Blue-Collar Bad Boys Next Door: The Full Eight-Book Collection

by Mazzy King

  “I belong with you.” I want to touch him, but he looks so closed off.

  “Your mother believes otherwise.”

  “What my mother believes is inconsequential,” I say firmly.

  “Considering you let her say that about me makes me think it’s not just her problem.” Darby shakes his head, dropping his hand from my arm. “We grew up next door to each other, but we’re from totally different worlds, Harlowe. My parents just barely paid the mortgage every month. We didn’t have leftover money for extras—no team sports or hobbies for me. No going out to eat or country club memberships. My parents wanted me to grow up and go to school in the ‘nice’ part of town—so they sacrificed to make that happen. We never belonged in that neighborhood.”

  “That doesn’t matter to me,” I tell him, resting a hand on his chest tentatively.

  He sighs and covers my hand with his. “It matters to me, Harlowe,” he says. “This is who I am. I’m never going to be good enough for your mother. I wasn’t good enough in high school, when I—” He bites his lip, shaking his head.

  “When you what?” I prod.

  “I came over to your house before prom,” he says in a low voice. “To ask you to be my date. You weren’t home yet. But your mother was. And she told me you already had a date.”

  I blink. “I didn’t.”

  “I know that now. I knew that at prom, when I saw you with your friends. But it was obvious she didn’t want us going together. She still doesn’t.”

  “It’s not her choice.” I’m furious with my mother, and also heartbroken she would do something like that. “It’s my choice. It’s always been my choice.”

  “Then maybe you should choose differently,” he says flatly. “Because we’re always going to have to deal with this, and I don’t want you having to decide between me and your family. I have to know I’m enough for you.”

  I shake my head, reaching up to cup his face in my hands. “You left early, then, because I told my mom what a wonderful man you are. That if I’m lucky, you’re a part of my life now.” I stroke his cheek with my thumbs. “You’re exactly what I need. What I’ve always needed. The only thing you can offer me that I’ll ever be interested in is your love. And in return…”

  His hands slip to my waist and his throat bobs as he swallows. “In return?”

  “I’ll offer you mine,” I say softly. “If you want it. Darby…I love you. You’re the best person I know.”

  He holds my gaze, and to emphasize my point, I push up on tiptoe and press my lips to his. His arms tighten around me as he returns my kiss.

  “I love you,” I murmur again when we pause for breath. “Please know you never have to question that with me.”

  “I love you too, Harlowe.” He tilts his forehead against mine. After a long moment, he says, “So you’re ready to slum it with me, huh?”

  I let out a rueful chuckle. “I’m the one with the questionable family. Are you sure you’re ready to slum it with me?”

  “We’ll work on her,” he promises. “She loves you. She’ll come around.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” I ask, my voice catching.

  He tenderly kisses my forehead. “Then you’ve still got me. And I’ve still got you.”

  “Always,” I promise.

  Epilogue

  Darby

  Eight months later

  “You good?” Rocco asks, patting my shoulder.

  I nod, bouncing lightly on my toes to burn off excess energy caused by nerves. He hands me a cup of the spiked punch Harlowe whipped up for our Christmas party.

  “Liquid courage?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I don’t want booze-breath when I do this. I’m good.”

  He shrugs and tips the cup back himself. “I’ll drink it for you. Then maybe I’ll kiss myself under the mistletoe too.”

  “You don’t sound bitter at all,” I say, lifting a brow.

  He chuckles, setting the cup down. “I’m bitter, definitely. But more than that, I’m happy for you, brother. You’ve come a long way.” He gestures around the kitchen in the new house Harlowe and I bought and restored over the summer and fall. “And this place turned out great. I guess you really are in love, considering you didn’t kill each other during the gutting process.”

  I laugh. “It was an exercise in relationship-building. I feel like every couple should gut and restore a house together.”

  Rocco whacks me on the chest. “Darby, I’m happy for you. Really.” He smiles. “You ready to do this?”

  “Not so fast.”

