Real Man

by A. S. Green

  The Dirty Bits from Carina Press give you what you want, when you want it. Designed to be read in an hour or two, these sex-filled micro-romances are guaranteed to pack a punch and deliver a happily-ever-after.

  A broken-down Mercedes is not what lawyer Claire Sweeney needs at this particular moment in time. The mechanic sent to collect her, though, is just right: tall and solid—a real man.

  The kind of guy who shows you how he is in bed just by the way he walks.

  Michael Dabruzzi assumes he knows all there is to know about Claire. Silk blouse, pencil skirt, take-me heels. She’s rich. An elitist. Probably never lifted a finger to do any real work her whole entitled life.

  Definitely not a screamer.

  But Claire’s hiding a lot under her fancy clothes and composed facade. From the moment she climbs into his truck, Claire’s out to show Michael the truth: she’s no princess, and she’s not afraid to get dirty.

  For those times when size does matter. The Dirty Bits from Carina Press: Quick and dirty, just the way we like it.

  This book is approximately 13,000 words

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  Also available from A.S. Green and Carina Press

  Rough Ride

  Also available from A.S. Green

  Summer Girl

  Wild Child

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Claire

  “Your honor...” I’m losing patience with the so-called wheels of justice. They always move slowly for my clients, but this is beyond the pale.

  I lean forward, placing both palms flat on the table in front of me. “My client was in custody for as long as the county could hold him, then released on electronic home monitor for ninety days, then on regular home detention for the last two months. Now the prosecution wants another continuance of the trial date? If the prosecution is having difficulty putting its case together...”

  I continue to direct my comments to the judge, but I can’t stop my eyes from flicking over toward the prosecutor. Steven, my ex-husband. “Perhaps that means the prosecution doesn’t...have...a case.”

  My juvenile client makes a whispered “Oooooo,” and I squeeze his wrist to get him to shut up. This case is only hard because his snarky attitude makes everything worse. If he hadn’t been a dick and hadn’t told the officer who pulled him over that he was “pretty hot for a lesbian,” maybe his car wouldn’t have been searched. If he hadn’t been searched, they wouldn’t have found his buddy’s pipe, rolling papers, and ledger in the glove box...

  I wiggle my foot inside my eBay Jimmy Choo. As a rule, I prefer flip-flops and jeans, but it’s pencil skirts, silk blouses, and heels in the courtroom. I’ve been on my feet all day.

  “Mr. Benton? Your response to Ms. Sweeney?” asks Judge Washington.

  “The prosecution’s primary witness has been called out of state to care for an elderly parent. We’re only asking for a week’s extension to give the witness time to set up in-home care.”

  “Your Honor,” I butt in. “If the defense was in a similar pickle, we all know the trial would go on as planned without our witness.”

  Steven holds his hands up in supplication. “A week is not an unreasonable request under the circumstances, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll grant your request for a continuance,” Judge Washington says. “Reluctantly. And only because I have a sudden opening on my calendar. This is the last continuance the court will oblige you, Mr. Benton. Opposing counsel has a point. Be ready next Friday, eight thirty.”

  I turn toward my client and give him an apologetic look. If the judge had made the prosecution go forward today, the case would have likely been dismissed on the basis of insufficient evidence. “Sorry, kid. I tried.”

  He rolls his eyes. Sometimes I get the distinct impression that I care more about my clients’ fates than they do. He’ll probably be watching Netflix and chilling with his girlfriend all week, while I now have seven more days of prep.

  Judge Washington stands from the bench. When he’s gone, I sense Steven moving toward me out of the corner of my eye.

  “Claire.”

  “Not now.”

  I put my hand on my client’s shoulder and direct him to his parents in the front row. After a few words of instruction to them about next week, I march out of the courtroom and into the wide hallway.

  My heels click quickly against the marble floor, and I close my eyes briefly when I hear the hard slap-slap-slap of Steven’s shoes running after me. Even though he’s remarried, he still insists on having my attention.

  “Claire! Wait up.”

  I stop. Exhale through my nose. Gather my wits. Then turn around.

  Steven is what you might call a “pretty” man: thick, dark blond hair styled with plenty of product; sharply angled jaw; piercing blue eyes under salon-groomed brows. These days he even has a spray tan. In Minnesota. Christ, it’s ridiculous. His vanity was one of the reasons we never worked.

  The other reasons had more to do with the fact we both had crazy busy legal careers, but I was the one who had to do everything once we got home. I don’t think he even knew how to start the dishwasher. Hence his quick remarriage. He probably ran out of clean plates.

  The last straw was when I overheard him joke to his friends that it sucked to be prettier than his wife. While I’m not particularly vain, my pride had been wounded, for sure. Worse than that, it forever changed the way I saw him.

  I wanted a real man, not a prima donna.

  When I announced I was leaving, Steven told me I’d never do better than him. It had struck a nerve from my childhood, one that I thought had healed years and years ago.

