Custom Built

by Chantal Fernando

And Chookie—No, I love you more.

  And to my readers, thank you for loving my words. I hope this book is no exception.

  About the Author

  New York Times, Amazon and USA Today bestselling author Chantal Fernando is thirty-three years old and lives in Western Australia.

  Lover of all things romance, Chantal is the author of the bestselling books Dragon’s Lair, Maybe This Time and many more.

  When not reading, writing or daydreaming, she can be found enjoying life with her three sons and family.

  Now Available from Carina Press and Chantal Fernando

  New York Times bestselling author of the Knights of Fury MC series Chantal Fernando is back with her most complicated hero yet. He may be the epitome of cool, but this MC President isn’t called Temper for nothing...

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Temper

  “That man keeps staring at you,” Sierra says under her breath, eyes on the cash register. “He’s kind of sexy, in an ‘I don’t know if I’m going to give you the best orgasm of your life or kill you in your sleep’ kind of way.”

  I don’t bother looking up, because I already know exactly who she’s talking about. Temper, President of the Knights of Fury MC, has been coming into our family-owned bar, Franks, for several years now. He’s not a regular—in fact, the MC only passes through maybe once or twice a year—but he’s not someone that’s easily forgotten.

  The last time he was here, he told me that he was now the president because his Prez had died, and he practically cried as he said it. When he asked me out, like he always does each time he is here, I almost caved.

  Almost.

  “Abbie,” Sierra growls. “Pay attention, he’s coming over here.”

  I glance up just as he stands in front of the bar. “Abbie,” he says with a nod, smiling. “How have you been?”

  “Not too bad,” I reply, taking in those brown eyes and shaved head. I’m not quite being honest. With my mom’s declining health, I’ve had to take over Franks, and had to drop out of college to do so. I spend every day here or at home, helping her as much as I can. My younger sister, Ivy, helps too, but I insisted she stay in college, so she can’t always be here.

  One of us had to make a sacrifice, and I volunteered. She can still become something, get out of this small highway town and follow her dreams.

  “Really? It’s been about eight months since I’ve seen you, and that’s all you have to say?” he asks, brow furrowing.

  I wish I had something exciting to say, like maybe tell him about a vacation I went on, or a competition I won, anything really, but I have nothing.

  “Just work,” I explain, smiling sadly. “Mom’s not well, so I’ve had to take over with running the place.”

  He nods, understanding reaching his eyes. “I see. So you and Ivy work here full time now? What about school?”

  “I’ve had to put that on hold,” I admit, and it hurts to do so. I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer, ever since I can remember, but now it looks like my life is going to be spent serving drinks. When I brought up the idea of selling the place to Mom, you would have thought I had asked her for a million dollars. Franks has been in our family for decades, and it’s more than just a bar to her, it’s our family legacy. “Hopefully next year or so I can go back.”

  Temper’s lips tighten. “I know how important that is to you.”

  He’s killing me. I can’t believe he remembers. Last time he was here, in addition to him opening up to me about Prez, I had told him just how much I was loving my courses. He commented on my excitement over it, telling me it was cute, and he could see just how passionate I was about school. And now here I am, months later, admitting to him how I’ve basically dropped out to work full time.

  “Whiskey?” I ask, changing the subject. The last thing I want to discuss with him is how my life is no longer going according to plan, and I’m here because I need to be. Mom didn’t want me to drop out either, but there was no other option, and now I’m stuck.

  I always do this. I’m the first to want to help, the first to volunteer myself up, and you know what they say—no good deed goes unpunished. I’m learning how true that is firsthand. It’s not like my mom is helping the situation either; she’s milking it by just lying around the house feeling sorry for herself. And yesterday she didn’t even go to her doctor’s appointment. She seems depressed, and it’s almost like the roles have reversed and I’m now the parent, and it’s a whole lot of stress for me. I wish she would take her health seriously—she did have a stroke—and be responsible. Her doctors have said she will make a full recovery so long as she puts in the work. It’s hard running Franks and constantly worrying about her as well.

  I’m going to go gray soon, I can feel it.

  He nods, and I take the opportunity to distract myself. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, and he looks good. It’s like the man doesn’t age. He’s tall, strong, and kind of mean looking, but he’s been nothing but nice and respectful toward me. We kind of have a routine going every time we see each other. We chat, we flirt, he asks if he can buy me dinner, and I say no. He accepts that and leaves, until next time.

  I don’t know why I always say no anymore. The first time was a combination of him being a biker and feeling so much older than me. But the age thing doesn’t bother me that much anymore. Truth is I’ve never said yes, to any man, to any date. I get asked out by people coming into the bar, but you don’t have to be experienced to know what they are really looking for, and it’s not a loving, long-lasting relationship. My experience is severely lacking, aside from prom and the mistake I made after it, and there’s no saving me now. I’m going to be a spinster. Hopefully Ivy will give me some nieces and nephews I can claim as my own.

  Temper places money on the table, with a huge tip, like he always does. “Seriously? Who tips that much?”

  His lip twitches. “You can take yourself out to a nice dinner with it, since I know you’re never going to let me take you out.”