  A voice from the doorway pulls our attention. Harlowe’s mother stands in the doorway, wearing a holly-red dress and dripping diamonds. The rest of us are in ugly Christmas sweaters and jeans.

  “I’ll go check on the brisket,” Rocco says, thumbing over his shoulder outside where the meat smokes. I’ve never seen him leave a room so fast.

  I turn to Mrs. Monroe, steeling my spine. “Hey, Mrs. M. Enjoying the party?”

  She lifts a brow at me and walks toward me. “Don’t play games with me, Darby. I didn’t come in here to make small talk.”

  I sigh inwardly. For the past six months or so, Mrs. Monroe and I have made big strides in our relationship. Once she accepted the fact that Harlowe and I weren’t a fling, and saw the way we love each other, she came around. We had a few heart-to-hearts, some with Harlowe, some just me and her. Things have been going pretty well—or so I thought.

  So well, last week I formally asked both her and Harlowe’s father for their permission to propose to their daughter.

  It’s why they’re here tonight, with Nancy. Why my parents are here tonight. Why my friends and Harlowe’s are here.

  “Okay,” I say evenly to Mrs. Monroe. “What can I do for you?”

  She sets her hands on my shoulders. “I wanted to let you know how happy I am you’re going to propose to Harlowe.” She smiles. “I was in a little bit of shock last week, and I felt bad that I didn’t say this to you then, but I’m going to say it to you now—I’m so sorry for acting the way I did when you and Harlowe reconnected. Hell, I’m sorry for acting how I did when you were in high school. I’ve had to come to terms with some of my own issues lately, and I realize I projected it onto my daughters’ and into their lives. And that was wrong. Darby, I’ve seen how happy Harlowe has been this past year. And I’ve never seen that before. It’s almost like…” She pauses, blinking rapidly to clear the tears gathering in her eyes. “It’s almost like I’m getting to meet a brand-new version of my daughter. And that’s because of you, and what the two of you share. So, not only do you have our blessing, but from me, personally—you have my love and gratitude for bringing such joy into my daughter’s life.”

  If she smacked me, I couldn’t have been more surprised. I accept the hug she offers me, wrapping my arms around her and squeezing.

  “Thanks, Mrs. M,” I say around the lump in my throat.

  “I think it’s time you called me Liz,” she replies. “Because you’ll be my son soon. I always wanted a boy, you know.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Now go make it official.”

  Grinning, my heart light, I walk into the living room. Harlowe’s wearing a Star Wars-themed ugly Christmas sweater. Her dark golden hair is up in an easy ponytail, and she’s laughing at something one of her friends is saying.

  I lean over her shoulder. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt. I need to talk to Harlowe for a second.”

  Harlowe glances back at me, smiling. “What’s up?”

  I take her by the hand and gently pull her to the middle of the room, then slide my arm around her waist. “Everyone,” I say louder, glancing around the room. “We wanted to thank you all for coming to our Christmas-slash-housewarming party. A lot of you helped us pull our home together—literally and figuratively, and we couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Our friends and family cheer and whoop.

  I smile at Harlowe. “Thank you for your patience, and for doing so much work when
my job got crazy and I had to spend long nights at scenes and long days at training. You never complained once.”

  She hugs me.

  “And as a token of my appreciation and love for you,” I continue, “I have a gift for you. Well, really, it’s more of a gift for me.”

  She lifts a brow and flashes a teasing smile. “Oh, really? That’s not self-serving at all. That sixty-four-inch curved TV?”

  “Something even better than that.” I lower myself to one knee, pulling a small box from my pocket, ignoring all the gasps in the room and just focusing on Harlowe.

  Her brown eyes widen, and she covers her mouth with both hands.

  “I love you,” I tell her earnestly. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I love you now. And if you’ll let me, I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

  I pop the lid on the box, showing her a custom diamond ring. There was a purpose to those long hours—overtime.

  “Marry me?” I ask, reaching for her hand.

  She jumps into my arms instead. “Yes. Yes!”

