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

by Mazzy King

  The museum is due to get a new one soon. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s a lot of construction taking place. During the lull between exhibits, the museum wanted to fix the flooring, install new carpeting, build new walls. Basically, do a bunch of shit that is absolutely migraine-inducing—for me.

  My boss offered to share her office with me while the construction was happening, but I wanted to show her I’m a trooper who can handle anything, so I turned her down. Besides, as an introvert, I crave solitude in most cases, not the least of which is at work so I can focus and do my own thing.

  But now, as the sound of a jackhammer rattattattattattattatting into the floor echoes down the hall toward me, sounding like a machine gun and making me clench my teeth, I regret everything.

  Unfortunately, I can’t ask her to move in now, because the lady on the other side of the exhibit took her up on the offer, and there’s only room for two.

  The sound only gets louder and louder the closer I get. Shutting my office door only muffles it slightly, and besides, I can hear it through the walls.

  I ran out during lunch to do my last fitting for my bridesmaid dress. My sister Harlowe is getting married this weekend to possibly one of the only truly nice guys in the world—him, and my ex-roommate Blair Brassard’s fiancé, Axel Hanlon, deserve that title. It was nice to get away from the noise in the museum, but the dress only brings a new set of anxieties to the surface. I’m Harlowe’s maid of honor and will be expected to be front and center during the ceremony and the connecting activities. I’m going to see a lot of extended family for the first time since before I left Curtis. I’m going to feel all their judgment. I’m the black sheep of the family, the fuck-up, the loser.

  I’m happy for Harlowe, but I wish, not for the first time, she was eloping.

  I settle at my desk, intending to buckle down and work on a new social media campaign ahead of an afternoon conference call with a group of potential donors. The ruckus next door makes me cringe, but I put on my noise-canceling headphones and try to concentrate.

  Ten minutes before my call, I realize that not only am I not going to be able to hear very well, I’m not going to be able to present our suggestions for a social media campaign to our donors, either.

  “Shit,” I hiss, jumping out of my seat.

  It might be akin in ridiculousness to stopping a moving train, but I storm out of my office and into the exhibit hall next door, sideswiping the “Under Construction” sign posted out front.

  I follow the noise to its source, where a group of four men wearing hard hats are standing around some crumbled flooring, running a jackhammer.

  “Excuse me,” I call impatiently. My voice is lost under the noise, and none of them look up.

  I stalk over and tap my finger on the shoulder of the nearest man—jab his shoulder, is more like it. “Excuse me!”

  He whirls around fast, and I meet a pair of dark blue eyes, situated in one of the most beautiful male faces I’ve ever seen.

  The man eyes me for a second, then turns to his crewmember and swipes the flat of his hand across his throat. “Cut it.”

  Immediately, the sound stops, and blessed silence fills the air.

  “Can I help you?” Blue Eyes asks.

  “Yeah,” I say tightly, trying not to snarl. God, my temper sucks. “I’ve got a conference call in about five minutes and I have to present. I can’t do that with all this noise.”

  “Can’t you go to another office?” he makes the mistake of asking.

  I take a deep breath. “No, I can’t go to another office! Don’t you think I would’ve done that already if that was a possibility? Who in God’s name would sit through this fucking racket voluntarily?”

  He blinks several times, but his face remains otherwise impassive. His crewmates snicker.

  “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to be able to present to a bunch of very important, very wealthy people whose money we need without having to scream at them!”

  “Like you are now?” Blue Eyes says mildly.

  I narrow my eyes. Just like a fucking man. I have no idea what that means, actually, but I’m too pissed to care. “Just keep it down for the next thirty minutes, if you don’t mind.”

  One of the other workers frowns. “Lady, that’s going to put us off sched—”

  Blue Eyes lifts a hand to quiet him without taking his eyes from me. “Thirty minutes. You got it.”

  It’s my turn to blink rapidly. I wasn’t expecting such easy acquiescence, especially since I’m being a touch…impolite.

  He’s probably just being a dick in some way, I tell myself irrationally. He and his buddies here will have a good laugh at you when you walk out.

  It’s easier than believing the alternative, that he really is a nice guy trying to help out a clearly stressed woman.

  “Okay?” he says in a gentler voice, still watching me closely.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, already turning.

  “You’re welcome,” he calls out behind me, but I just keep walking back to my office.

  “What a dick,” I mumble under my breath as I lower myself into my seat. How he’s a dick, I can’t really pinpoint. They’ll probably cut the jackhammer back on any second.

  But silence stretches on, and I’m able to deliver a flawless presentation to the donors.

  Okay. Maybe not a dick.

  But it doesn’t matter anyway.

  At the end of the day, all men are alike.

  2

  Damien Willis

  As I walk into the museum’s side entrance the next morning, carrying a big tumbler of hot coffee, I can’t stop thinking about that pretty, snarling grouch from the day before.