  “You giving up that easily?” I tease, giving him a flirtatious smile. I don’t know where this sudden boldness is coming from, other than the fact that I don’t want him to stop asking me out, and I’ve only just realized this.

  I’ve never met another man like Temper, and I don’t think I ever will. I see how people treat him, avoid him, and make sure not to challenge him. Hell, my own mother warned me to be friendly with him, but never too friendly. He has this air of menace about him, but over the years I’ve also seen how he treats his MC brothers like family, and he’s always respectful, even to the people who work here. I’ve seen him vulnerable when he talked about his Prez... Hammer was his name, I think. He’s never rude, or arrogant—to me, anyway—and he’s always generous and polite. When he speaks to me, he always uses a humble, gentle tone, one that I’ve come to enjoy listening to. I know there is another side to him, and I can’t help but want to get to know that more.

  “It only took a few years of rejection,” he jokes, lifting the whiskey glass to his lips. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him make a joke before.

  “Maybe this was the year I was going to say yes,” I reply, clearing my throat. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I have the feeling like if I truly do want to take a chance and go on this date, it’s now or never. I’m stuck here, in the same job, doing the same thing every damn day, and I deserve to have a little fun and do something reckless for once in my life. I’ve always been the good girl, the trusted daughter, and the responsible older sister, taking care of my family as much as I can, since my dad has never been around. I know his name, Cohen Pierce, and that he lives in California somewhere. But he wanted, and still wants, nothing to do with me, and that’s fine. I’ve accepted that.

  But what have I ever done for me? Other than college, which I had to drop out of anyway, I can’t think of one single thing.

 
Temper lowers his glass and studies me, brown eyes filled with surprise and suspicion. “You want to go on a date with me? Why now?”

  Shrugging, I lower my eyes to the counter before returning them to him. “Time for me to live a little.”

  Being safe hasn’t gotten me anywhere in life.

  Now that I’ve opened my mouth and said this, Temper looks like he doesn’t know what to do. In fact, he looks slightly concerned. “You want to live a little, so you have decided to take me up on the date I’ve been dreaming about for the last...how many years exactly?”

  “Five, I believe,” I mutter, and clear my throat once more. “Yes, pretty much, unless you’ve changed your mind now?”

  He smirks. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone out more than once in my life.” He pauses, and then adds, “Actually I can’t even remember the last time I asked anyone out, other than you.”

  That can’t be right.

  We see each other twice a year at the most, and he’s sexy as hell, powerful, and I’m sure he has women throwing themselves at him. And as for me being the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on....

  I don’t think I’m anything special.

  I mean, I know I’m not completely unfortunate in the looks department. I have long dark hair, and a curvy body that most people would consider to be plus sized, and along with my amber eyes and heart-shaped lips, I do okay. Yet I don’t think I ever expected to encounter such a compliment.

  “I don’t know how any of that can be true,” I say, shaking my head. “But you can explain it all over dinner. I finish here at seven.”

  “Seven it is.” He nods, flashing me a grin. “I’ll be here early in case you decide to change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” I declare, moving to serve a new customer that walks in.

  I don’t know how today took this turn of events, but for the first time in a long time, I’m excited.

  Don’t miss Temper by Chantal Fernando, available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Chantal Fernando

  Supermodel and businesswoman Brooke Madden is used to calling the shots. But getting with sinfully hot bodyguard Nick Rivers means giving up some control... Can she let go enough to enjoy some naughty client privileges?

  Read on for a sneak peek of Bad Mistake, the latest sizzling romance from JC Harroway!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nick

  MY MISTAKE-MAKING DAYS are in the past. That’s what I repeat as the lift ascends and I brace myself for the vision that I’m certain awaits me on the other side of the doors. Even for a guy who likes to watch, four months is a long time to ignore the ultimate in female temptation. Especially a woman who’s paid to showcase her astounding body. But I’m here to protect my client for the next five days while ignoring all the parts of her that make this assignment torture.

  I release a sigh, calling on the last line of defence—my hard-won control—in order to face the many challenges I’m up against. The most infuriating is my client’s inability to follow the simplest of safety instructions: wait in your room.

  The lift doors part, the humid, chlorine-scented air rushing in like fog. Of course she chose to hang out at the hotel’s pool—a move probably designed to taunt me to the max. Because the pool most likely means a bikini. A bikini means I’ll have to avoid looking at her long legs and womanly hips, her sensational arse and pert breasts. All that topped off with the face of an angel wearing a playful smile that could charm the birds from the trees...

  I deserve a fucking medal.

  I exit the lift and enter the indoor pool-complex, trepidation a tight ball in my gut. My eyes latch onto the object of both my drool and my dread.

  Lady Brooke Madden. Model, socialite, businesswoman. The only thing currently in my life that I can’t control.

  Adrenaline smacks me in the head. As predicted, she’s bikini-clad. The sight of her relaxed and being herself, not the polished, bubbly, untouchable version the public see, is like walking into a lamppost. Every damned time.