  I hug her tightly. Then I slip the ring onto her finger, and our friends and family manage to perform the largest group hug known to man.

  Mrs. Monroe—excuse me, Liz—comes over to hug us both, then pats my cheek. “Welcome to the family, Darby.”

  The smile on Harlowe’s face at that moment takes my breath away.

  She turns to me and wraps her arms around my waist. “Well, Officer Cisneros. After all this time, who would’ve thought this is where our story ends?”

  I lean down to kiss her. “Ends?” I murmur. “No, sweetheart. The last twenty-five years were just the prologue. Our story starts now.”

  The End

  3 | ROCCO

  1

  Seline Belle

  “So, rent’s due the first of the month, but I offer a five-day grace period,” my new landlord Mr. Brooks says, dropping the keys to the duplex in my palm. “This place should have everything you need but let me know if it doesn’t.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. “I’m sure it’ll be fine until I’m able to find a new place to live. But since I don’t have any possessions, I guess I’m not in a hurry.” I know I sound as bewildered as I feel.

  Mr. Brooks gives me a sympathetic nod. “Fires are never easy. I hope you didn’t lose anything too valuable.”

  I decide not to mention that I lost just about everything that ever meant something to me when my apartment burned down last week, like photos and mementos and gifts from family members over the years. I don’t even really care about all the clothes I lost. At least my roommate Roxie and her young daughter weren’t home at the time of the fire—and at least I had my laptop with all my work on it with me.

  I spent the better part of last week living in a budget motel before I couldn’t take another day and found this furnished duplex with a month-to-month lease. Roxie went home to stay with her parents temporarily and invited me along too, but I didn’t want to be a burden. The duplex isn’t fancy, but neither was our apartment. I just need a little something that feels like home until I can find another one.

  The duplex is in a cozy neighborhood. Most of the houses look like they’re thirty-plus years old, but it’s quiet. There are some kids and a lot of empty-nesters and elderly folks who just want peace and quiet.

  Exactly what I need.

  “This’ll be great,” I finally say to Mr. Brooks. “Thank you.”

  He nods. “I think you’ll find a lot of nice folks in this neighborhood. Hardworking, blue-collar types. Your next-door neighbor is a plumber, as a matter of fact. He also has a dog. Hope that won’t be an issue.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, then, I’ll let you get settled in,” Mr. Brooks says and heads for the door. “Remember, call if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  When he’s gone, I carry the duffel bag of clothes I bought over the last week to the bedroom. The whole place smells of cleaner and disinfectant and the bedding is new.

  I place the few sets of underwear, tops, and jeans that make up my wardrobe into the small dresser against the wall opposite the queen-size bed. Ever since the fire, I’ve felt totally drained and confused, like I’m in a mild state of shock.

  That’s because I suspect it wasn’t just a terrible accident.

  Someone deliberately set that fire. Someone wants me dead. Someone almost succeeded—taking a young mother and her five-year-old daughter with them.

  It was too coincidental to be a coincidence. A few days before, I published a piece in the Port City Times, where I’m a restaurant reviewer. I started out reviewing different places on my food blog, and the write-ups caught the attention of the editor of the paper, who offered me a job. I reviewed an Italian restaurant called Angelo’s in the city. It boasted “family recipes and secrets passed down from Nonna herself.” My actual nonna’s full-blooded Sicilian, so I know family-style Italian fare. The restaurant was unimpressive, but what started out as a review turned out to be something of an exposé, because word on the street is that the mob controls that place—and they’re running weapons out of it. When I explained to the staff who I was and what I was doing there and asked for a tour of the kitchen, I was immediately shut down.

  Nothing I wrote was confirmed. I have no evidence that anything of what I heard about the place was true. Yet the reaction I received spoke volumes…so I wrote about it.

  The day after the piece was published, I got an untraceable text message from an unknown number ordering me to remove the piece, “or else.” My editor asked me what I wanted to do, and I said nothing.

  Two days later, I was homeless. And had I been inside the apartment at that time, I’d be dead.