  That re-exposed nerve remains sensitive because it’s looking like Steven might have been right. I haven’t had sex in over two years, unless you’re counting the very deep and meaningful relationship I have with my vibrators. Based on the pitiful way my ex is looking at me right now, I suspect he knows that to be the sad state of affairs.

  “What is it, Steven?” I ask with a tone of exasperation.

  “I bought a table for The Green Light gala tonight. I had all the seats spoken for, but one of my colleagues backed out last minute.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I turn, and Steven grabs my elbow to stop me. I do stop, and my eyes trail down to his hand. “Let go of me.”

  He releases his grip then slowly draws his hand away. “I thought you could take his seat.”

  “Thank you, but I already have a ticket.”

  “Oh!” He sounds surprised. He likely didn’t think I could afford my own.

  His assumption isn’t wrong. The Green Light Foundation’s annual gala is a fundraiser for local social-justice issues. It’s held at the Wellington, the swankiest hotel in Minneapolis, and tickets are three hundred dollars a plate. They even roll out a red carpet, as if the entire legal community and local philanthropists were legit celebrities. I only have a ticket because I got it for free.

  “Well, you could still join my table,” Steven says. “It would be sad to see one empty chair.”

  “I’m sorry, no. I...um...have a date. I’ll be si
tting with him.”

  “A date?”

  “That’s right.” Blood is rushing into my face because, actually, it’s a bald-faced lie. My unusual lack of impulse control now requires me to scrounge up a warm body, along with an extra ticket. Shit, I didn’t even think about the ticket! As if I needed more reason to be stressed about the gala.

  “Well, that’s...great, Claire. Good for you. I’m glad you’re finally...getting on with it.”

  “I am.”

  “Maeve and I will see you there, then.”

  Ugh. Of course Steven’s new wife will be there. And he invited me to sit at his table? With her? What game is he playing?

  “Yeah, I’ll see you.” Actually, not if I can help it. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  I hustle out of the courthouse and to my Mercedes. My car and the house (mortgage free) are the only things I got out of the divorce. I took a hard pass on any monthly obligations from Steven.

  I slide behind the wheel and check the time. Three hours. I have three hours to rummage through my contact list, my high school yearbook, and maybe the white pages to find a date, then get dressed, do my makeup, and get to the Wellington before seven o’clock.

  First things first. I call Chrystal.

  “Hello?” she answers sounding as frazzled as she did when we were studying for the bar exam together. The sound of whining fills the background. All three of her kids have come down with the chicken pox at the exact same time.

  “Hey, hon. How are the kiddos doing?”

  “Itchy. Scabby. Miserable.”

  “Oh, poor sweethearts.” I pull out of the parking garage and merge into downtown traffic.

  “I’m up to my elbows in calamine lotion. What’s up, Claire?”

  “Rumor has it you and John won’t be going to the gala tonight.”

  “Oh my gosh. Is that tonight? I’ve completely lost track of where I am in the universe. But yeah, we’re not going. I can’t put this nightmare on a babysitter.”

  “So you still have your tickets?”

  “Do you know someone who needs one?”

  “Me.”

  “But you said...?”

  “It’s not for me. I need to bring a plus-one after all.”

  “You need to?”

  “Long story.” If I bring up Steven, Chrystal will want to bitch about him for an hour. I don’t have time to relive all the law school animosity between them.

  “Yeah, honey, I’ve got a ticket for you,” she says.

  “I can pay you for it.”

  Mentally, I calculate what I can cut out of my budget to pull that off, but Chrystal saves me from a month of ramen by saying, “Forget about it. It’s a charitable donation. I can write it off. Swing by. I’ll meet you on the sidewalk. Don’t get any closer to the house.”

  Chapter Two

  Claire

  Extra ticket now in hand, I am heading south out of Minneapolis on 35W and racking my brain for someone it wouldn’t be too weird to call last minute. My thoughts are interrupted by a red light on my dashboard and the strange sensation of rapid deceleration, even though my foot is pressing down on the gas.

  “Oh, come...on! Why? Why?” I punch it again—still get no response—then resignedly coast to the shoulder where I come to a very anticlimactic stop.

  I put the car in park and lean forward to rest my forehead on the wheel. I really don’t have time for this.

  On a sharp inhale, I grab my phone and call for a tow, then pray there’s nothing majorly wrong with the engine. Fifteen minutes later, a truck with yellow swirling lights is pulling in front of me. It parks, then slowly lowers some kind of platform a couple feet ahead of my bumper.

  I watch as a guy gets out of the cab and approaches my immobile hunk of expensive European metal. He’s tall; solid—more of a linebacker than a running back—but his movements are smooth and fluid. I can tell how he is in bed just by the way he walks, which goes to show how often my imagination heads in that kind of direction. I’m like a professional fantasizer, if only I could get paid for that kind of work.

  He bends down to peer in my window, and I lower it a few inches. You can’t be too careful, even for Mr. Sexy. Maybe especially for Mr. Sexy.

