The 48 Hour Hookup (Chase Brothers)

by Sarah Ballance

  “I’m really sorry,” Claire said again. “I’ll pay for it.”

  He ignored that, mainly because he wasn’t sure the whole thing was completely her fault, and picked up the cut end of the trunk. The tree had to weigh a couple hundred pounds, but he found it wasn’t so hard to drag over ice, and it became a lot easier when she grabbed a branch near the middle and helped. The process was slow, and by the time they crossed the hundred feet to the lodge, he was a lot less amused by the steps spanning the distance from the ground to the porch.

  Before he could say a word, a 1950s-era tow truck arrived, horn blaring. Liam and Claire exchanged glances—hers apologetic, his he couldn’t imagine—and crossed the clearing in time for Liam to hear the man he assumed to be Monk mutter, “Ain’t never seen one of these before.”

  “One of these trucks?” Liam almost fell over. Was that what he hadn’t seen before? The guy had a garage. Or at least a tow truck. Sort of. Liam eyed the heap of junk, his hopes of ever again seeing his own truck in one piece diminishing by the second. “It’s a Chevy.”

  “It’s one of those hi-breds,” Monk said. “Says right there on the side.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Claire said, giving Liam a warning look. He wasn’t sure why, considering she’d wrecked his truck and this guy was about to attach it to a bucket of rust and haul it off, having never seen one before.

  “Glad to, ma’am,” Monk said. “Before I hook up, you know there’s an extra fee for coming up this mountain, dontcha?”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’ll pay whatever it takes.”

  Liam cut her a sharp glance. No wonder she had a problem with people overcharging her. If this was typical, she practically handed them a blank check. And the last person who needed a blank check was the guy who’d never seen a truck like his. “Are you sure you can fix it?” Liam asked.

  “Might have to order some parts,” Monk said, already under Liam’s truck, presumably looking for a place to hook in. “We’ll get it.”

  “I bet,” Liam muttered. To Claire, he said, “I’ll be right back. I need to call my office.”

  She pointed to a spot several yards away. “The best cell reception is over there, but be careful. There’s a bit of a drop, and the snow tends to drift, making it hard to see the edge.”

  He watched her for a moment, expecting a punch line, but she didn’t crack a smile.

  Shaking his head—he needed hazard pay for this job—he snagged his phone from his truck and walked away from her and the seventy-if-he-was-a-day mechanic. He was shocked to find he actually had reception. To avoid having to explain everything from the beginning to whoever answered the phone, he called Sawyer instead of the office.

  “How’s it going?” Sawyer answered.

  “A tree fell on my truck.”

  Silence dissolved into laughter. Finally, Sawyer managed to include some words with that chortling. “You’re kidding.”

  Because he sounded amused. Sure. “No, I am not.”

  To his credit, Sawyer almost immediately stopped laughing. “Are you okay?”

  “Not a scratch, but some guy named Monk is about to haul away my truck, and he’s never seen a hybrid before.”

  “Oh.” Sawyer sounded funny. It took a moment for Liam to realize he was laughing. Again.

  “I’ll be stuck here a few days.” He hoped the town was big enough to have a rental car place, or that Claire would be willing to take him to the nearest one, because he was otherwise out of options. Unless she wanted to drive him back and forth, but sharing a twice-daily ride up and down that mountain road felt a bit intimate. And on top of that, he’d spend his waking hours with her in the lodge.

  The enormous lodge without heat.

  Perfect.

  Unless maybe she was staying in town, but he had a feeling if the Claire Stevens had found her way to a remote mountain lodge, she wouldn’t be advertising her presence by checking into a local B&B, and the waft of smoke coming from the massive stone chimney seemed to confirm as much.

  “I’ll let everyone know,” Sawyer said. “How’s the client?”

  Liam glanced back at Claire, who had her back to him. “She’s Claire Stevens.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Liam almost laughed. Sawyer must be well and truly domesticated now that he’d gone and fallen in love if the once-notorious playboy didn’t immediately recognize the name of a gorgeous single woman from the city. “The Runaway Bride. The one from the local news.”

