Off Limits Collection
Page 1
Off Limits Collection
Jane Anthony
Contents
Secret Promises
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Playlist
Chasing Casey
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Playlist
No Regrets
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgements
Novels by Jane Anthony
About the Author
Find Jane Online
Off Limits Collection
Copyright © Jane Anthony 2016, 2017, 2020
All rights reserved
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without proper written permission from the author.
Cover Design by:
Dani Rene’, Raven Designs
Editing by:
Nichole Strauss, Perfectly Publishable
Candace Royer
Proofreading by:
Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies
Allison Irwin, Allison Literary Services
Secret Promises
Off Limits Collection
Book One
For:
JT, AT, & LT
Chapter One
JILLIAN
“Sure. Just a minute, lemme check the schedule.” I swiveled my chair around to face the ancient computer on the desk and tapped a few keys waiting for the program to load. God, this thing takes forever. When the appointment calendar finally popped up, I turned back to the phone. “Do you wanna bring it in tomorrow morning?” I asked the caller. “Ford Mustang, 1965, right? Okay, great, you’re all set. Yep, we open at nine. Thank you!”
I hung up and quickly plotted in the appointment. Oil change, 1965 Ford Mustang, 9 am.
The guy on the phone sounded unusually young. In my experience, guys who owned classic cars were just as old as the cars themselves. No one even remotely attractive ever walked in here. It was all old gear heads or moms with mini vans who needed tune-ups.
I rubbed my eyes and stretched before standing to let AJ know I was getting ready to head out for lunch. As if on cue, he walked out of the shop, and into the small, attached office.
“Jillian, Mr. Willard’s brake job is done. Give him a call and let him know he can come pick it up this afternoon.” Nodding to my big brother, I sat back down to call Mr. Willard.
Grease embedded itself in AJ’s coveralls and fingernails. He’d been burning the candle at both ends trying to keep the family business running while saving money to send me to college. I should have started last year, but when our dad had a sudden heart attack and passed away in his sleep, I refused to go. College would always be there, but Morello and Son’s Restoration didn’t have that luxury.
Anthony Morello, Sr. built this business from dirt and sweat when he was just about as old as my brother was. My mom, Gabby, and he worked the way AJ and I did — her in the office and him in the garage. It was a family business, and my dad prided himself on that.
We lived in the small colonial behind the property and every memory from my childhood included this dirty shop. It ran the gamut of basic car repairs—gaskets to transmission rebuilds—but my dad’s true passion was restoring vintage vehicles. My dad loved taking old worn-out cars and making them new again. The money was great, but the demand was few and far between, so he had to add on the other services in order to make ends meet. I remember how excited he’d get when a big restoration job would come in. He’d always take us out to dinner to celebrate the big payday. My mom would be so proud of him. They had the best relationship.
Mom was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer when I was eleven, and her health declined fast. Dad was forced to turn down jobs at the shop and focused all his attention on taking care of her. She grew frail and weak before our eyes, a former shell of the beautiful woman she once was. She died later that same year and took the best pieces of us with her.
Dad was never the same. My father was a man who could literally fix anything, but no matter what he did, he just couldn’t fix her.
I started helping in the office after school and on weekends. AJ, then thirteen, went from cleanup to part-time mechanic to help lighten the load my dad suddenly had on his shoulders. Eight years later, AJ and I were once again promoted; only, this time, it was from helpers to owners.
As I finished the call to Mr. Willard, my gaze raked over the large smoked glass ashtray that perpetually sat on my desk. It had been emptied and scrubbed clean, the office now a smoke-free zone, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It sounds so silly but part of my childhood included that ashtray. It was my mother’s. By the end of the day, red-tipped cigarette butts would litter the surface of the glass. My dad joked that they looked like a field of dead soldiers. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
A tight feeling squeezed my chest for just a moment then, much like my mother herself, the memory was gone in an instant.
AJ walked into the office and plopped himself down on the couch. Lines creased the skin around his eyes and forehead. It’s not fair. At twenty-one, he should be exhausted from a vigorous social life, not working himself to death in a shop that he hates. “You okay, big brother?”
