by Alta Hensley
At least I think it’s Jess. He’s changed so much, it’s hard to say. If it is Jess, his hair is a bit darker than the sandy brown it used to be. He’s also broader, taller, and more…everything than I remember him.
Definitely not the potbellied person I’d been uncharitably imagining.
His eyes give him away. They are the same bright blue that always seemed to be lit up from within.
He wipes his hands on a rag then stuffs the cloth in his back pocket. His brows pull together as he looks at me from head to toe. “You get dragged here?”
I wince and straighten my spine. “I fell.” And rolled down a ditch. Into some bushes. Then dragged myself out.
His brows go up. “Sorry to hear that. I’m assuming you’re the lady who needs a tow?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Let me get the keys. You can follow me. I’m Jess, by the way. In case you don’t remember me.”
“I remember.”
“I’m flattered, Madeline Fitzpatrick.” He winks, and I’m too shocked to be offended.
“I’m surprised you remember me.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I remember you.”
I’m mentally unpacking that simple statement full of meaning and step wrong. “Ow, shit.” I stumble into his back.
He turns with agility and grace, catching me before I yet again face plant. His big hands bracket my shoulders, before he reaches up and pulls a twig from my hair. Entrancing eyes scan me from head to unsteady foot.
“So, quite the fall, huh?” He shoots me a lopsided grin.
My body flashes hot and cold. “Yes. Sorry. I think I twisted my ankle.” And I’m pretty sure I have a blister the size of Texas on my heel.
He looks down at my shoes. “I’d imagine. You know, if you’d called, we would have come and gotten you.”
“I tried,” I grit out. “There’s no reception out here.”
“Ehh, dead spots. What can you do?”
“Not live in the middle of nowhere?”
Despite the level of derision in my voice, his lips tilt back up. “Come on.” He wraps a steadying arm around my waist, and a static charge sweeps through my body.
Uncomfortable with the sensation, I actively try to lean away from all his hard-body goodness as he steers me to the door off the garage, but it’s difficult. This is the most human contact I’ve had in a while, and his fresh woodsy scent underneath the nasty garage smell is doing things to me.
There’s a dingy hallway with a coffee machine and cups on a side table, then another door. We enter a cluttered office where he sits me down on a plastic armchair situated between two old filing cabinets.
Before I can gauge his intentions, he’s crouched down in front of me, his thick muscular thighs straining the fabric of his well-fitted jeans. He picks up my injured foot, has my boot off in a blink, and quickly rolls down my thin little sock.
“Oh no, you don’t have to do that.” Mortification flashes through me. I just walked a mile in those boots. I try to tug my likely stinky foot out of his grip, but he holds firm.
His calloused thumbs press into my arch, and an involuntary moan breaks free before I can suppress it. Sweet Jesus, I may have just come a little. Heat climbs up my chest and face.
He chuckles but only says, “There’s a blister, but there’s no bruising on your ankle, which is good.” He massages my foot for two more beats, grinning at me. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid.”
My thighs involuntarily clench at the word Band-Aid as if he said something salacious. Never a good sign. I need to get a grip.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He’s the hired help. You don’t fuck the help, unless you’re trashy or a bored middle-aged housewife. I’m neither of those things.
There’s no reason to get flustered over some calloused handed wrench jockey I went to high school with a million years ago. Yes, he’s incredibly attractive, but he’s wearing a cheap cotton-polyester-blend shirt, dirty roughed-up jeans, and scuffed up boots.
He’s a mechanic of all things.
The men I get involved with are polished. They have pedigrees, high power positions and…their smiles aren’t nearly as genuine as Jess’s is right now. Their gazes aren’t open but border on calculating. Their hands are soft and…their goddamned underwear is starched.
I bet Jess’s underwear isn’t starched.
He stands and moves across the room to retrieve a Band-Aid, and the muscles under his clothes bunch and release with his movements.
I can’t pry my gaze away.
He returns and kneels in front of me to put antibacterial cream and the bandage on my blister.