  “Ah, hell.” Sawyer sounded on the verge of laughter. “That’s amazing. Does she know you’re Hot HVAC Guy?”

  “Hilarious,” Liam said. But Sawyer probably couldn’t hear him, because Sawyer had muffled the phone and was telling someone else, “A tree fell on his truck, and now he’s stuck in the mountains with the Runaway Bride.” After a moment he added, “Yeah, that one. You can’t make this shit up.”

  Liam wholeheartedly agreed with that point, not that Sawyer would have heard him if Liam had said it aloud. Sawyer was too busy relaying the rest of the story to someone—presumably their brother Ethan, because he made so many job references that anyone else wouldn’t have a clue, and he included enough profanity in the re-telling that Liam knew he wasn’t talking to their parents.

  Liam used the time to check out the view. From his vantage point, he could see the drop Claire mentioned. Not terribly steep, and there was a clearing beyond, but unfortunately, it didn’t appear to be a trail. His feet itched to be strapped to a snowboard. Being stuck without transportation meant not taking advantage of the slopes at any of the resorts for which the town was built.

  “Ethan wants to know if you need a ride home,” Sawyer finally said, snapping Liam out of his daze. Cutting a path through fresh powder was about as wicked as it got, but only until you hit a stump or a rock.

  “And you aren’t wondering the same thing?” Liam asked.

  “Hell no, I’m not,” Sawyer said. “This is gold. Besides, you haven’t finished the estimate yet, have you?”

  Liam glanced at the massive lodge. Sawyer was an idiot. He’d only arrived on site a few minutes ago. “Not quite,” he said humorlessly. “It’ll be a couple days, at least.”

  “I think you might owe me one, little brother.”

  “How’s that?” Liam asked, immediately suspicious. He needed normal relatives. Probably too late for that.

  “Sounds like you’ve finally found a woman you can hold onto.”

  “The Runaway Bride?” Just what Liam needed. A woman with built-in complications.

  “Think about it,” Sawyer said. “You’re stuck there in a resort town—”

  “I am.” He realized he was methodically flattening a circle of snow, one footfall at a time. He loved fresh clean powder. It wasn’t even a thing where he was from. Five minutes after the snow fell in New York City, it was filthy, stomped into streets, and tossed dirt-side up by the plows. “She isn’t.”

  “She’s not leaving without you. At least not for any period of time. Hook up with her; convince her to go out with you. I dare you.”

  Liam took a measured breath of clean, cold mountain air. He’d been in so-called relationships before, but he hadn’t found them worth the hype. His life wasn’t a series of one-night-stands like Sawyer’s had been before he met his wife, but there was entirely too much drama involved in relationships for his taste. His last girlfriend had lost her shit because he’d moved her handbag from the sofa to the floor so he could sit, and apparently a two-thousand-dollar handbag didn’t belong on the floor. Apparently he should have built a shrine to the thing instead. At any rate, keeping it casual had become a thing for him. He’d hooked up a few times, but even that was low key. That was how he preferred to live his life. Laid back.

  Of course, keeping things casual was a problem. Because he was terrible at casual. Actually, he was terrible at small talk, hence terrible at picking up women.

  “Remember that time”—Sawyer said as if on cue, laughing—“you told
that woman who came up to you asking if you were the hot one that you were actually cold and she offered to warm you up and you said you had a coat in the truck? You were so clueless.”

  Liam sighed. This again.

  Like Sawyer loved to remind him, he had absolutely no game whatsoever. He’d go to a bar or a dance club and inevitably, he’d say something stupid or unintentionally sketchy—because he sucked at small talk even more than he did dating—and there would be no second hook-up, if he’d even managed to make it to a first hook-up before that point.

  Granted, now he had a captive audience who might be forced to move past the creepy small-talk stage with him. But getting involved with New York City’s twice-famed Runway Bride was not the way to avoid drama for any man. When you were Hot HVAC Guy, it would be disastrous.

