by Avery Flynn
Fallon glared at him. “If you say she’s got a pretty face for a bigger person, I am going to stab you with the closest pointy object.”
“Look, I can’t help who I’m attracted to. I have dated all sorts of women,” he said, unable to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “It’s not that I’m excluding anyone, it’s just that I am drawn to who I am drawn to.”
And women who were never going to buy the lines he was selling were not one of them. He liked his balls attached and swinging under his dick, thanks very much.
“Bullshit.” Fallon sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “It’s that you take some folks off the list before you even give them a chance.”
“You want me to bang Lucy Kavanagh?” Where in the hell was this conversation going?
“No,” Fallon exclaimed. “I like her.”
He tossed his cards onto the table in frustration. “And you can’t like people I fuck?”
“If that was the case,” Fallon said, her voice rising, “then I’d have to not like almost the entire female population of Waterbury.”
And if Frankie needed any confirmation that he needed to take a time-out from women—all women—then this was it. Even his sister thought he was a man-whore and nothing more. He looked at his brothers, who had transformed their faces into carefully neutral masks, which told him everything he needed to know.
“How about everyone steps back and takes a deep breath,” said Finn, ever the peacemaker. “You two are getting pretty fucking worked up when you’re both right.”
Frankie and Fallon stopped shooting death glares at each other to turn their combined ire onto Finn. “What?” they asked at the same time.
“Sexual attraction is what it is. We don’t control it,” Finn said, talking slowly because he was obviously trying to pick his words carefully. “But we, as humans, do tend to separate the world into them and us, which can alter our perspective about who we should even consider as possible sexual partners. The research on physical attraction is actually pretty fascinating.” He looked from Frankie to Fallon to Ford, and they must have each had the same shocked expression, because Finn flipped them off. “What? I can read.”
There was a beat of silence, and then they each started laughing, the tension seeping out of Frankie’s shoulders as he relaxed back against his chair. His gaze caught Fallon’s. They were too much alike in a lot of ways, quick tempers, impulsive, embracers of chaos, and—yeah—adrenaline junkies. But they were both the kind of people who stuck up for the kid getting picked on. For him, it was probably because he was the oldest of the Hartigan siblings and that had been his role as long as he could remember.
For Fallon? Well, the world wasn’t always easy for a woman who didn’t conform to what was expected. She’d gotten so much shit growing up about her brash personality and tomboy ways that defensiveness was pretty much her starting point in any discussion. And that attitude showed up when she was going mama bear for her friends. He could understand that.
“Look, I know Lucy’s your friend,” he said. “I like her but not that way. I’m going because it will give me a break from my usual routine in Waterbury, and I could use that to get my head clear. And she deserves to rub her awesome life into the faces of those assholes from high school. It’s a win-win for both of us.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t call him an asshole again, so that was progress. “You’re sure everything else is all right?”
“Yes.” He grinned at her. “And my dick still works.”
“No, I mean this is a big change from your standard operating procedure,” she said, not even cracking a smile at his joke. “You’re a pain in the butt but you’re our pain in the butt, so we’re here for you if you need us.”
Like he’d ever doubted it. They might fight. They might call each other out. They might be loud and obnoxious and way too involved in one another’s lives, but they were family and that’s how they rolled—all in it together.
“I’m thirty-three,” he said, gathering up everyone’s discarded cards on the table and shuffling them. “I’m just ready for a change.”
Finn chuckled and took a sip from his beer. “Frankie’s going to Missouri to find himself.”
They all laughed, the equanimity of the Hartigan poker table back to normal. And that was about as much touchy-feely chatting as he could take, so he told Ford it was his turn to get fresh beers from the fridge and deal out the cards, figuring he could use the winnings he was about to make to pay for tolls on the drive to Missouri.
And that was what put the smile on his face, not the idea of spending a day and a half on the road with Lucy Kavanagh. Not at all.
Chapter Four
Lucy pulled into the driveway of the bungalow Frankie shared with his brother at six a.m. It was too early to be up. Thank God for Mountain Dew, lots and lots of Mountain Dew. She put her Prius into park, took a drink from her second soda of the day, and then got out of the car so she could move her suitcase over in the trunk to fit Frankie’s bags. She didn’t even get her driver’s side door shut before Frankie’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“There is no way in hell that I’m going to fit in that toy-sized car.”