  “Michael DaBruzzi,” he says through the gap. “DaBruzzi Towing & Repairs on Thirty-Fifth Street.” He’s wearing one of those blue striped mechanic’s shirts. There’s an oval patch over his chest with the name Michael embroidered in red stitching.

  His credentials match what the dispatcher gave me, so I roll my window down the rest of the way. That’s when I really look at his face. His dark hair falls in a forelock over his right eye; the one eye I can see is green. Italian probably, with a name like DaBruzzi, but those eyes say there’s some Irish in there, too.

  He has a killer mustache that grows thick over his lip then runs down along the sides of his mouth, nearly to his chin. The rest of his handsome face looks like it has two days’ growth, but I can’t tell if he’s growing out a full beard or if he just hasn’t got around to shaving.

  “Something is wrong with my car,” I tell him.

  His lips pull back into a wide grin that shows a lot of white teeth. “Didn’t think you called to chat. Is someone on their way to pick you up?”

  “Uh. No.” I didn’t even think to do that.

  “Grab your stuff. Get in my truck. I’ll hitch up your car and take you to the garage. You can figure something out from there.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to fix it quickly?” I grab my purse and briefcase then open my door.

  He steps out of the way as it swings open. I swivel my legs to the side, keeping my knees together.

  He holds out his hand to help me to my feet. I don’t need the help, but I accept his hand anyway. It’s warm and calloused. Such a strange contrast to how I remember Steven’s. Something about the roughness sends a shot of adrenaline-spiked blood right through my core, and he briefly tightens his grip before letting go.

  “Won’t know what’s wrong with your engine until I get under the hood.”

  I get a little mesmerized by his thick, dark mustache as he talks.

  “German parts,” he says. “Might have to order something.”

  His lips are broad, smooth. I wonder if they’d be hard or soft to the touch. A part of me wishes that talk about my “engine” and “getting under my hood” was sexy innuendo and not just garage talk.

  “Did you forget something?” he asks, responding to my hesitation.

  I glance back toward my car as if I might have left my sanity inside. “No. I’m ready.”

  When we walk toward his truck, he takes the side closest to the traffic that’s whizzing by. Then we cut between our two vehicles and move to his passenger-side door.

  The running board is pretty high, and when I try to lift my foot, I realize my skirt is too tight for this kind of gymnastics. I think I hear him snort, but before I can react, he’s wrapped those strong, rough hands around my hips and lifted me straight up into the cab as if I weighed nothing more than a child.

  I get adjusted in my seat, trying to ignore my embarrassment or the fact that one touch from Mr. Sexy has sent a pulsing ache straight to my clit. Something flashes in his eyes when I cross my legs to suppress the rush of heat.

  “Do you have any loaner cars?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He braces one hand against the frame of the passenger door.

  I’m perched so high I’m at eye-level with him. There’s an intensity in his eyes now that makes my pounding ache intensify. I swear he knows it. Christ, he probably smells it because I just got a rush of creamy warmth down below.

  It takes me a second to remember what I asked him. “Um... Can I borrow one of the loaners if you can’t fix my car quickly? I have an event to get to tonight, and I’m a little short on time.”

 
“No,” he says. Just like that. No.

  “No I can’t take one of the loaners?”

  “Right.” The corners of his mouth twitch and he shifts his body, moving an inch closer.

  “Why not?” Our conversation is banal, but my insides are rioting. My tone gives me away because I can hear my own panic rising.

  “Because they’re all loaned out already. If we have to order a part, I’ll drive you home. You could Uber to your thing tonight.”

  I swallow hard and lick my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth but otherwise he doesn’t move. Am I the only one feeling the tension between us? He’s talking to me as if I’m just one more stranded motorist in his already busy day. Am I really so sex-starved that it’s come to panting over my tow truck driver on the side of the highway?

  I get a grip on my raging libido and finally get around to responding to his suggestion. “I’m not taking an Uber to the Wellington. I’ll be wearing a full-length gown.”

  Granted, driving myself—even in a Mercedes—is hardly the same as showing up in a limo, but it’s far better than climbing out of the backseat of some kid’s Corolla.

  He chuckles, and the sound is warm and rich. It makes we want to crawl inside his skin so I can hear what it sounds like from that side of things. The thought makes my heart skip. God, I’m so depraved. I really need to get laid. It’s been too long.

  “You’re wearing a gown?” he asks, his eyebrows rising.

  “Of course.” What does he think I’d wear to the Wellington?

  “What are you? Fucking Cinderella?”

  I stare at him for a long second then shake my head. He doesn’t see me as sexy. He sees me as some little kid’s Disney character. Fine. Whatever. We’ve got to get going. I need my car fixed. I need to get a plan together. “Can we go? I don’t have a lot of time.”

  He chuckles again. “That sounds like something else Cinderella would say.”

  I make an exasperated sound in the back of my throat. “My car?”

  “On it, Princess.”

  I exhale, releasing the growing tension in my chest, while Mr. Sexy closes my door then moves to the back of his truck.