with my mom all these years later—it’s doing strange things to my heart. It's a throwback to when all was right in the world. Before dad died. Before that avalanche of debt came crashing down on my mother's shoulders. When Angie was my girl, it seemed like nothing in this world could split us up.

  I bask in the memory as I pay for the food and pick up the plastic tray stacked with sandwiches, juice boxes and fruit for my stepfather. As I’m walking back over to where the women are standing, one corner of my mouth is curled up into a smile. Angie’s expression has softened just a bit. When she stares at me, she hardly looks like she wants to rip out my windpipe with her bare hands. Things are definitely looking up.

  My mother's gaze darts between the two of us and she claps her hands together, hardly able to manage her excitement. I see that dangerous glint in her eyes. She's picking out names for the grandbabies right this minute.

  "Angie—you're coming over for dinner this weekend," mom announces decidedly, leaving no room for argument.

  Those pretty dark eyes flit across to me from behind her glasses and she looks downright nervous. "Oh, I'll probably be working this weekend..." He gaze quickly snaps away from mine.

  "Okay, so you'll come over one night during the week. Or we can do brunch at the house."

  “I don’t think that would work. I’ve been so busy with this new job.” She’s lying. I know this for two reasons. Firstly, her eyebrows twitched. Whenever Angela Gallo lies, her eyebrows twitch. It’s a truth, universally acknowledged. Secondly, just one glance around this place clearly demonstrates that there isn’t much going on in this hospital. Angie lied. She doesn’t want to get cornered into dinner at my childhood home and that’s understandable. Just tell that to my mother.

  Mom’s lips turn down with disappointment. “Well, they’ve got to give you a break sometime. They can’t work you around the clock.” Did I mention how persistent my mother is when she sets her mind to something? 'No' is not an option for her.

  Angie's shoulders sag as she gives in. "I'll check my schedule and let you know." My mom claps with glee and throws her arms around the pretty girl's shoulders, gushing about how excited she is. Despite the uncertainty in Angie’s features, there’s a little subtle smile on her face, too. "Okay, I've really got to get back to work."

  "Yes, don't let us keep you, darling," Mom says, giving her hand a squeeze.

  Angie gives a slight wave as she turns down the hall. "Bye." She's careful to avoid my eyes as she says it.

  Damn, that girl is a brick wall when she wants to be.

  Her hand dips into her pocket to pull out her candy bar. I cringe on the inside.

  "Angie—wait," I call after her. Her steps falter and she throws me a hesitant look over her shoulder.

  I know she wants to make a snarky remark, but she cuts a quick glance to my mother and bites her tongue. "Yes?" she says, straining to be sweet.

  I jog over to where she's standing and hand her a shiny red apple from my tray. Yes, I’m totally stealing a move from the Clueless Third-Grader with a Crush Handbook. It's sad but my resources are limited right this minute.

  She draws in an exasperated breath, like she’s tempted to turn down my offer. I resist the urge to lift my fingers to the crooked collar of her scrub shirt and straighten the neckline. "Take it," I urge her quietly. "It's good for the hangover. Bette
r than that chocolate bar."

  “Is it poisoned?” she shoots back, a ghost of a smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

  Tilting my head to the side, I watch her with an arched brow. "As if I'd ever hurt you."

  She scoffs bitterly. "As if you haven’t already."

  Her words have the impact of a brick to the chest. She's right. She has no reason to trust me. I've already shown her how dangerous that could turn out to be.

  But her eyes move over my shoulder and they soften immediately. I'd almost forgotten we had an audience. My mother.

  She snatches the fruit from my hand and mutters a reluctant, “Thank you,” before spinning on her toe and stealing open the door to the stairwell. Right as the door is swinging closed, my gaze skitters down her smokin’ hot body. I don’t mind the view. Not at all.

  Her ass in those duck-pattern scrubs is gonna be a problem. I adjust my erection in my pants.

  And because my mother has the most impeccable timing in human history, she sidles right up to me with a thoughtful look on her face. "Y'know, she'd probably look gorgeous in off-white lace, but every time I picture her walking down the aisle, I see her in ivory satin..."