  The museum worker was clearly having a shit day, but that didn’t stop me from damn near tripping over myself when I laid eyes on her after feeling several very hard, insistent jabs in my shoulder. Flowing dark-golden-brown hair, beautiful light-green eyes, lightly bronze skin—all packaged in a snug, knee-length, forest-green dress that could bring any man to his knees.

  I’m not sure what took me back more—her incredible beauty or the fire snapping in her eyes.

  On the way out of the museum last night, I passed by the small room that has to be her office. There’s a plate on the door that says “Nancy Monroe.” Has to be her.

  A combination of a couple of old-fashioned names that bring to mind timeless goddesses—Nancy Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe.

  If we’re talking goddesses, Athena, Goddess of War, has to be more fitting…

  Still a goddess.

  My work boots thunk on the tiled floor as I stride for the construction site. I’m the leader of the crew and always try to arrive on a site early so I can take stock of what needs to be done and get the day planned out.

  I glance toward the office door that has “Nancy Monroe” on the front of it as I near it. Maybe I should pop in and see if she has any calls today so I can plan for the really loud work to happen around it. Replacing that floor will be loud no matter what, but nothing beats that jackhammer.

  I swerve off-course toward the office door. Just as I’m reaching for the knob, the door flies open. I swing my tumbler out of the way just before the golden goddess slams into me.

  “What the—” she cries.

  Hot coffee splashes out from under the shoddy lid and onto my hand. “Ow, shit!”

  “Are you okay?” she gasps, reaching out a hand slightly before stopping herself and pulling it back. Her eyes harden. “You should watch where you’re going. What’re you doing here, anyway?” She ducks back into her small office and snags a handful of tissues from the box on her desk, then hands them to me.

  I mop off my hand. “I was coming to see you.”

  She folds her arms, jutting out a hip. “See me for what?”

  There’s a weird note of suspicion in her voice, like I’m an undercover agent out to bug her office. “I just wanted to know if you had any calls today, so we don’t disturb you.”

/>   Her eyes narrow more. “Why?”

  I’m totally confused. My forehead knits as I study her. “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why do you care?” she clarifies.

  Is she nuts? “It’s…called common courtesy.” A flash of irritation burns through me quickly. “Look, forget it. If you have a call, you might want to find a different place to take it.” I turn away, shaking my head. Nice guys finish last, remember?

  “Wait.”

  I pause, then turn. “Yes?”

  She drops her arms and sighs. “Thank you. That’s nice of you. I don’t have any calls today.”

  I nod. “Okay, then. You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”

  “Sure.” She turns, then tosses over her shoulder, “you too.”

  “Hey, what’s your name?” I call. I’ve already guessed, but I want the clarification.

  The beautiful woman arches a brow, then points to the sign on the door.

  I smile. “I’m Damien.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Nancy says, her cheeks turning pink. “I’ve…gotta get to work.”

  “Yeah,” I say to her retreating back, my eyes unable to stop following the line of those beautiful curves. “Me too.”

  That evening, I’m heading out to my truck when I catch sight of Nancy standing beside her car, talking rapidly on her phone. Part of me thinks I should just keep walking, but I slow as I walk closer. She sounds frustrated.

  Then she shoves her phone in her purse and kicks one of her tires. “Fuck!”

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  She jumps and whirls around. “What?”

  I gesture to her car. “Everything all right?”

  “I locked my keys inside,” she says in a small voice. “Like an idiot.”

  “Can you call a company to come out here and help you?”

  “They’re busy. They can’t get out here until eight and I refuse to wait that long.” She shoves a hand through her hair. “I have a spare at home, and security can let me into my apartment. I guess I’ll just have to Uber there.”

  I point at my truck. “I’m happy to give you a ride.”

  She stares at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “Yeah, right. I don’t even know you.”

  I shrug. “Fair enough. But you still need a lift. Why shell out the money? We can go get your key and I’ll bring you back here.”

  “I’m not worried about the cost. I’m worried you might be a weirdo,” she says. “I might end up in your trunk.”

  Again, I gesture to my truck. “I don’t really have a trunk, per se.”

  She doesn’t crack a smile.

  I sigh. “Suit yourself. If you’re going to get an Uber, I’ll wait here with you to make sure you’re safe.”

  “Why would you bother?”

  “What’s with you?” I exclaim. “Not everybody—every guy—is a fuckin’ asshole, you know.”

  “Sure,” she sneers. “And I bet you think pineapple belongs on pizza.”

  It catches me off guard momentarily. “Actually, yes, I do think pineapple belongs on pizza. What’s that got to do with me being a nice guy?”

  “The fact that there’s no such thing,” she says with a heavy sigh, sounding extremely tired. She taps her phone screen, then growls. “Nearest Uber is twenty minutes away. What the hell is going on?”

  “Look, this is stupid,” I say. “Just let me give you a ride. All right? I promise I won’t bite. I’m not a weirdo, even though I like pineapple on pizza. You can livestream our entire ride on Facebook if you want, so everyone knows what you’re doing and who you’re with and who they need to come after should something go wrong. Which it won’t.”

  Nancy’s shoulders sag. “…all right. Fine.”

  I open the passenger side door for her and hold out a hand. “Big step up.”