  Sawyer laughed harder. “And that time that one woman came up to you and wanted a selfie, and you said you needed a few more drinks before you could talk to her, and she cried?”

  Liam rolled his eyes, but mostly he felt bad, as he did every time he thought of that poor girl. “I just meant I needed to take the edge off. It had nothing to do with her.”

  “I don’t think she got that. Because, again, she cried.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Liam asked, irritated.

  “Come on, man,” Sawyer said. “Here’s your chance to prove you’ve got some game after all.”

  “With a client,” he said evenly. “Who is more or less stuck here. Hooking up with someone who doesn’t have any other options isn’t resounding proof of game.”

  “Okay, look at it this way,” Sawyer said, a bit too gleefully for, well, anyone. “You can’t screw this one up.”

  “Yes, I can. I can screw it up by offending a client. One I’ll have to face every day until this job is done.” One with a chainsaw, he thought but didn’t mention. Not that he thought she’d go after him with it. It was just the principle.

  “Dude. You’re stuck. You can learn the art of speaking to a woman with a guarantee she won’t flee.”

  Liam closed his eyes and counted to eleven. He was not having this conversation. “She’s the Runaway Bride. She can flee.”

  “And you’re Hot HVAC Guy,” Sawyer shot back. “She won’t.”

  “I’m not going to screw her,” Liam said through his teeth. “On or off the estimate, so forget it.” He kind of hated that Sawyer was right. Having spent his entire existence as the youngest of a rowdy band of brothers, he had no problem keeping up with the never-ending verbal sparring matches. But that talent didn’t extend to strangers he might potentially date.

  “No one ever said you had to fuck her,” Sawyer said. “Just make yourself irresistible to her. Get her to agree to go out with you within forty-eight hours—something after the job. Prove it can be done.”

  “I have every intention of not being an ass. You don’t need to challenge me to that fact.”

  Something Sawyer apparently missed, because he immediately replied with, “You get her to go out with you, and I’ll pay the deductible to get your truck fixed. If she doesn’t, you buy the first round of drinks every week for a year.”

  Liam could practically see his brother’s knowing, obnoxious grin. “A year is a long time to be reminded of this mess,” Liam said, “and I’m pretty sure drinks would cost double my deductible.”

  “Then don’t lose.”

  “I won’t,” Liam snapped.

  “Good. Then it’s a bet.” Sawyer seemed oblivious to the fact that it most certainly was not a bet, but before Liam could correct him, he heard Monk’s old truck roar to life.

  Which was hitched to Liam’s truck. With Liam’s gear inside.

  “Gotta go.” He ended the call and took off in the direction of his truck, which had begun to inch across the packed snow behind Monk’s tow rig. What the hell? Didn’t he need to sign something? He caught up, sliding on the flattened tracks on the road, and smacked his hand against Monk’s back fender.

  The old man coasted to a stop. “What, son?”

  “I need my stuff. And don’t you need a signed authorization?”

  “Miss Henley took care of that signature. Grab your stuff, boy. Don’t want it gettin’ dark out here on this mountain before I get your truck down. Even if it is a Chevy.”

  Yeah, heaven forbid it was wrecked a second time in one day. Nevertheless, he quickly grabbed the backpack he’d packed, his small tool bag, and his snowboard, not because he thought he’d get to use it, but because he didn’t want to afford anyone else the opportunity. He had more equipment locked in the boxes in the back of the truck, but he could get that in the morning after he’d done an initial assessment. He’d rather find out exactly what he needed than unload his entire truck on the snow.

  Monk paused, looking from Liam to Claire to the lodge and back again. “You folks know about the storm coming in, right? Don’t know that you should be on the mountain, isolated such as you are.”

  The last thing Liam had heard was there was a chance of snow, but he’d listened to a playlist all the way up. Either the forecast had made a drastic change or the old guy was prone to exaggeration. “We’ll keep an eye on the weather,” he assured Monk. Liam nodded his thanks and cringed when Monk popped the clutch, causing the whole rig to jerk forward.

  Great.

