Huge Working Hero (Hard Working Hero Book 3)

by Penny Wylder

  Huge Working Hero

  Penny Wylder

  Contents

  More Must Reads by Penny Wylder

  1. Kelsie

  2. Brand

  3. Kelsie

  4. Brand

  5. Kelsie

  6. Brand

  7. Kelsie

  8. Brand

  9. Kelsie

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2021 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  1

  Kelsie

  Where the hell is he?

  I push wisps of hair out of my face, blowing spidery strands off my mouth. My eyes scan the living room for the tenth time. I drop to my knees and look under the Mackenzie-Childs Wingback chair. I hate this chair. I've always hated this chair, it's just plain ugly.

  The fabric is velvet green, the kind that darkens and lightens depending on how you run your hand across it. There are big, gawky blooming roses across the backrest with gold leaves and a tacky gold trim that beads down the entire outer edge.

  My mother thinks that if something is expensive, it must look amazing, no matter what. But she's wrong. This chair is just plain terrible. It's not even comfortable. At least if you could sink into the cushions and it cradled you to sleep like a swaddled baby, then I could ignore the tawdry appearance. Instead, sitting on this chair is like sitting on a concrete slab.

  I scuff my knees against the Persian carpet, making them a little raw. Garlits isn't there. Yes, our dog's name is Garlits, after drag racing legend Don “Big Daddy” Garlits, who lost part of his foot in a racing accident.

  It was my dad's one condition for me getting a dog. After a year of convincing and plain bugging him, he finally gave in with the expectation he could name the dog. I didn't argue. I wanted the dog.

  My father is a car guy, and not just a car guy; he's a loud engine, shiny exterior, but can pull a wheely one second off the line, kind of car guy. He claims it's his passion, but a part of me wonders if the attraction comes from him having been able to turn it into a million-dollar enterprise.

  Where the hell can he be?

  Did I check the laundry room?

  I push myself up from the floor and dart to the laundry room. “Garlits! Garlits, boy! Where are you?” I yank clothes out of a laundry basket and drop them on the floor. But our French bulldog is still nowhere to be found.

  Shit. Did he get out again?

  The thought sends me in a flurried run back through our house and out the sliding glass doors onto the deck. “Garlits!” I yell, my voice almost as frantic as my heart in my chest.

  He's gotten out before; it wouldn't be the first time. And every single time he does, my heart stampedes in my chest like it’s going to explode. Leaning over the edge of the railing, I search the yard below the deck, and across the exposed tree line and shrubs behind our house.

  Our home sits on the very outskirts of Brentwood. If we were one street over, I'd be calling Vacaville my home. Recently, there have been quite a few sightings of coyotes in the area. Mrs. Timbers up the road said a few of her chickens went missing. She got up last Monday to find Doris, Belle, and Francine were gone. Left in their place was a small pile of feathers that spilled out like a scatter of breadcrumbs she was able to follow into the woods before it disappeared.

  I don't want the next victim to be our little Garlits. Fear seems to scale a small patch of skin across my neck, but I scratch it away, refusing to think the worst just yet. As I shed the fear, panic returns like a lightning bolt during a humid, summer thunderstorm.

  Every inhale is labored, and every exhale is heavy and thick. There's an electric charge in the air around me, making the hair stand up on my arms. I hate the thought of my poor little dog being lost and alone, or the possible victim of a coyote.

  I run down the steps, almost losing my footing, but catch myself on the handrail. A few shards of wood spear my palm, but I don't have time to pick out the splinters right now. They'll have to wait.

  My bare feet hit the dewy morning grass, causing me to slip and almost fall again. I catch myself with my nails in the dirt, barely staying upright. “Garlits!” I'm yelling now, unable to control the volume of my voice.

  “Garlits, here boy!” My voice wavers and clunks like I swallowed a frog. The hiccup travels outward, spitting his name again. “G—Ga—Garlits!”

  Where the hell is he?

  I rake my hand through my hair, spinning in a circle in the backyard. He's not here. He doesn't seem to be anywhere. What if the worst did happen? What if my little fur baby was gobbled up by a crazed coyote?

  My stomach curdles, and my skin gets hot, starting to sweat. My heart aches as the solemn reality he's been turned into some wild animal's meal seeps in.

  The front! Check the front!

  There's a shaking in my legs. Every muscle is quivering from limb to limb, but I manage to take off in a sprint through the backyard and around to the front of the house. My toes squish against the soft earth, and the grass tickles the bottoms of my feet as I slide to a stop.

  I feel like I'm in a movie. The world around me becomes a slow-motion picture. The birds overhead are barely flying, and yet they're still crossing the sky. The clouds are rolling, but they seem to melt into a roll instead of tumble. The sun's arms are stretching down, bold and bright, and landing on a man I've never seen before.

  He's leaning over, looking under the hood of my dad's drag car. The muscles of his upper arms twist and thicken, sending a ripple effect down his back. He's sweating, and streaks of grease paint his forearms like stained scars.

