Hard Hart: The Harty Boys, Book 1

by Cox, Whitley

  She took up her old perch at the bar and waited for Santa Claus to notice. When his light blue eyes finally snagged hers, his smile was heartwarming, and for just a moment, she wondered if maybe he was Santa, taking a break from being the ultimate Arctic overlord to hang out with the mere muggles.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” He chuckled, wiping down the counter and offering a grandfatherly wink. “Was starting to think it was something I said that scared you away for so long. Or did it take just this long to get over your hangover from all the tequila?” His laugh was deep and raspy like he was just getting over a cold or had smoked since he could walk. “You here to see Brock?”

  She nodded sheepishly. “You, uh … you don’t know where I could find him, do you?”

  Without prompting, he placed a glass of fizzy red liquid in front of her. Krista shook her head and pushed it away, the reality of the next eight months slowly settling in.

  “Relax,” he said softly, “it’s cranberry juice and ginger ale. It’ll help calm the nausea.”

  She squinted at him. “Nausea?”

  Leaning against the bar, he cocked a hip and gave her a tilted eyebrow. “Honey, I’m a retired detective. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to add up the clues. You show up here, white as a sheet, about a month or so after you spent the night with Brocky. I’ve got five kids. Two of which were glorious accidents. I know how it works.”

  Her eyes went wide. “A-are you Brock’s dad?”

  Holy hell, did the grandfather just find out before the father? She was doing this all wrong! ALL WRONG!

  He shook his head. “Naw, Brock’s daddy’s been gone for some time now. But he and I were best friends. We were on the force together. Brock helped me open up this bar after I retired. He’s part owner … silent owner, mind you. Doesn’t much care for people or the chit-chat.”

  “So, where is he now? How can I find him?”

  He closed his eyes for a second and then swung his big frame over to the food window after one of the cooks had hit the bell. He wandered back toward her, bringing the decadent scent of greasy french fries with him. He plopped the basket down in front of her, then reached under the counter and brought out a bottle of ketchup.

  “Another thing that helped my wife. She must’ve eaten nearly a thousand pounds of potatoes between all five pregnancies. It’s what she lived off for the first three months, only thing she could keep down. French fries and ginger ale.”

  Krista dove in without hesitation, ravenous from not having eaten anything all day and suddenly feeling like she might chew her own arm off if Santa didn’t order her another basket posthaste.

  “What’s your name?” she finally asked, licking ketchup off her finger, her eyes rolling into the back of her head at how truly magnificent everything tasted.

  He smiled. “My real name is Michael, but everyone calls me Mickey.”

  She took a sip of her cranberry and ginger ale. “Can you help me find Brock, Mickey?”

  “He’s on a job right now for a few weeks. So when that happens, we don’t really hear much from him until he’s back.”

  Was he a spy? A ninja? What kind of job had the man going off the grid for weeks on end? Especially in this technological day and age?

  “He’s in security,” Mickey said, reading her mind again. “Surveillance, security, protection, intel, that kind of thing. Right now, I think he’s on some kind of surveillance job, but he couldn’t tell me much. Just that he’d be away for a few weeks.”

  She couldn’t escape the shiver that suddenly wracked her body. She was going to have to keep this baby-size secret to herself for even longer.

  “There’s no way I can get in touch with him sooner?” she asked, almost pleaded, her pulse racing and eyes going wide when Mickey plunked another hot basket of fries in front of her. She could have kissed the man.

  He just shook his head and refilled her drink. “’Fraid not. Though if you leave me your number and name, when he comes back, or on the off chance he checks in, I can let him know you’re looking for him. Who knows, he could be home tomorrow. That’s sometimes the way with these jobs.” He placed a notepad in front of her, and she hastily scrawled down her information, loathing the idea of having to tell Brock something like this over the phone but hating the idea even more of having to tell him face-to-face.

  * * *

  It was another three weeks before she heard even the faintest of squeaks about Brock. Liking Mikey and the vibe, she’d gone back to the bar numerous times and just sat and chatted with the big, friendly bartender. Tonight was one of those nights. Krista was just getting ready to pack it in and wish Mickey a good weekend when his cell phone buzzed on the back counter.

  “Looks like Brock is home,” he said. “Just got in. Said he’d come by the bar tomorrow to check on things.”

  Krista swallowed the hard, sandpapery lump in her throat and nodded, grabbing her coat and shoving her arms into the holes. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Balancing his duffle bag, a box of pizza and a six-pack of beer in his arms, Brock pushed open the front door of his house, only to be greeted by the chirp chirp of his alarm. Plunking everything down on the bottom step, he quickly disengaged the alarm and toed off his shoes.

  Exhaustion was an understatement about how he felt right now. That three-week stint up in northern Alberta casing a warehouse that was rumored to be doing some human sex trafficking had been brutal. Thankfully, he’d been able to drag his brother Rex along, so at least he wasn’t alone and didn’t have to hunt the monsters himself.

