The Mostly Real McCoy: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Apple Valley Love Stories Book 1)

by Julie Christianson

Daisy hops, skips, and jumps.

  “I agree. I think we should go see what’s wrong.”

  Together we walk over to Brooke’s Celica. The car is more rust-colored than anything. Her windows are half-rolled down, so I’m betting the air conditioning’s shot too. And this woman’s turning down my money?

  I give Daisy a squeeze.

  “Ms. Wallace is a proud one, isn’t she?”

  We come around to the driver’s side. Brooke’s head is resting on the steering wheel. Her eyes are closed. She’s motionless. I set Daisy down and tap the half-open window. Brooke jumps in her seat and looks up. When she sees me, she sighs. “Hey there. Again.”

  “Car trouble?” I ask.

  She winces.

  “Got Triple A?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Listen, Brooke. I heard you loud and clear back there. You don’t want to work for me. And I get it. But at least let me give you a ride home.” She cocks her head. Hesitant. So I point down. “I’ve got Daisy here with me. I promise to be a gentleman.”

  Brooke sighs again. Resigned. “Just a ride?”

  I nod.

  “All right. Thanks.”

  She unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs out of the car. Then she turns to stick her key in the door to lock it.

  I chuckle. “Not sure you need to do that. This relic’s not going anywhere. It’s a Relica.”

  Ha. Good one, Mac.

  Brooke gives me some serious side eye. “This car might be a piece of junk, but it’s what I could afford.”

  “I get it,” I say. “Believe me.” I feel bad acting like I understand money troubles, but it’s safer this way. As long as Brooke thinks my offer to pay her was scraping the bottom of my bank account, I won’t have to question her motives. She doesn’t seem like a gold digger now, but I didn’t see that side of Gwen either.

  Not until it was too late.

  “Wait ’til you see my Chevy,” I say. “It’s pretty beat up too.” I nod toward the other side of the lot. “I’m parked over there.”

  The three of us start heading over, me holding Daisy’s hand, Brooke following. It’s not fully dark yet, but the street lights are flickering on. The air is cooling. Clean and sweet. When we reach my truck, Brooke scans the body, taking in the door dents and scratched-up paint.

  The truck is mechanically sound, but I drive it around work sites. It looks almost as rough as Brooke’s Relica.

  “This is yours?” she asks.

  “Yep. And there’s a big step, so hold on. I’ll help you.” I open the passenger door for Daisy and lift her up. She climbs into her booster seat and buckles herself in. Brooke checks out the scuffed interior. The empty bottles of Gatorade. A pile of crumpled receipts.

  “Where am I going to sit?”

  “There’s plenty of room between me and Daisy.”

  “Hmm.” Brooke follows me over to the driver’s side of the truck. When I offer her a hand, she ignores it and hops in on her own. Then she scoots as close to Daisy as she can get. As far as she can from me.

  Interesting.

  I’ll give her one thing, Brooke is nothing like Tiffany. The nanny. What a piece of work. She kept making moves on me—obvious moves—and she wouldn’t take the hint. I think that’s why Daisy ended up punching her. More than once, to be honest. I would’ve had to fire the woman if she hadn’t quit.

  I climb in beside Brooke now and get a whiff of coconut shampoo. She brushes her hair back and, yep. There’s the bare skin at her neck.

  Nope. Don’t look, Mac. That spells trouble. This is all about Daisy. Nothing else.

  I pass Brooke my phone. “Punch in your address,” I tell her. She frowns, but she does it anyway. “It’s just for navigation,” I say. “I promise not to stalk you.”

  “Good to know.” She makes a noise that’s half cough, half snicker.

  100% adorable.

  I start up the truck and check our route. The Edward R. McCoy Library sits in a neighborhood of old ranch houses. Brooke’s apartment is on the other side of town. As the crow flies, it’s not too many miles, but there are a few other neighborhoods between here and there, plus some strip malls and a couple gas stations. The intersections and stop signs will slow down our drive. So I take Pine Street down to Sweet Water Way which runs along the river.

  I like this drive. Maple trees line one side of the road. Douglas firs drop their needles on the other. There are no street lights. Nothing but quiet. And slivers of sky between the branches.