His head is bent, hair falling forward, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and discovering if the locks are as silky as they look. An image of him without his shirt on and his face between my thighs pops into my head without provocation. God. I’d definitely put my hands in his hair then.
“Am I hurting you?” His question startles me out of my illicit daydream.
I choke cough. “Excuse me?”
“You’re all flushed. I’m sorry if I’m hurting you.”
He’s staring at me, all concerned, and I’m trying to pull myself together. I’m better than this.
I shrug in forced nonchalance. “No. I’m fine. My foot is fine. Or, at least, it will be.” I wave my hand at the where my foot is propped on his rock-hard thigh. “You’d better be careful. If you’re any nicer, you’ll lose your bad-boy status.”
His head tilts, back and he laughs. Like a full-on laugh.
The sound does things to me. It’s natural. Carefree. And doesn’t hold an ounce of jaded cynicism.
“I think it’s been a while since I was considered a bad boy. But we’ll keep this between us. To protect my reputation and all.” He winks at me again before reaching behind him to grab an ace bandage from an open first aid kit and wrapping the cloth securely around my ankle.
I’m still stupidly staring, part mesmerized by him and my reaction to him, and part dumbfounded.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” His words hang in the air for a second before I realize what he said.
“How did you—”
“Small town. Heard it through the grapevine.”
“Oh.”
“I’m guessing that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes.” Unfortunately for so many reasons.
“When was the last time you visited town?”
“I haven’t.”
His brows go up. There’s a pregnant pause where any question asked would be too personal. And any explanation I give would reveal too much.
I sense a wave of melancholy sneaking up on me, so I change the subject. “I see your family is still running this place. It looks great.”
He gives a sheepish shrug. “It’s only me and Jace, now.” He tucks the last bit of bandage into the wrapping to secure it but doesn’t release my foot. “Our older brother, Jake, died a few years back. Crashed his bike while out on a road trip with some friends. Our old man died of a heart attack shortly after.” He pauses. Takes a heavy breath but keeps holding my foot.
“We thought about changing the name of the garage to Wallace Brothers for about two seconds, but it didn’t seem right.” He gives me a halfhearted grin, but there’s no spark behind it.
“I’m sure,” I say dumbly, at a loss for what else to say.
“And you know our mom’s never really been in the picture.”
I kind of feel like an imposter in this small-town chat because I hadn’t known that at all.
He shrugs and rubs his neck likes he’s uncomfortable talking about this. “So, yep just Jace and me, now.”
My usually cold heart constricts a little. I believe the sensation may be jealousy.
They’re adult orphans, like me. Only difference is, I’ve been completely alone half my life while they still have each other.
Jess’s smile is gone, the light mood sucked out of the room. I want it back. Everyone I’ve come acro
ss, even before leaving New York, has done the head tilt, how are you, routine, and I’m over it.
I dropped a Hiroshima-sized bomb over my career. I’m a cold bitch who has alienated any friends I had. My last semblance of family is dead. I’m shitty. Let’s move on.
“This got depressing really quick,” I say, indulging him with my good foot. “We keep this up, we may not get invited to our high school reunion.”
His smile edges back up, his eyes regaining that captivating twinkle. “They already had it. The next one isn’t for quite a while.”
“Oh.” I blink in the silence following this revelation.
I wasn’t invited. I, Madeline Fitzpatrick, was snubbed by my small-town public high school and didn’t even know it. Until now.
I laugh. I can’t help it. Mirth bubbles out of me. And then, to my horror, I’m crying. Sobbing really. Gasping for breath, I try to suck it back and end up hyperventilating.
Why am I crying?
“Whoa there,” Jess says, awkwardly patting my back. His expression is panicked. I’m sure mine is, too. “Oh shit.” He’s frantically looking around for what I don’t know.
He hops up from his spot in front of me, grabs something from behind his desk then hands it to me.
It’s a balled-up, grease stained Wallace & Sons polo.