She whipped around. Frankie stood on his front porch in jeans he filled out way too well, a Waterbury Fire Department T-shirt that only seemed to make his already broad shoulders seem more so, and an Ice Knights hockey baseball cap that drew her attention to the look of utter disbelief on his face.
“It’s bigger on the inside.” Okay, not a whole lot, but she wasn’t going to admit that.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked with a shake of his head as he strutted down from the porch and toward the driveway. “That is not a Tardis.”
Not the comparison she’d expected from him, and she couldn’t help giving him mental points for the Doctor Who reference.
“I fit comfortably and I’m sure you will, too.” Honesty time. She’d never driven her compact car any farther than her daily commute, but she’d already mapped out the charging stations along their route to Antioch.
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m not pint-sized.” He stopped next to her, his shadow practically throwing her entire car into the shade.
She put a hand on one of her hips. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m not, either.”
His gaze pivoted from her car to her face. The disbelief in his eyes at the size of her car turned curious as he looked at her and moved on to what looked like—but probably wasn’t—heated appreciation as his focus moved down her body to the spot where her hand was on her hip. Of course it wasn’t that kind of look, though. Even if it was, it was just because Frankie couldn’t help himself. The man flirted the way other people breathed.
Normally, that kind of guy—the player—always left her feeling icky. Really, who wants to be with someone who had more notches on his bedpost than Santa had names on his naughty list? There was just something gross about it.
Still, she couldn’t help but shift under the attention from Frankie and pray like hell that she didn’t match her red V-neck T-shirt right now.
Hypocrite much, Lucy?
“I’ll cover all of the cost of gas if we go in my car,” he said, his gaze back up to her face.
Nope. That wasn’t going to happen. “I invited you. I’ll pay.”
“So glad you agreed to take my car.” How he managed to make the gotcha grin on his face look sexy, she had no clue. “You can park your golf cart in the garage while we’re gone so the neighborhood preschoolers don’t boost it.”
Wait. What? Had she? Damn it. He was already hitting the code on his garage door, revealing a bright scarlet Chevrolet Impala that was waxed to a high shine until it gleamed even in the garage. Oh hell. It just had to be red. She was such a sucker for anything but eyeshadow in that color.
She should put up a fight about it, but…red Impala. “You are way too used to getting your way.”
“It’s because I’m so charming,” he sa
id, crossing his arms across his chest and making his poor T-shirt strain around his biceps.
Something in her head popped and fizzled as she stared at his arms. Not just his biceps, but his thick forearms. The longer she stared, the more she needed to grab her second morning Mountain Dew from the cup holder in her Prius, because she was seriously overheated in the way that sent a delicious tingle through all her most sensitive spots.
“I’ll take your silence as agreement,” Frankie said.
Rolling her eyes, she told her lady bits to chill the fuck out. “You get your way because you’re a bulldozer.”
“That, too.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Now, pop the trunk so I can get your bags.”
Lucy sighed. The man was driving halfway across the country to go to her high school reunion. She could let him win the battle of the cars. She pressed the trunk release on her key fob.
He ambled over and peeked in. “Two suitcases? We’re only going to be gone for a week.”
“Exactly, I economized to fit everything in only two.” Men never understood everything that went into packing for a week away as a woman.
“Does this one have bricks?” he asked, lifting the smaller but heavier of her two matching red suitcases.
“So funny.”
It was her shoes—lots and lots of shoes. She had a bit of a DSW problem. They loved her there—as they should, considering how much of her paycheck they now owned.
Frankie carried her bags, which she’d wobbled under the weight of when she’d loaded them into her trunk, as if they didn’t have a thing in them. Then he put her bags in his much roomier trunk and pulled the Impala out of the garage, easily maneuvering around her Prius on the driveway. She got behind the wheel of her car and drove it into his pristine garage, where all the tools hung from pegboards on a perfect line of hooks. The yard equipment was located in one corner. The trash can and recycling bin didn’t even have a speck of dirt on them. The sight soothed some of the nerves eating away at her stomach lining. She might work neck-deep in chaos thanks to her high-maintenance clients, but she was a woman who loved the sight of everything put in its place.