  Investigators are still trying to identify where the fire started.

  “Wine,” I mutter, walking back out to where a few canvas totes full of groceries sit. “Time for wine.”

  I find a cheapie bottle of white and twist off the metal cap. Then I take a drink straight from the bottle. It’s just me. I don’t need a glass. What does it matter, anyway?

  I unload the basics into the fridge—salad mix, chicken breasts, yogurt, coffee creamer, and a couple of six-packs of locally brewed beer. I definitely need more food, but I eat out so much for my job any food I buy usually goes to waste.

  Deciding to stop being a savage, I pour some wine into a water glass and head to the bathroom. Time for a hot bath, my favorite way to unwind.

  I perch on the edge of the toilet, sipping my wine, and flip on the faucet toward the scalding side. Ice cold water rushes out. I keep my fingers under the stream. Once it gets hot enough, I’ll plug the tub and strip.

  But it doesn’t get hot. It doesn’t even get warm. It stays cold.

  I frown, turn the water off, and wait a moment. Then I turn the water back on. Still freezing.

  With a huge sigh, I smack the faucet off. How much will my neighbor hate me for bothering him at nine at night?

  “Maybe a six-pack will help,” I mutter, heaving myself off the toilet.

  I grab one of my two six-packs from the fridge and trudge next door. Maybe I’m being a spoiled little princess, but, dammit, all I really wanted was a long, hot soak in the tub and to relax for the first time since publishing that article. Is that too much to ask?

  And yes, I do know I sound like a whiny brat.

  The porch light next door is off, which makes me cringe extra-hard. This guy could be an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type.

  I hesitate, my fist poised to knock. Maybe this can wait until morning. My problem isn’t someone else’s emergency. I lower my fist and turn to go.

  Then freeze when I hear the lock unlatch and the door open.

  “Can I help you?” a deep voice asks.

  I whirl around, my heart pounding. And then it pounds even harder.

  My neighbor is so, so very sexy.

  Tall, well over six feet. Dark hair, dark eyes, and built like hell. His shoulders practically fill the do
orway, and he’s wearing only a snug, white, ribbed tank top that shows off a completely tattooed right arm and a tattooed left forearm, and low-slung gray sweatpants. But at least he doesn’t appear to have been sleeping.

  A little black-and-white face wedges between his knee and the doorframe. A dog I think is a Shiba Inu blinks up at me, but doesn’t bark.

  My neighbor’s dark eyes slide over me from head to toe, and I’m suddenly self-conscious in the jeans and zip-up hoodie I’m wearing. Not the best first-impression outfit.

  “I, uh…” I start lamely. “Um, no. No, sorry to bother you.” I start to turn away.

  “Do you usually hang out in front of strangers’ doors?”

  I face him again. “Uh, I’m the new neighbor. Mr. Brooks said you’re a plumber.”

  One side of his mouth curves up into a smile that looks a bit wry. “Ah. Clogged toilet?”

  “No hot water. But it can wait until tomorrow morning. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “I go to work pretty early.”

  “Oh.” I swallow. He’s not exactly making this easy, and my heart hasn’t slowed down. He makes me nervous, but not in a bad, serial-killer sort of way.

  “Is that beer?” He tips his head toward the pack I forgot I’m holding.

  “This? Yes. It’s beer. I thought it might suffice as payment. I really wanted to take a hot bath.”

  A dark brow raises as his gaze travels over me again.

  “All right. Let’s take a look. I’m Rocco, by the way.”

  2

  Rocco Delucci

  If anyone told me my post-work Friday night would involve mistaking a beautiful woman who happens to be my brand-new, next-door neighbor for a prowler, I’d have laughed in their damn face.

  I got home from work shortly before seven, then did a quick boxing workout in my tiny backyard while my dog Chaplin watched from the stoop, patiently waiting for me to take him on his nightly walk. I sometimes take him to work with me, but when I’m as busy as I was today with back-to-back appointments, that gets tricky.