  Her name and title scream breeding, class and elegance—and there she doesn’t disappoint. But her being everything I’m not, and the opposite of my usual type of woman, is not what causes my sleepless nights and vivid dreams, nor what wakes me rock-hard and dreading another day at the ‘office’.

  It’s the less obvious parts of her I’m drawn to. That almost childlike concentration—as she stoops over her knitting, which makes her seem younger than almost thirty. Her sexy, world-famous body is sprawled over a pool-side lounger, shapely legs casually bent at coltish angles. And her signature white-blonde pixie cut frames a face of doe-eyed sweetness that’s too girl-next-door for the savvy businesswoman and brand ambassador who’s here in Milan to walk Europe’s most prestigious runways.

  I shove aside the irrelevant attraction and search my bottomless supply of patience. I’ve been staring for at least a minute. She hasn’t once looked up.

  I clench my teeth, chasing the calm I’ve honed to perfection over the years since I last gave free rein to bursts of emotion. Why couldn’t she simply wait for me as instructed while I made a sweep of tonight’s fashion-show venue? Despite employing me for her safety, she seems to think the only dangers out there are people toting cameras equipped with tele-photo lenses, sniffing out a story worth selling.

  I ignore the pulse thumping in my head as I skirt the otherwise deserted pool. It won’t do to show any sign of exasperation. One thing I’ve learned about Brooke Madden in the four months since she first contracted me for her security—she loves to push boundaries, especially mine.

  My fingers curl into fists as I formulate the verbal bollocking I’m obliged to deliver. This twenty-four-seven detail is new territory for us, but my rules are the same. There will be no international scandal—not on my watch. After all, I too have a business to run.

  I wait next to her lounger, my rigid body fighting frustration. Does she have no regard for her personal safety? I’m six-foot-four and I keep the physique of a heavyweight boxer, my body the tool of my trade. I’m standing a foot away but she still hasn’t noticed my presence. She’s clearly deafened by the music coming through her ear buds and too focussed on her damned knitting.

  Next time she requests my services I vow that I’ll be busy. She’s just too much trouble. And too much temptation.

  Give me strength...

  My temperature spikes, beads of sweat forming on my brow. In my line of work, I often meet Brooke Madden’s type. Privileged, wealthy women who possess endless power but are naïve to the dangers in the world outside their own sphere. But I know those dangers. I’ve been a part of that darkness. The daily battle for order, control and emotional distance is the price I pay for carrying a piece of it inside me.

  I glance down. Whatever it is she’s knitting looks fit for the bin. I’ve never wielded a knitting needle, but even I can see the many holes studding the pale blue knitted rectangle.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters, withdrawing one needle from the stitch she’s just worked with frustration and pulling off half a row of stitches in the process. Her shoulders slump. She stares at her handiwork as if the dropped loops of wool will miraculously jump back into place of their own accord.

  I’m half-tempted to learn to knit myself, just so I can fix her knitting disasters along with her security and travel logistics. Yeah, right...

  No, my role here is simple: protect her and ignore all...this.

  ‘What is it meant to be?’ I ask, tired of waiting for her to notice my not insignificant—some would say intimidating—presence.

  She gasps, one hand flying to the valley between her perky breasts. ‘Oh, you made me jump... Hi.’

  A tiny frown forms between her perfectly arched brows as she tugs the ear bud
s from her ears. Her cheeks darken, the colour sliding down that elegant neck of hers, and probably further, to the tops of her incredible breasts. Not that I look. Indulging my stare by dipping that far is strictly off-limits.

  I’m so practised at curbing my desires that I’ve committed every tiny intricacy of her bright blue eyes to memory. I linger there now as I fight the irritation simmering in my blood that she ignored my express instructions.

  She holds up the knitting, waving it in my direction as if I’ll miraculously be able to decipher its final destiny. ‘It’s a cardigan, for my baby nephew. Clearly it’s a work in progress.’ She observes the disaster of holes and tangled wool, her full mouth a little down-turned.

  I swallow my rush of amused affection, press my lips together and fight the indulgent smile that has no place in my relationship with this woman.

  ‘Why don’t you just buy something?’ I don’t arse-kiss my famous clients. But she’s a conundrum. And, the more I get to know her, the greater the temptation. She has an international modelling career. She’s an obscenely successful businesswoman. A household name. She could buy a cashmere version of whatever tiny, delicate garment she’s knitting a million times over, but clearly she’s determined to master the skill and spread the home-made love to all her friends and family.

  She nods, a grin of delight dancing on her lips. ‘I should. You know, I like that about you, Nick. You don’t fawn like most people. You give it to me straight.’ She fidgets with the knitting, wrapping the loose wool around the needles and stuffing it inside her knitting bag, which is emblazoned with the caption Knitting is my Superpower.

  ‘So, what’s up, Big Guy?’ Her wide-eyed innocence is a little act she puts on every time we have a conversation like the one about to go down.

  It’s almost as if she deliberately tests me with her nicknames, her teasing and her playful personality. Hoping to rile me up enough that I’ll flirt back. But my riled-up days are long gone. I’m no longer the reckless young man who once used his intimidating size to earn the respect I mistakenly thought mattered.