  After a bit of silence, I decide to press my luck. “Brooke?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like you to reconsider working for me.” I hazard a glance at her. “And I hate to say this, but I don’t think you have a whole lot of options.”

  Her shoulders go stiff. Not a good sign. But the state of her Relica changes everything. She needs me as much as I need her.

  “Your car’s broken down, and you’re behind on rent,” I say. “Then there’s the Top Ramen situation.”

  She chews her lip. “I already told you. I on’t-day ike-lay ids-kay.”

  I raise a brow. “Pig Latin?”

  She shrugs and our shoulders brush. “Well, what I said doesn’t sound nice in English.”

  “Well, I said I’m only interested in a short-term arrangement. No attachments. Just professional. So you don’t need to ike-lay aisy-day. In fact it’ll be easier at the end of the month if you on’t-day.”

  Brooke shakes her head. “No.”

  “Well.” I blow out a breath. “Clearly my charm isn’t working.”

  Brooke’s mouth quirks. “You thought this was charming?”

  “Oh, definitely not,” I say. “No charm whatsoever.”

  We’re silent again for another minute. A minute when all I hear echoing in my head is Daisy’s laughter tonight. With Brooke. That’s all I want for my daughter. A little lightness. Some joy. I need Brooke for that. She’s the one.

  “Four weeks,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking. Then you can walk away. Clean and simple. In fact, I’ll make you walk away.” I glance at her. “No matter how much you want to stay.”

  Daisy kicks the dashboard. Brooke looks at her, then at me.

  “Mac,” she says.

  “Brooke.” I slow to a stop on the side of the road and cut the engine.

  She frowns. “You’re not going to murder me are you? Because that would not be charming.”

  I clear my throat. “If it’s a matter of money, I’m sorry. I can’t pay you more.”

  This isn’t true, but I don’t want Brooke to know that. “A thousand bucks a week is already more than I can afford, but I’d spend my last dollar for my daughter.”

  I look Brooke in the eye. “Please. For aisy-day.”

  She takes a deep breath then exhales. “Okay,” she says. “For Daisy.”

  Before I can thank her, Brooke’s stomach growls. Even though the cab of the truck is dark, I can tell she’s turning red.

  “Sorry,” she squeaks, wrapping both arms around her middle.

  “Don’t apologize for being hungry,” I say. “Let’s get you some food.”

  5

  Brooke

  Mac starts up the truck and pulls back onto the road, but he might as well have murdered me back there, because I’m dying of embarrassment. “I haven’t eaten in a while,” I explain. “And I forgot my lunchbox in the Celica. Beef and broccoli.”

  Why did you tell him that?

  “Poor SpongeBob,” Mac says. “That won’t smell good in the morning.”

  “I can’t even be trusted with leftovers.” My face is so hot, I feel like the sun. An exploding star. I don’t want to stop for food with Mac and Daisy, but my fridge is basically empty. Unless you count half a jar of mayonnaise and some wilted cilantro from Taco Tuesday. The beef and broccoli from take-out Wednesday was all I had to eat tonight.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “Is McDonald’s okay?”

  “Sure,” he says. “But I mig
ht as well tell you, I’ve got some PTSD from my childhood and that place.”

  “Why? You can’t beat a value meal.”

  “I got called Big Mac. A lot.”

  I can’t help giggling at this, but then I feel terrible. I shouldn’t be laughing when he’s sharing a vulnerable moment. “I’m sorry. Kids can be mean.”

  “That’s very true,” he says. I check out his profile, the slope of his nose. Only one of his dimples is visible, but I don’t want to be counting his dimples. Stop it, Brooke.

  “Here’s the thing about that, Mac. Stuff is either true or not true. Nothing is very true. Just like something can’t be a little bit untrue.”

  Mac chuckles. “Guess you get nitpicky when you’re hungry.” He glances at Daisy. “You want a strawberry shake?” She kicks her feet against the glove box again. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says.

  “A shake before bedtime, huh.” I raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a lot of sugar?”

  Mac chuckles again. He sure likes chuckling. The sound is low and kind of sexy.