“Yeah, sis, I’m all right. It’s been a long day, and I still have a lot of work to do. I’m just happy we’re getting jobs in.” He lifted the brim of his trucker cap and scratched his head before setting it back down again. Dark hair curled out from underneath. He needed a haircut so bad, but who had the time? I made a mental note to learn ho
w to cut hair on YouTube, wondering how hard it could be.
“Have you been able to get any playing in?” I knew the answer to the question already. My brother was an amazing drummer. He loved to play just as much as my dad loved his old cars. When we were teens, I remember him banging away in various garage bands. He didn’t necessarily have dreams of being a rock star, but he definitely wanted to do something musical with his life.
When mom was first diagnosed, he used to hide away in the garage of our house and bang his drums mercilessly, taking all of his aggression out on the set until he was covered in sweat and depleted of energy. Since dad died, he’s barely even sat at the set at all.
“Nah. Whatever, it’s kid stuff anyway.” With a dismissive wave, he rose from the couch. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll see you at home.”
“All right. I’ll get started on dinner and give you a holler when it's done.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just set something aside.”
“C’mon, bro, you gotta eat. You look so tired, the work isn’t going anywhere.”
An exasperated sigh blew off his grumbling lips as he walked back into the shop, letting the door slam behind him.
Chapter Two
JILLIAN
That morning, same as every morning, I woke up and made my way out to the shop. The giant keyring jingled in my hand as I neared the sunshine yellow building. “Yellow stands out against the backdrop. It’s bright enough to notice from the road and ridiculous enough for the customers to remember when they need to come back for more repairs,” my dad had said when I asked why in God’s name he’d painted the building this awful hue. At the time, it seemed silly, but now I smile, having found a new appreciation for the color.
The smell of grease surrounded me, bringing me home, as I unlocked the heavy door and turned on the lights. The ancient computer churned to life with the touch of a button. It took forever to boot up making me wish, yet again, that we had money for an upgrade.
Percolating the coffee was next on my list of monotonous morning tasks. I counted out the scoops of grinds and checked the milk in the mini fridge below. A run to the store was in the near future, but there was enough to get us through the morning at least.
Once, I had complained about using this old percolator instead of a fancy Keurig machine, but AJ said it added to the charm of our business. Something about casting a nod to the olden days, much like the cars we were restoring.
A buzz overhead snapped my attention to the door just in time to see AJ come in. I had no idea what time he’d returned last night, but this morning the plate I’d left him in the microwave was empty and sitting in the sink. “Mornin’, sis,” he muttered as he came over to see if the coffee was ready yet.
“Hey, you. I just put the pot on so it’s going to be a few minutes. I’ll bring some back when it’s ready. What time did you come in last night?”
He yawned and rubbed his eye, obviously still half-asleep. “I finished up around eleven.”
“AJ, you are killing yourself here. We need to hire another mechanic. You can’t continue like this.” I peered at my brother’s weary face. He was so handsome, just like our father. He had the same dark hair and stocky build, but his eyes were light hazel, instead of my father’s deep brown. He used to be such a player in his late teens. The girls would practically throw themselves at him. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on a date either.
I had a boyfriend once, but I’m pretty sure I was more of a conquest than anything else. As soon as he realized I wasn’t ready to give him what he wanted, he dumped me fast and moved on to the next girl. I can’t say I was all that upset about it either. A few guys had asked me out since then, but relationships were a commodity I just didn’t have the energy for. Between taking care of the shop, the house, and worrying about my brother constantly, who had time for anything else?
“We don’t have the money to hire another person. People want health benefits, 401k plans, things we don’t have the ability to offer. Plus, the added insurance would kill us. I’m fine. Dad handled the business, and so can I.” That’s where he’s wrong. Dad did have help. Sporadic friends of his would come in from time to time when things got busy. And, in a pinch, he always had AJ.