  “I can manage,” she says darkly, and hoists herself up.

  What is her deal? I jog around to my side. “Oh, my goodness, of course you’re welcome,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “No, no, it’s my pleasure.” I’m only half kidding. She’s not the politest person I’ve ever met, but there’s just something about her that tells me she’s had a rough go of it. Not just today, but in life.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, so quietly I almost don’t hear her. “I—thank you. For the ride. Really.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say gently, glancing over at her before pulling the shifter into drive. For the first time, I notice how young she looks. Maybe it’s because the fierceness is gone and all that’s left is an open, vulnerable face that’s been hurt too many times. She can’t be older than twenty-five at the outside. “Hey, listen. I don’t know you, and I don’t mean to overstep, but, as my grandmother was fond of saying, ‘This, too, shall pass.’”

  Nancy shifts her luminous eyes toward me.

  I give her a small half smile. “Not earth-shattering, but it’s helped me through some rough patches in my life.” Like crouching in a burned-out building in Afghanistan, wondering if the next volley of bullets tearing through the air will find and end me. Like being the sole survivor of a roadside IED.

  Like every night, when I have nightmares about all of those things happening, and I can’t escape until I wake up drenched in sweat.

  Her face is so still I can’t tell if she’s going to blow up on me or burst into tears. But she surprises me when she does neither.

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  3

  Nancy

  I feel like the world’s biggest jerk.

  I’m ashamed of myself, at how quick I am to be so defensive. How quick I am to go into attack mode first, to beat the other person to the punch—literally—because that’s the only way I’ve learned to survive.

  It’s hard to accept that there are kind people in the world. It’s hard to believe it.

  But I think…I hope…Damien is truly one of them.

  I quietly give him directions to my apartment, which is only a ten-minute drive from the museum. Then I race into the building.

  Ronnie the night guard is sitting at a podium off to the side. This place costs most of my salary each month, but the security factor alone was what sold it to me. Plus, it’s a lovely apartment. So even though I can’t really afford to go anywhere besides work, I have a nice place to call home. A safe one.

  “Hi Ronnie,” I say in a rush. “I locked my keys in my car. Can you let me into my apartment?”

  Ronnie is six and a half feet tall, with buzzed hair and a grumpy face, but he’s the nicest man ever. I was intimidated by him when I first moved in, but I quickly realized he’s a teddy bear. Of course, he’s also a black belt in taekwondo and jujitsu, so anyone would be stupid to cross him.

  “Of course.” He puts down the book he’s reading and hauls himself off his stool. “I don’t think you’ve ever done that before. Rough day?”

  “Day, month, year, you know,” I mutter.

  He chuckles as we walk to the elevator. “Things will get better.”

  “So I keep hearing.”

  Ronnie uses the complex master key to let me into my apartment and I grab my spare set. He lingers long enough to escort me back to the lobby.

  “You’re the best, Ronnie,” I call over my shoulder, heading for the door. “Thank you.”

  He’s already immersed back in his book. “Anytime, kiddo. See you later.”

  I hurry back out to where Damien waits patiently in his truck, and another confusing but warm rush of emotion goes through me. He really does seem like a nice guy…

  No such thing, a little voice in the back of my head says. You know better.

  I climb inside the truck—literally climb—and flounce in the seat.

  “Got your keys?” he asks, shifting into drive.

  “Got ’em.” I hold them up. Then my stomach growls. “Oh man. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m starving.” I take a mental inventory of what I have in my cupboards. I enjoy cooking, but it’s already seven. It’ll be seven thirty by th
e time I get home, and I am not slicing and dicing this late at night. “TV dinner for me tonight, I guess.”

  Damien cuts a sidelong glance at me. “At the risk of overstepping…”

  I shift narrowed eyes toward him. “Yes?”

  He flashes me another half smile. Fuck! I don’t want to find that as sexy as I do, but I can’t help it. He’s seriously gorgeous, and now that his construction belt and vest and hard hat are off, I can see his large, muscular body filling out his T-shirt. One arm is covered in tattoos. He wears a big, sporty wristwatch and some sort of woven bracelet on his right arm. I can see him throwing darts in a pub with his friends. No, scratch that—bending over a pool table, lining up a shot.

  Sheesh…

  He points ahead to the left. “If you’re hungry and speaking of pizza, there’s a great place up there.”

  It takes me a while to remember we were speaking of pizza, thanks to my snarky remark in the parking lot. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to eat a piece of pineapple pizza. No thanks.”

  “You don’t like to try new things?” He shakes his head. “That’s a shame.”

  “You don’t know me,” I shoot back. “You don’t know what I like to try.”

  “So prove me wrong,” he says with another smooth smile. “What do you have to lose? It’s a free meal, great pizza, you prove me wrong…and you might just discover something new that you like.”

  “We just met,” I protest. “I’m still trying to figure out if you’re a creep.”

  “It’s just pizza,” he replies. “I’m hungry. You’re hungry. We gotta eat. It’s not like it’s a wedding.”