  His head is down, but that quickly changes as he senses my presence. With utter slowness, he lifts his head and his eyes land right on me. They don't sway over the car or touch the house, they find me like a mosquito finds flesh in the dark. His eyes strike. Big and bright, the brightest green I've ever seen. Gold flakes swim in the green pools as amber sparkles swirl like a faraway galaxy.

  I'm frozen.

  The guy smirks. Fine lines beside his mouth crease, and one eye lid lowers to a squint. His lips are so full. I've always thought that men had thin, pencil straight lips. But not this man. His lips spread wider, exposing stark white teeth in contrast to his deep tanned skin.

  He's wearing a hint of age. Not old, but not young either. Maybe he's closer to thirty than twenty. I don't know for sure. It could just be his eyes. They scream sexy, but there's a glimmer of years lived inside them.

  The mop of brown hair on his head falls in his eyes as a breeze swirls between us. He uses his thick fingers to swipe them away, but his eyes never leave mine. There's an air about him. Bad boy, wild, man of the earth kind of vibe.

  And I like it. I like the wild flare in his gaze and the gritty look of his hands.

  Maybe it's because beneath that layer of car grime there's a sexy, handsome man. Or maybe it's because he's everything my parents have warned me about.

  My mother’s always said to play it safe. To find a man who has his shit together. Who knows how to tie a tie, and can waltz if the music is right. My father says a real man makes his own f
ortune. He thinks a man who's smart and resourceful is the way to go. He wants his only daughter to find a guy who will only go up in life.

  And this man looks like the exact opposite of what they want for me. But what do I know? I don't know anything about him. For all I know he's grown up as a rich boy who fancies cars like my father. Being rich doesn't mean you can't also get dirty.

  I love to garden, and the dirt never bothers me one bit.

  “Kelsie!” My father's voice booms in my ears. He sounds distant, and at the same time, it sounds like he's inside my head.

  “Hm?” I ask. I'm still dazed by the mountain of a man in the center of the driveway.

  “What are you doing? Why are you out here half naked and barefoot?”

  “What?” My eyes draw down my own body.

  I didn't even think about what I was wearing when I took off outside. My pajamas are a pair of short shorts that are so high on my legs the air tickles my ass cheeks. A thin baby-tee is all I have for a shirt. My nipples are hard as stone, and the material is so thin you can see the dark shadow of my areolas.

  I throw my arms over my chest, crossing them under each other and hugging myself tight. Embarrassment coats me like a thick layer of wax, leaving me as still as a statue.

  My father storms up to me, vigorously wiping his hand on a dirty yellow rag. His brows are sharp, slanted inward. There is a thick ridge running through the center of his forehead and the vein just above his temple is throbbing like a swelling balloon.

  “I asked you a question,” he snaps. “Why are you out here dressed like that?” His voice rakes my spine, making me feel small. “You're practically naked, for Christ’s sake!”

  I squeeze my arms even tighter, crossing my legs and twisting my bare toe in the dirt. “I'm looking for Garlits. He isn't in the house anywhere. Is he out here with you?” I ask.

  My father grumbles something. I'm pretty sure it was a cuss word followed by 'so help me god.' I'm not entirely sure.

  “Dad, please. I'm getting worried. Is he out here anywhere? It never takes this long to find him. What if he's been attacked?”

  “Forget the dog and get inside,” he barks through clenched teeth. His arm snaps out toward the house, and the vein in his temple looks like it's about to pop.

  “But, Dad, Gar—”

  “Fuck, Kel, go inside and put on something decent!”

  My eyes fall to the ground as I turn around and head back the way I came. But not before I look one last time over my shoulder at the sexy stranger.

  He's still watching me, except now his eyes are different. There's a hint of compassion in his gaze, and a sympathetic arch to his brows. It makes me wonder if he's a dog guy. Or maybe he's just embarrassed for me.

  Either way, I can feel the heat in my cheeks and a tightness in my chest. Not only did I just get berated like a child in front of the hottest guy I've ever seen, but I also practically gave him a show. All he needed to do was hit me with a hose and it'd be a wet tee-shirt contest.

  My damp feet hit the tiles, making a squish squish sound as I walk through the kitchen.

  “Ha ha,” my brother teases. “Dad really gave you an earful.”

  Ah, to be a seventeen-year-old boy and not have a care in the world. I want to slap him.

  My brother, Seth, gets to live the life, while I get to spend my days trying to live up to the expectations my parents set for me.

  Aside from the community garden, the rest of my life is plotted out like a damn map. How I act, how I dress, how I hold myself, my friends.

  Luckily, my best friend Millie falls in the rich category. I don't have to worry about their thoughts on her. She fits their idea of an appropriate friend.

  “Spying on me again, huh? Still don't have a life of your own yet?”

  He purses his lips and mimics me sarcastically. “Still don't have a life. . . Blah blah blah.”

  I roll my eyes and decide to search inside some more. Walking back through the living room, I find my mother sitting in that awful chair reading a book.