  But he was glad to be home. He sniffed the air as he shut the door and listened for any peculiar sounds. Twelve years in the navy and with special ops had taught him to home in on all of his senses, always. And he was doing just that. He’d made some enemies over the years, and although most of them were either dead and buried or serving significant time in prison, one could never be too cautious.

  But nothing smelled, sounded or felt suspicious, so he lugged everything upstairs and flicked on some lights. His belly grumbled at the smell of the pizza he plunked down on his leather ottoman. He glanced at the duffle bag full of dirty clothes and then again at the pizza box.

  Laundry could wait.

  Sloughing off his jacket like a second skin, he sank down into his big La-Z-Boy recliner, popped open a bottle of beer, flipped the television on to the news and dove into his meat lover’s pizza with extra mushrooms and banana peppers.

  He was four slices into his extra-large but only half into his bottle of beer when there was a knock at the door.

  Grumbling at the inconvenience of being interrupted and too tired to deal with people, he flung open the door seconds later and nearly swallowed his tongue.

  “Hi,” she said shyly, toeing at a dead leaf on the front stoop and averting her gaze.

  A grin spread across his face before he could stop it. The last two months had been spent dreaming about this woman’s luscious body and whether he’d ever get to taste it again. Was she here for a booty call? She’d been a little lioness in the sack and brazen.

  Did he like that?

  Yeah, he did.

  “Constable Matthews?” he asked, giving her a moment to compose herself.

  She licked her lips. “Uh … hi,” she said again. He liked that he flustered her.

  One eyebrow slowly drew up his forehead in curiosity. “Hi?”

  “Um … Mickey … at the bar, he told me you were back. C-can I come in?”

  He moved out of the way and allowed her to enter, though even with his back pressed up against the wall, her shoulder still managed to brush his chest when she walked past him. He couldn’t stop himself and inhaled as her hair swished past his nose. God, she smelled good. That scent alone had haunted him for weeks, had him waking up with a stiff cock most mornings and with nothing but his palm in the lukewarm shower to satisfy the fantasy.

  She toed her gray ankle boots off but left her coat on before following
him up the stairs. He led her into the living room and motioned for her to sit down on the couch opposite his La-Z-Boy. With a groan meant for a man twenty years his senior, Brock sat back down in his chair and watched as her bright blue eyes took in her surroundings, zeroing in on the pizza.

  “Want a slice?” he asked, lifting up the box and holding it out to her.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he brought his beer bottle up to his lips and took a sip, amused by the odd expression on her face. She seemed so different than the other two times they’d met. The first time she’d been this cocky cop with something to prove; the second time she’d been down in the dumps and then off her face drunk. But now, now she seemed almost nervous, scared and unsure of how to behave.

  He knew he was a big guy, and many had called him scary. It wasn’t an opinion he chose to remedy by acting like a teddy bear. No, fear was a good thing. Fear kept people at arm’s length and kept them from getting complacent and acting irresponsibly. Kept them from asking him too many questions. And yet, there was something about the little cop and the way her big blue eyes blinked at him that made him want to embrace the teddy bear side and pull her into a hug … or tear off her clothes and carry her back to his room. Either scenario would do.

  “What can I do for you, Constable Matthews?” he asked. “Beer?”

  She shook her head again. “No, thank you.”

  He nodded again and drained his beer bottle. “You here for a booty call?”

  Her eyes flashed up to his from where she’d been staring at his socked foot, propped up on the footrest of the recliner. “What? No!”

  Another smile jostled his lips before he shrugged. “’Cause I wouldn’t say no. But I’m guessing based on the way you scurried around my bedroom, trying to silently collect your clothes, only to duck out of my house in the early morning and then walk-of-shame your ass back to the bar to get your car, you’re not interested in an encore.” He pouted. “Shame. You know I would have driven you if you’d just asked.”

  She muttered shit under her breath.

  He was about to open his mouth again and tease her some more when she cut him off. “Did you wear a condom the night we had sex?”

  Now it was his turn to go all weird and awkward and quiet.

  But it seemed like she’d finally found her voice and her spine. “Did you wear a condom?” she asked again.

  Fuck!

  He couldn’t remember. Normally it was a no-brainer. He suited up before he fucked, but he’d had a few beers and he hadn’t been with a woman in a while, let alone one who revved his engine like the little cop. Just before she’d dropped the condom bomb on him, he’d been thinking about grabbing her curly red ponytail and tilting that sexy neck up for a kiss. Her lips were pouty and plump, and he could only imagine they would feel like heaven wrapped around his cock.

  But he did none of that. Instead he just stared at her, trying to remember back to their hookup and whether he’d slapped on a rubber. He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember seeing one in the trash the next day or finding a wrapper on the floor.

  Fuck almighty, had he really been that careless? That irresponsible?

  Brock cleared his throat. “Uh, you not on the pill?”

  She shook her head.

  He swallowed. “I don’t remember using a condom.”

  She gritted her teeth before answering. “I don’t remember you using one either.”

  Fuck. He hadn’t been that drunk. More just caught up in the moment. But he’d never forgotten to use protection before. Fuck.

  His mouth opened and then closed, and then opened, and then closed again. Had he blinked?