“I don’t have any tissue in here,” he says by way of explanation.
I sniff, and dab at my face with a clean corner of the shirt. “I don’t cry. I’m not a crier.”
“I can tell.”
I shoot a chilly frown that has sent lesser men fleeing.
“You have a right to be a bit of a wreck. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“A wreck?” He thinks I’m a wreck. That’s great.
“Sorry. Poor choice of words.” He tilts my face up, smoothing a thumb over my damp cheek.
Our faces are inches apart. How did he get so close? I can smell mint on his warm breath, and his eyes—his gorgeous blue gaze trails down to my mouth. I lick my lips in anticipation.
He’s going to kiss me. This sexy mechanic, who is practically a stranger, is going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him.
I edge forward at the same time he does. Our lips are a fraction of an inch away from each other and for a wild hair of a moment I want him to do more than kiss me. I want him to bend me over his messy desk, rip my jeans down.
“I want…” I breathe the words against his lips, hoping he can translate the rest.
I want his calloused hands on me. I want his dick pushing inside me.
“Yeah?” The light in his eyes sparks like he heard my illicit requests.
The door bursts open.
I jerk back, heart beating out of my chest.
“You’ll never believe whose car Little John and I spotted on the side of the road,” says the intruder.
“I have a good idea I may know.” Jess gives me one last sultry look before he stands and adjusts the bulge in the front of his pants. The bulge right in my face.
I gasp. He did not just do that.
“I thought you weren’t going to be back in town until tomorrow,” Jess says.
“Had to come back early. Good thing I did. Someone’s got Fitzpatrick’s precious Pontiac.” The new guy’s voice is deep and gravely, and his words catch my attention.
I shift to the right to get a peek at who’s talking just as Jess shifts to the left, and suddenly I’m staring into the stormiest deep-blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I’d know those eyes anywhere, though I’d tried to forget them along with everything else in Clover Creek.
They’re filled with as much disdain for me as the last time I saw him.
“Madeline fucking Fitzpatrick,” he mutters.
“I usually just go by Madeline.” I’m a little surprised he recognizes me, but I shouldn’t be. Even though he’s completely changed from the boy I sat next to in chem lab, I know exactly who he is.
Jace fucking Wallace. The bad boy I spurned before leaving town.
He’s most assuredly a man, now.
He gives a charming grunt in reply. His eyes track down my body before meeting my gaze again. In high school, the heat behind his stare was a little unnerving. Now, it makes my skin prickle in awareness.
Where Jess is all playful smiles and a look resembling a scruffy Chris Hemsworth, Jace has turned hard edged and grim. He has tattoos on every inch of skin his leather jacket doesn’t cover. Neck. Back of his hands. Fingers. He turns his head slightly and there’s a tattoo there, too. Some kind of jester’s head is barely visible under a quarter inch of hair, but there nonetheless.
Basically, the type of classless scum I’d never give the time of day. He seems set on a staring contest, so I oblige, not one to turn down a challenge.
Whereas Jess’s eyes are cloudy silvery blue, Jace’s are a navy that’s dark as a night sky. Both men are intimidatingly tall and broad, but Jace carries an aura of danger. He’s scary and probably knows it. Likes it.
That annoys me. Makes me want to piss all over his Cheerios.
I arch a brow, sit back in the chair, and cross my legs as if I own this fucking office. Jace crosses his arms over his chest.
Jess coughs. “I was about to take Madeline out to get her car.”
“Huh,” Jace says.
“It’s actually my father’s car—as you clearly know. I’m going to be selling it,” I volunteer. Maybe tall, dark, and scary would like to buy it.
Jace’s gaze narrows on me. “You would.”
What’s that supposed to mean? “Excuse me?”
Jess shoves Jace out the door. “I’m sorry. I need to have a word with my brother. Then we can go pick up your dad’s car.”