“I just worry about you, is all. You should be able to enjoy this time in your life. You turned twenty-one and never even went out to celebrate. You never touch your drums anymore, and even though you pretend it doesn’t bother you, we both know that it does. I don’t want to be a harpy, but I don’t want to see you go down the same road as Dad.” AJ opened his mouth to reply when the unmistakable roar of a vintage engine interrupted us. “Well, Mr. Morello, your nine a.m. just arrived.”
The engine purred as it idled in the lot, and AJ went out to take a look. Morning light cascaded through the blinds as I caught sight of the old Ford sitting in the lot. It was a sweet car. I had to admit, I had a thing for Mustangs —especially the vintage ones. This one wasn’t exactly cherry, but it was close. Its silver smoke gray paint job gleamed in the summer sunshine, and the wheels were polished and clean. Whoever owned this car loved it, and it showed.
I was lost in my work when I heard the door buzz, alerting me that a customer had come in. My stare was locked on the screen in front of me. “I’ll be right with you,” I muttered.
“Sure, take your time.” The voice was deep and smooth, like caramel. All the tiny hairs on my arms stood to attention as my skin prickled instantaneously. I dragged my gaze away from the monitor to see who the owner of the magical sound was and was greeted by a pair of shocking green eyes and a mess of thick dirty blond hair.
My stomach somersaulted. I was sure I’d swallowed my own tongue because I could not force a word to come out of my mouth, even though I’d opened it in a valiant attempt to speak. Before I could make a bigger ass of myself, AJ walked in from the shop breaking the spell that had come over me. I tore my gaze away from the beautiful stranger, remembering that I’d promised my brother a coffee.
“Oh, I got it, AJ. Sorry, I forgot.” I walked over to the percolator and started to pull the Styrofoam cups from the sleeve. Now that I was free from the confines of the enormous desk, I was able to see the customer fully. He was tall and built. His T-shirt stretched across his chest and disappeared into the unbuttoned flannel shirt he wore over it. His jeans were just tight enough to accentuate his thick legs, but not skinny jean tight like those pretty boys with their Mazda Miatas and fancy wristwatches. These were well worn as if he’d owned them forever but just couldn’t get rid of them. “Can I get you something? A water, a coffee?” A willing love slave perhaps?
He leaned against the desk, propping himself up on his elbow, and I tried to hide the fact that I was hopelessly trying to see beyond the flannel shirt. “Sure, Jillian, a coffee’d be great.” The sound of my name startled me. I creased my brows together trying to remember if I knew him from somewhere. He looked at AJ and laughed. The sound was like rain trickling on the roof at midnight, comforting and scary both at the same time. “I told you she wouldn’t remember me.”
My gaze darted over to my brother wondering if I was going to be let in on the big mystery, or if they were both going to continue to stand there and torture me. “It’s Jameson Tate, sis. Don’t you remember him? He practically lived at our house. We started that crappy garage band, and he was the guitar player.”
Oh shit, I did remember Jameson Tate. Suddenly, I was transported back in time and was the same Megadeth tee-wearing tomboy sitting in our garage on a crappy old futon watching my brother and his friend attempt to recreate old heavy metal tunes. Jameson Tate was much smaller back then. Boyish and cute. There was nothing boyish about him now. The guy standing before me was definitely all man.
I remember how sweet he was, asking me if I had any requests and winking at me with that adorable lopsided grin. A lopsided grin he apparently still had, and was flashing me at this ve
ry second. Nervous feelings rolled in the pit of my stomach. He moved abruptly from our little New Jersey town not long after he and my brother decided to start the band together. They didn’t even have time to come up with a real name before he disappeared. I’m pretty sure it was going to be Rumpled Foreskin or something equally as heinous. He probably dodged a bullet by moving.
“Oh, my gosh, Jameson, of course. Wow, it’s been a long time. What are you doing back in town?” I said, standing on my tiptoes to give him a hug. Was he always this tall? Being little sometimes had its disadvantages. In this case, my face squished against his collarbone instead of the crook of his neck where it should be.