  “You’re right. It is a lot of sugar. Thank you very much for the reminder, Brooke.”

  I nod. “You’re very welcome.”

  He glances at me. “Does that mean there’s such a thing as a little bit welcome?”

  “Ha ha! You got me.” I snort. Fabulous. Mac has a sexy chuckle, and I’m honking like a goose.

  “Did you hear that?” Mac peers around me to Daisy. Is he making fun of my goose impression? “I’m as smart as a teacher,” he says.

  Ah. A teacher. Right. Thanks for the reminder, Mac.

  I shift my focus out the window as we turn off the back road and head toward town. The river disappears behind us, and dark grasslands stretch ahead. Before long, we reach a sprawl of buildings that belong to McCoy Construction. “I hate that place,” I mutter, but I must be loud enough for Mac to hear. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head shift.

  “Why is that?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just do.”

  “Come on, Brooke.” He grips the steering wheel. “You can do better than that.”

  “I guess I’m not used to people asking my opinion,” I say. “But if I had to put it into words, McCoy’s looks like a bunch of big, cold buildings to me. All glass and concrete. No heart. And that’s not what I came to Oregon for.”

  His jaw shifts. “What did you come to Oregon for?”

  “Well, technically, I came for my best friend. Emi. Apple Valley is her hometown. We met in college, and she was my roommate until she moved back here. When I decided to follow her, I didn’t know the job market was terrible. Or that I’d end up working as a part-time security guard. And falling behind on rent. And questioning the meaning of life. All because I left teaching.” Now I’m rambling. What is it about this guy that gets me talking more than I want to?

  “Huh.” His lip tips up. “That’s a lot to put on little kids.”

  “Oh, right. Yes.” I glance at Daisy, then back at him. “But that’s just how I feel. I can’t help it.”

  He’s quiet for another moment. Then he says, “It doesn’t explain why McCoys is a disappointment, though. Did you apply there, and they turned you down?”

  “Are you kidding?” Snort. Great. “They’re all about building stuff that doesn’t need to be there. I like open spaces. Meadows and fields. Willamette tributaries. Steelhead. Osprey.”

  He tilts his head. “Are you referring to the bird?”

  “Sure. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s just that you pronounced it wrong. Which makes me wonder if you’re really a big fan.”

  “Whatever.” I frown. “You don’t know me.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “Do you fish?”

  “I could fish. I choose not to.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Because you like steelhead.”

  I bite my lip. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  He smiles. A small one. “I promise I’m not,” he says. And maybe he isn’t, but I shift my focus back to the road. The golden arches glow at us from a block away.

  “Some things need to be built, though, don’t you think?” he asks. “Like this McDonald’s, for one thing.” He pulls into the parking lot. “And did you know McCoy built the library too?”

  “But that just proves my point. Those McCoy people want to control everything in the whole state. They’re big, bulldozing bullies with their fingers in all the pies. And I like my pies without fingers.” I dart a glance at him. “That came out wrong, but you know what I mean.”

  Mac nods. “I think so. Yes.”

  He eases up to the drive-thru box, and I have to lean over him to order. When I do, I get another dose of Mac’s delicious scent. Wood chips. Salt. Leather. My stomach rumbles again, and my cheeks burn hotter than before.

  “One Big Mac, one large fries, and your biggest Coke please,” I squeak. “Also a small strawberry shake.”

  Mac shifts and his shoulder brushes mine. “Thanks for remembering.”

  A voice crackles from the drive-thru box. “Anything else, miss?”

  “An apple pie,” I add. “With no fingers in it,” I mutter.

  Mac laughs. “Is that all?”

  “Wait!” I call out. “Can I get one Filet-O-Fish too, please?”

  "Wow.” Mac flashes me a look, and the drive-thru operator spits out the total. As we pull up to the window, Mac reaches into his back pocket and whips out a wallet.

  “I can pay for myself,” I say. Just barely—but he doesn’t need to know that. I grab his arm to stop him, and the swell of his muscle sends a tingle up my spine. When I jerk my hand back, Mac passes the money to the teenager in the window.

  “There’s a shake for my daughter in that order,” he says, “so let me get this. Please.”