Sneak Peek of Hard Wood
By Tara Crescent
Dom:
Alone in my workshop, I turn up the volume on the radio and resume work on the set of custom cabinetry I’m making for the Pattersons’ new kitchen. I lose track of time. Three, maybe four hours pass. The radio’s hyped-up morning show hosts finish their shift, and a slower, mellower mid-morning crew takes over, playing classic rock. I’m humming along to Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir when the door bursts open, and a woman marches in, indignation oozing out of every pore in her body.
I look up automatically when the door opens. Then I stop what I’m doing and look at the woman again. She’s petite. Shoulder-length blonde hair, tinged with pink. Her eyes are dark and stormy, her nose is as cute as a button, and her lips are full and lush.
She stalks toward me, her breasts bouncing under her thin t-shirt in a mesmerizing, distracting way. I have to force myself not to stare. I can see the dark outline of her nipples underneath the white cotton, and fuck me, that’s hot. She’s not classically beautiful, but my cock is extremely intrigued.
“Hi.” I turn off the power sander, take off my safety glasses, and lower the volume on the radio. “Can I help you?”
She folds her hands over her chest, pushing out those glorious tits. “Yes,” she snaps. “You can certainly help me. You can explain what the hell a sex chair is doing in my brewpub.” Her eyes flash fire. “Is this some kind of a joke? Because it’s really not funny at all.”
It takes me a second to catch up. “You work at the brewpub?” Fuck. Gino Barbini, Chaos Lord, strikes again. He had two pieces of furniture to deliver, and somehow, he’s managed to mix them up. If he dropped off Zach’s sex chair in the brewpub, then the counter-top is probably already in Bainbridge.
I could call Gino and chew him out, or I could laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. I choose the latter. My lips twitching, I survey the indignant woman. “Come on. You don’t think it’s a little bit funny?” I wipe my hand on my jeans and stick it out to her. “I’m Dominic Wilde. It sounds like my delivery driver, Gino, screwed up.”
She shakes it reluctantly, her hand tiny in mine. “Cat Milnick. Where’s my bar?”
This kitty cat has claws. I like it. “Is that short for something?”
Her eyes spit fire
at me. “Catherine. Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Wilde.”
She’s wound up so fucking tight. I wonder what she’d look like after she makes love. Stands of her pink hair spread out on a pillow, her full lips curled in a smile, her body soft and sated.
My cock hardens even further, and I mutter a curse under my breath. This is insane. I’m not a teenager. I enjoy women, but I’ve never pictured someone in my bed so readily. I haven’t been this painfully turned on in a long time.
“Call me Dom, please.”
“Fine. Dom.” There’s a definite edge in her voice. “Where’s my bar, Dom?”
Knowing Gino, it could be anywhere in Ontario. “My best guess? Bainbridge.”
“Bainbridge?” She snatches her hand back, and her voice rises in pitch. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s hours away from here.”
I’m not seeing the problem. “Relax,” I say, trying to pacify her. “I’ll call Gino, and he’ll get your bar back.”
“The same Gino who dropped off that chair in my pub. Or whatever it is.” She sounds incredulous. “Smack dab in the middle of the restaurant, where anyone walking by on the street can see it.”
Every time she mentions the chair, she moves her weight from one leg to the other. She’s turned on. Her nipples are pebbled, and her cheeks are pink, and she can’t meet my eyes.
I bite back my grin. The truth is, I have a pretty good read on the woman standing in front of me. She might dye her hair pink, but that’s the extent of her rebellion. As fascinated as she is by my chair, she’ll never act on her curiosity. Like Teresa Barbini, she’ll fantasize about BDSM from the safety of her e-reader.
A devilish urge comes over me. “Whatever it is?” I chuckle. “You had it right the first time, Catherine Milnick. It’s a sex chair. If you’re interested, I’d be more than happy to show you how it works.”
***
Cat:
I don’t yell; I never yell. I avoid confrontation like the plague, yet somehow, for some reason, I’m snarling at Dominic Wilde, and I’m not sorry. Not even a little.