  I angle my head and pin the over-presumptuous woman with a glare.

  She giggles innocently. "Just sayin'."

  "Come on—let's go feed your husband," I tell her as I slide an arm around her shoulder and guide her to the elevator.

  The thought of Gigi walking down the aisle toward me flickers across my mind and I grin. I may not be an expert on bridal fashion but I'd marry that girl even if she were wearing a potato sack.

  Chapter Eight

  Angie

  I wipe off the apple on the hem of my shirt as I nudge open the door to the interns’ on-call room with my shoulder.

  Ugh! I feel like shit.

  I have an epic case of dry mouth. Plus, it feels like someone scraped my brain out of my head and replaced it with a ball of steel wool. I am never drinking again. In fact, if you ever see me within ten yards of a bottle of tequila, you have permission to drag me away by my bra straps, kicking and screaming.

  On a pained exhale, I plod across the room and drop onto the edge of the bottom bunk. I toe off my sneakers one at a time and carefully lower myself onto the mattress—y’know to avoid knocking about the remaining shards of my brain.

  Just as I’m about to take a bite out of the apple, Ben’s face plays across my mind…I’m really not going to be able to avoid this guy, am I?

  It seems that he’s there around every corner, smelling good and being kind and totally not fitting the construct of the bad guy I painted in my mind. After our breakup, I built up this image of him. I imagined him as cruel, arrogant, uncaring. I imagined him as a caricature, a vile man who rips out hearts and stomps on them while laughing with pure abandon. But that’s not the person he’s been showing himself to be since I came back to town. It’s seriously throwing me off my game, making me question the conclusions I’ve held tightly to for so long. Maybe I’m wrong about him. Maybe he’s not the cold, heartless asshole I convinced myself that he is. Or maybe he’s changed. My heart flutters just a little at the possibilities.

  I don’t want to be a fool again but it’s hard to keep my thoughts from floating back to the way things were before it all fell apart.

  How could something that started out so innocently, so pure devolve into the mess that it is today?

  My ears are ringing from Dad’s latest ranting monologue. I swear, the man will never run out of things to complain about.

  Tonight, it's the saltshakers. He' s literally been yelling about the salt and pepper since the last customers left the dining room a half-hour ago. He’s convinced that the fine patrons of Gallo’s Resto-Bar must be stealing the seasonings from the tiny dispensers on the dining tables. To him, that's the only logical explanation for why they’d have to be refilled twice a week. He’s considering eliminating the saltshakers completely as a strategy to save the restaurant money. Meanwhile, my mom has deep tissue massages twice a week.

  Eye roll.

  This is why I study so much. To avoid having to work shifts in this madhouse. When I've got my nose buried in a book, my parents leave me alone. I tend to avoid this place but today was Nonna Lucia’s 80th birthday bash so I ended up hanging around after the festivities to lend a hand in the dining room.

  Anyway, all the other workers have clocked out and I'm more than ready to call it a night as I trudge down the back hall to the women’s locker room to grab my backpack. As I'm zooming past the kitchen, I notice a light on and there’s music playing, too. Someone forgot to turn off the radio. I slip into the room to flick off the switch. God knows that the last thing we need is another tirade from my dad about wasting electricity.

  But when I step into the room, I realize that it’s not the radio playing. Not at all.

  My heart gallops in my chest at the sight of Benjie Riggs at the sink, up to his elbows in soapsuds and dirty dishes. And that music I heard from all the way down the hall? That wasn't the radio. It's him. Crooning like freaking Frank Sinatra.

  I brake in my tracks and his head rotates in my direction. An easy smile sweeps across his face and dimples pinch at his cheeks. "Hey."

  Desperate to steady myself, I reach for the doorjamb because now it feels like someone just snuck up behind me and kicked both of my knees out from beneath me. “H-hey…”

  His low, rumbling laugh vibrates the hollow of my belly. "You look surprised to see me."