  I settle back into my seat. “Well. Thank you. Very much.” At the next window, we collect our order. I hold onto my Coke but set the bag of food by my feet.

  Mac hands Daisy her shake and nods at me. “Next stop, home sweet home.”

  My apartment’s pretty small, and it came already furnished with stuff that doesn’t belong to me. The couch is mustard-colored and the refrigerator’s avocado. It’s not exactly sweet, but it’s mine. And none of this is any of Mac’s business.

  On the drive, we’re mostly quiet. The only sound in the truck’s cab is Daisy sucking her straw. I sip my Coke and sneak a couple fries from the bag below me. Mac glances out the window as we pass the McCoy Construction site again.

  “Maybe I don’t hate that place very much,” I say.

  “Well. That’s good to hear,” he says. “Because I work there.”

  “Oh!” I choke on the fries and drop my entire Coke. The top pops off and a wave of icy soda splashes all over my clothes and the seat of the truck. Seeing this, Daisy begins to giggle and strawberry shake dribbles down her chin.

  Why am I always such a disaster?

  I dig in the bag for napkins, but half of them are soaked already. I don’t know what to mop up with the dry ones first. My skirt, Daisy’s face, or the seat of Mac’s truck. Mac stifles a laugh while I swipe at Daisy with one hand and dab at my skirt with another. I frown at him. “This is hilarious to you?”

  He shakes his head, then surrenders to a full-on LOL. “It’s a little bit hilarious.”

  “Whatever.” I keep wiping at my skirt. “You’re not the one wearing Coke.”

  “Very true. But my truck sure is.”

  I bite my tongue because of course Mac’s right. Not only did I spill soda all over his Chevy, but I insulted his workplace. And he still paid for my food. The guy is being a good sport. I should probably be nicer. It’s just hard when he’s snickering at me. “Sorry I messed up your truck.” I sigh. “And your daughter.”

  “No harm done. Neither one of them is exactly fresh as a daisy.” He smirks. “Pun intended.”

  “Pun terrible.” I snort-honk. Great. The goose is back. I wipe up as much of the Coke as I
can, then roll the napkins into a wet ball. Mac starts whistling.

  Whistling?

  “Hey.” I’m staring at that dimple again. “Do you really work at McCoy Construction, or were you just messing with me?”

  Mac stops whistling and darts a glance at Daisy. She kicks at the dashboard again. “It’s just a job, Brooke.”

  “I know. It’s not like you own the place or anything. It’s just that I think—”

  “No worries.” Mac glances down at the soggy bag of food and the wad of napkins in my lap. “I am a little worried about those fries you were digging into, though.” He laughs. “Hopefully half your food survived the Coke Armageddon. It’s a good thing you ordered extra.”

  He turns onto my street which is lined with moss-covered trees. Most of the apartment buildings are two stories. All of them could use a fresh coat of paint. Mine is blue with two windows facing the street. The sagging railing along the balcony makes the front look like a smiley face.

  “For the record, it’s not all for me,” I tell him.

  Mac parks under a street lamp and cuts the engine. “Who’s the extra food for?”

  I glance up at the smiley-face balcony. “Mr. and Mrs. Sprat. The couple in the apartment next to mine. They’re pretty old, and they must be lonely.” I wrinkle my nose at the thought. Mrs. Sprat is so nice. She deserves better. “No one ever visits, at least not since I moved in. So I bring McDonald’s over sometimes.” I shrug. “The cat likes Filet-O-Fish. His name is Galileo.”

  Mac studies me for a beat, his eyes shining under the street light. “Well, aren’t you something, Brooke Wallace.”

  I can’t help smiling when he says this. “Yes, I am something,” I tease. “And don’t you forget it, Mac … ummm … whatever-your-other-name is.”

  “Bradford,” he says. “Mac Bradford.” He darts his eyes at Daisy. “So we’ll pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow.” His lip quirks. “In the meantime, you can practice not spilling any more Coke.” I know Mac’s just teasing me back, but my smile fades. I hate being dependent on other people. Even worse, I hate other people thinking I’m depending on them.

  “No way.” I shake my head. “I can drive myself.”