  He watched the vehicles disappear around the first switchback, then turned to see Miss Henley watching him. Apparently she was hiding from everyone, not just him. They might be the last two people on earth who should be anywhere near one another, but that had an upside. However awkward she might find him, odds were she wouldn’t be telling that tale off that mountain. There would be no Hot HVAC Guy selfies. In fact, he was willing to bet what happened on that mountain would most certainly stay there, which meant for once he could take a chance on being someone who just went for it.

  Forty-eight hours to get her to agree to a coffee date after the job was finished. Nothing to it. He didn’t need to be some kind of player for that. Just a decent person.

  If Sawyer thought that was proof of something monumental, all the better to shut him up.

  He was on.

  Chapter Three

  Claire had been almost nauseous when she found her Christmas tree lying across the hood of what appeared to be a brand new truck, and that feeling had only ramped up when she saw the man driving it. He was insanely hot, with electric green eyes and golden hair lightening to sun-bleached tips in a messy cut that belonged on a California beach. Or on a mountain. She had a feeling he could handle that snowboard and a whole lot of other stuff. Carnal stuff. She couldn’t believe the snow didn’t melt in circles under his feet.

  She couldn’t believe she was…staring.

  She’d made an absolute habit of not noticing men. After her third failed relationship in as many years, she’d not so much as felt a stirring of attraction to anyone—thank you, bitterness—which made her physical reaction to this man absurd. The pounding heart she attributed to the fact that she’d just smashed his truck, but the stirrings…was that even a thing?

  When he hitched that green-eyed gaze to hers, something stupidly akin to desire curled through her, flinging common sense off the side of the mountain. Not just because she was a woman left alone at what amounted to an abandoned lodge with a man she’d never met. Her best friend had sworn by Fusion’s reputation, so Claire wasn’t particularly worried about flying solo with one of the owners. If he was going to go nuts on her, she’d already given him ample reason. Nope. The reason wasn’t fear. It was the attraction.

  Because she was so absolutely, completely, entirely done with relationships. Casual or otherwise. Not that paying a guy to come crawl through her attic constituted a relationship, but there was no reason she should be gawking. She wasn’t going there again.

  She’d walked out on two weddings. The first time, she caught her groom in a supply closet an hour before the ceremony, enthusiastically impaling a naked catering assistant. The runaway bride jokes had been
mortifying, but she’d just been relieved not to marry him. She’d even laughed along, at least until her situation had earned a mention on a rival local station. That had only made her ratings go up, though, which made her boss put her out there more. Not the worst scenario for a relatively new reporter trying to navigate crowded, shark-infested waters.

  Only that had backfired in a big way.

  She’d dumped fiancé number two when she heard him bragging to his best man about how he was going to use her connections as a television reporter to further his own career aspirations in televised media. The joke had been on him all along—local reporters were the bottom of the televised media barrel—but that had done little to combat the sting of betrayal. And after two missed dates at the altar, however justified, the Runaway Bride nickname had stuck.

  Her boss had been less impressed the second time around. She’d become a laughingstock.

  By the time she was ready to get out there again, she was wary at best. Which made it particularly devastating when her most recent relationship imploded after she found out he was blogging about his experience dating—and hooking up with—New York City’s infamous Runaway Bride.

  Whereas her previous two exes had avoided the press as much as she, the blogger had gone public, to the extent of scheduling a local press tour. Six months after she learned of his deception, he’d secured a book deal, promising to spill everything she’d told him in confidence, word for word, for the entire world to read. Or at least the part of the world familiar with the niche New York City publisher that had inked the deal. Everything had blown up all over again, not just with the blogger but with ex-fiancés one and two, now that the blogger had promised exclusive details to the reading public.

  She. Was. So. Done.

  So why she stood there, drooling over the man whose truck she’d just wrecked, she didn’t know.

  “I’ll show you where you can put your things,” she said, perhaps a little too brightly. It was hard to find a suitable ice breaker when you’d just crushed a man’s truck under a tree. Judging from his expression, help me move the tree hadn’t been it, though that subject was bound to be revisited, since the tree occupied the majority of the porch in front of the door.