  I cringe at the cover. There's a woman in a tight sexy red dress. The sleeves are slipping down her shoulders, and there's a man holding her from behind. He has long blond hair that looks like it's being blown in the wind. She loves old romance novels from the eighties. So much so, there's an entire bookshelf full of super muscular, long haired men holding women in dresses in our library dedicated to her addiction.

  “Hey, Mom, have you seen—” I start to ask, but she cuts me off.

  “No, I haven't. Do as your father asked you to do. Go put on something decent. You would think you were raised by people who don't care about appearances. Have some respect for yourself, Kelsie.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't know someone else was here. Who is that anyway?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  I really don't want her to hear the curiosity in my voice. The last thing I need right now is another lesson about the right guy to look for. My forced indifference must have been spot on because she answers me without a second thought.

  “That's Brand. He started working at your father's shop a couple of days ago. Dad's having him help him with the Ford Fairlane for the car show this weekend.”

  Ugh. . . The car show. I forgot that was this weekend.

  I've hated the annual car show for as long as I can remember. It's just a bunch of old men all drooling over each other’s cars. It always reeks like gasoline and burnt rubber. I can even taste the rubber from the tires right now just thinking about it.

  They all hang around for hours, revving their engines, barking at each other and hooting before they race down the strip. It's boring and smells. That's all I can say.

  I take one last fleeting look downstairs, before heading up to my room to get changed. I don't even bother trying to pick out anything. I grab a pair of yoga pants and a pink tank top. After digging in my drawer for a bra, I get dressed and decide that Garlits has to be outside.

  He's got to be, that's the only thing that makes sense.

  “Mom, I'm going to take a walk around the block. If Garlits turns up, give me a call.”

  “Yup,” she says, half listening and half in her book.

  I slip my feet into my sandals by the door. When I look up and reach for the handle, I'm surprised to see Brand standing there with a smile on his face, and my dog in his arms.

  In one quick pull, I yank the door open. “You found him,” I say excitedly.

  Brand ruffles Garlits's head and smirks. The same signature smirk I saw in the driveway. “Yeah, found this little guy sleeping under the toolbox in your garage. He was passed out. I don't think he would have heard you calling him even if you were right in front of him.” He holds him out to me, and I take Garlits in my arms.

  “Thank you so much. I was going crazy looking for him.”

  “I know, I could see the distress on your face.” He tilts his chin down and looks up at me as he rubs the back of his neck. “I'd be upset too.”

  “We've had some coyotes around lately. I was terrified he got eaten or something.”

  “Well, he's safe and sound.” Brand reaches out and scratches Garlits's head again.

  His fingers brush mine lightly, sending sparks shooting up through my arm. He stares at me. I stare at him. Then he smiles bigger, biting softly on his bottom lip in a bashful kind of way.

  “All right, well, I've got work to do. I don't want your dad firing me after only a few days because I got distracted by his beautiful daughter.”

  Now it's my turn to be bashful. My cheeks warm, and I'm certain they're flushing red as apples. I giggle, my eyes darting away from his to look at the wall.

  “See you later. . .” His voice trails off, the last word hanging in the air as more of a question.

  Your name! He wants your name idiot!

  “Oh, Kelsie. My name's Kelsie.”

  “I thought that's what I heard your dad say, I just wanted to make sure.” He closes his lips and smiles. “Kelsie,” he says again. �
��See you around.”

  Brand turns and walks away. He heads across the back deck and down the steps. I watch him the entire way until I can't see him anymore.

  Garlits licks my chin, pulling me out of the lust haze the man left me in.

  I'm standing in limbo. My mind races with dirty thoughts. His hands on my body. His lips on my skin. His tongue as he tastes me from head to toe.

  All good thoughts. All dangerous thoughts.

  But only one sticks like glue.

  Is his mouth as hard and rough as the callouses on his hands?

  I really would love to find out.

  2

  Brand

  Thick white smoke billows out from the end of the exhaust pipe. It tastes like syrup on my tongue as I inhale with a cough, swallowing some of the fumes at the same time.

  “Shit, I think there's a hole in the exhaust,” Mr. Klein says, leaning out from under the hood, his eyes heartedly studying the white smoke still lingering in the air. “You see it? You see that smoke? It's probably a pin hole.”

  “Uh, Sir,” I say, holding up my finger. “I don't think it's a hole. I'm pretty sure it's the head gasket.”

  “Head gasket?” he asks, shifting his eyes to mine briefly before letting them drop to the engine. “No,” he says, dismissing me quickly. “A hole is the only thing that makes sense. Why else would there be smoke like that?”

  I walk back to the front of the car, thinking of how I can tell him he's wrong. I'm not trying to seem like a know it all, but this guy doesn't seem to have a clue.

  Good thing I'm here, then.

  Mr. Klein is fiddling with the pulley on the belt. I have no idea what he's trying to do, but it's obvious to me he knows nothing about how an engine works. He pulls up on the pulley, loosening the belt to simply pull it back a hair. He did nothing to help the engine at all.