  The hot guy from my Physics class, the one who leads his own pop band and plays on the football team and stars in my nightly fantasies—he’s standing in the kitchen of my family restaurant. The temperature in my cheeks shoots through the roof. "You work here?" He and I don’t run in the same circles. He’s got groupies of all varieties, in all shapes, sizes, genders and ethnicities. Me? I mostly stick to myself.

  With his tanned forearm, he wipes sweat from his brow. His dark blond hair is a bit of a mess. A rebellious lock drops across his forehead. "Yeah, I got lucky. I came by and talked to your dad last week and he hired me. Summer's coming up. Need some extra cash." He dries his hands on the dishtowel he yanks off his shoulder.

  "Extra cash..." I repeat dumbly, transfixed by his shimmery eyes. God, those eyes are blue. Like cobalt glitter glue.

  He drifts a few feet closer. "You have plans for the summer?" Am I imagining that his eyes are zeroing in on my breasts? I must be imagining it.

  An awkward cough sputters from my chest. "Uh, I don't know...uh..."

  He leans on the counter and that devilish smirk deepens. "Will you be working here?"

  I grip on the doorframe goes tighter. "I—I—Yeah, of course…Totally…"

  "I was really, really hoping you'd say that." His gaze flickers to my mouth and he licks his lips.

  This isn’t happening, is it? I’m dreaming, right? I’m dreaming?

  His eyes bounce back to my breasts and when he lifts them again, he gives me a sheepish grin. “I’ve gotta go finish up.” He jams his thumb over his shoulder at the dishes in the sink.

  Trying to come of as cool and collected, I point to the dark hallway behind me. “Yeah, I’ve gotta go, uh…I don’t know.”

  He grins at my awkwardness. I drop my chin to my chest and giggle impishly.

  Okay, so I should leave. “So, uh…Good night.”

  As I’m turning to walk away, I feel his fingers coil around my wrist. “Angie, wait!”

  He knows my name. He knows my name. I must be dead. In Heaven. In basil and olive oil and tomato-scented heaven. “Yes?”

  I watch his throat move as he swallows. Is he nervous?

  His voice drops low. "I get paid in like a week. Maybe we could go to the movies...or...or something."

  Yeah, this is totally a dream. Not reality. So I’m just gonna play along. No harm in it. I shrug indifferently. “Maybe…”

  “Maybe…”

  We both grin stupidly. I back out of the kitchen on
e slow step at a time until I’m standing in the hallway. “See you around.” I give a clumsy little wave.

  His eyes don’t leave me until I turn the corner. “See you around.”

  I hurry down the hall, into my dad’s office, in search of next week's schedule. I pencil myself in for every vacant shift I can find.

  My heart flutters and twists and aches as I relive the memory. There’s a deep, hard craving inside of me. I’m wishing that things between us could go back to the way they used to be. I’m wondering what it would be like if we ever tried to pick up where we left off.

  The voice of reason snaps at me. For heaven’s sake, Angie! It’s just a fucking apple. Come on! You’re acting like he gave you a kidney or he went halfsies with you on his liver!

  Nothing’s changed. He’s still the guy who slid the purity ring off my finger before sliding my panties down my thighs. He’s the guy I gave my everything to and then he walked away. All these renewed feelings of optimism in my chest don’t matter. I can’t let myself be misguided by my foolishness. The way he hurt me is the only thing that counts. I won’t let myself forget that.

  My knapsack slaps my back with each step. “Babe, It’s so exciting that you guys got picked for the next round of Boy Band Spotlight. Can you even believe it?”

  We’re around the corner from Ben’s house. Our hands are locked together, fingers intertwined. My star-filled eyes are on him as we drift down along the path.

  He doesn’t answer. He just keeps his gaze on the snowy sidewalk and his lips pressed tight.

  I jiggle his arm, lean my chin on his shoulder. “Benjie—how come you’re not excited? You’re gonna be a superstar! You’re gonna go on tour and hear your songs on the radio…”

  He jerks his shoulder a little bit, causing my steps to falter. I squawk at the abrupt movement. Realizing what he just did, he reacts fast, protectively grabbing my arm to save me from an icy puddle on the side of the road.