  It didn’t feel like he had.

  His eyes hurt.

  His head hurt.

  His heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.

  Was he having a heart attack?

  His left arm wasn’t in pain. That was a good sign. His eyes focused on Krista’s little feet, planted firmly on his hardwood floor. Her socks were hot pink and green with small orange cats on them. And for some bizarre reason they made him want her even more.

  With a hard swallow, he finally lifted his head. “Are you … ?”

  She nodded.

  “And it’s … it’s mine?”

  She nodded again.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time, and I haven’t been with anyone since. Unless you believe in immaculate conception of a non-virgin, non-practicing Christian, then yes, I’m sure. I’m pregnant, and you’re the father.”

  He ground his teeth together and let out a long, slow exhale through his nose. “We need to get married.”

  She gaped at him. “Uh, no we don’t.”

  “Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”

  She let out a petulant huff and glared at him, pushing herself out of her seat to stand in front of him. Her chest puffed up. “We are not getting married!” she snapped. “That is not the right thing to do.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We hardly know each other. We’re not in love. We are not getting married.” She plugged her hands on her hips and stuck one foot out. Her stare was enough to melt steel. “I only told you about the baby out of courtesy. If you’re not interested in being a dad, that’s totally fine. I can do it all on my own.”

  Heat flooded Brock’s face and chest.

  Did she just say out of courtesy?

  What the fuck.

  He stood up, invading her personal space until there was no more than six inches between their bodies. “Listen up, woman.” Sexy blue eyes slowly lifted from his chest to his face. Her lips parted. “That’s my kid you’re carrying, my family, and I will damn well take care of it. I will damn well be a part of its life, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

  Fire ignited in those wide eyes of hers, and a flush of pink invaded her cheeks.

  Oh, she was mad.

  He was madder.

  How dare she come here out of fucking courtesy?

  “You need to move in here,” he said, cutting her off. “That way I can take care of you and the baby. Be a part of the pregnancy, too. That’s my family you’re growing in that belly of yours, and I take that shit seriously. Family is everything to me.”

  Her brows furrowed, and she poked a bony little finger into his chest, pushing hard to make him back up, but not hard enough.

  He didn’t budge.

  “Listen, you bossy jackass, I am not marrying you, and I am not moving in here. No one, and I mean no one tells me what do to.”

  The tension in his forehead was back. “Well, then, what do you want from me? Money? A trust fund for the baby? Name it and I’ll do it. I won’t be a deadbeat dad. This kid will have me in his life.”

  “Or her.”

  “Right. Or her. What do you want from me?”

  She’d been so strong. Timid and nervous at first, but then owning her predicament and tearing off the news like a Band-Aid. But now she seemed lost again, just as fragile and nervous as when he’d opened the door to find her standing there on his doorstep: eyes bright, cheeks rosy and hair a sexy mess, caught up in the wind.

  He was still angry as fuck at her. But he was also angry at himself. How could he have been so careless? So irresponsible?

  That had to change now.

  He glanced down at the pizza box again, picked it up and held it up to her. “Have you eaten?”

  Food. Pregnant women were always starving, right?

  Exhaustion stole across her face, and with a sigh of resolution she reached for a slice. “I don’t know what I want,” she confessed through big bites, moaning from how good it was. Brock glanced at the pizza box but was suddenly too overwhelmed with the news to eat.

  She licked her lips, and without thinking or asking, he darted to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water. She took it with thanks and drained it in seconds.

 
; “I’m coming to the next doctor’s appointment,” he said, watching her wipe the back of her wrist across her mouth and then continue eating the pizza. “And any other appointments. I don’t want to find out the sex. We’ll do a prenatal class too. I’ll be in the delivery room.”

  She paused mid-bite. “You’re a bossy fucker. Do I get a say in any of this?”

  “Get used to it, woman.” He reached for his beer bottle and drained it. Fuck, he needed something stronger. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Chapter Four

  Three days later, Brock found himself maneuvering his big truck down the gravel driveway to Krista’s house. She wasn’t expecting him. They’d agreed to meet at the ultrasound place, but he was curious to see where she lived and wanted to show her that he was all in for this baby thing. Even if she didn’t want him, he wanted her to know that this kid was going to be raised with a father and not just a weekend dad.

  No.

  He’d be there for everything. Birth to graduation, his kid would have a dad.

  Slamming his truck door, he took in the property. It was a nice piece of land, with what looked like an old barn, a small field for some goats, horses or cows at one point, but the grass had taken over and the livestock was long gone. A chicken coop stood empty and quiet off near a small plot of raised beds, and what looked to be an old pigpen with a trough and lean-to was now filled with dandelions and weeds. The land had potential, but clearly the landlords were too uncaring or perhaps too old to fulfill that potential any longer, and it was falling into disrepair.

  Oh, what he would do with a piece of land like this.

  Her “front” door was around back and down a couple of steps. It didn’t look like she had much head room, but then again, the woman was lucky if she was five-foot-five. He ducked under the staircase leading up to the balcony above and rapped on her door.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, this time harder, longer and louder.