Still, the garage was definitely not what she’d been expecting from Frankie Hartigan. His twin must be responsible. She glanced at the man rocking out in his car—yes, there was head banging—with the windows rolled up, but the thump, thump of a hard and fast drumbeat still managed to escape the confines of the Impala. He must have spotted her watching him, because he gave her a sexy grin and a cocky wave before sliding on a pair of aviators.
The garage was definitely his brother’s domain. There was no way the giant ginger she was driving cross-country with was a neat freak. The idea of it was ludicrous. She grabbed her still mostly full Mountain Dew, her favorite red lip gloss from its designated spot in her second cupholder, and her phone charger, then walked out of the garage and over to where Frankie now stood next to the open passenger door of his Impala.
After she got in and he closed the door behind her, he walked around the front and she took in the immaculate interior of the Impala. If possible, it was even cleaner than the garage. She just might need to reevaluate her road trip partner, because it seemed there was more to Frankie Hartigan than the consummate wild man he liked to show everyone, and there was nothing she loved more than figuring out the solution to a riddle. It’s why she’d been drawn to crisis communication rather than the other marketing specialties. She liked solving puzzles.
Thinking of which, Frankie picked that moment to get behind the wheel and turn the key in the ignition. The engine didn’t purr. It roared, all pent-up power and badassery.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” she said, needing to reassert her dominance before the wave of testosterone and muscles overwhelmed her. “We’ve got eighteen hours ahead of us.”
“No way,” he said as he reversed out of the driveway. “We’ll do it in sixteen.”
“I’ve made this drive before.” Too many times to count. “And it’s definitely eighteen.”
He turned that cocky grin on her again. “But you’ve never driven it with me. Buckle up. Miss Scarlett’s about to take you on the ride of your life.”
…
And they were on track for sixteen hours to Antioch, Missouri, right up until Frankie spotted the red and blue flashing lights in his rearview mirror while they were on the interstate somewhere in the middle of nowhere west of Pittsburgh.
“Oh, Miss Scarlett,” Lucy said as she patted the tan leather on the Impala’s dash. “This stop is going to cost you and make it that much harder to make the drive in sixteen hours on the road.”
About two hours into the drive, she’d started giving him crap about naming his car and had been putting it into conversation at every opportunity. There was no way her biting sense of humor was going to miss the opportunity to get in her digs while he pulled the registration from the glove box. He couldn’t blame her. He’d have done the same thing.
“Do you know why I pulled you over today?” the cop asked as soon as Frankie had rolled down the driver’s side window.
Some people would try to finagle their way out of the ticket. Not him. He knew well and good that he had a lead foot and that for anytime he got caught laying it down, there were another dozen when he didn’t. It had been a while since he’d gotten a speeding ticket, so he knew he was due.
“Eighteen over the speed limit,” he replied, because more than twenty on the interstate always came with the possibility of getting arrested, and he liked his air fresh and his sky fully visible.
The officer didn’t even crack a smile at Frankie’s honesty. He just took his license and other information and went back to his cruiser to write up a ticket.
Lucy pivoted in her seat. “I take it this happens a lot.”
“I’m a big guy. My foot weighs a lot.”
One side of her ruby red lips curled upward. She was wearing big black sunglasses that covered her eyes completely, but he still knew there was a lot of sass in them. The woman had it in spades.
So far on the drive, she’d schooled him on Ice Knights hockey trivia, tried to win an argument on the best action movie of all time—it was the Steve McQueen classic Bullitt, no matter how much she argued for Die Hard—and had told him stories about her unnamed clients, which had him sharing stories about the people at his firehouse. When he’d told her about the prank with a snapping turtle a rookie had found in his locker after coming back from the shower, she’d almost spit out her Mountain Dew.
They’d been in the car for five hours and most of it had been spent talking. Now, he was a talker so that wasn’t weird, but he usually didn’t spend that much time talking to women he wasn’t related to, so that put this in new territory. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Sure, he’d still taken a few sly peeks at the bountiful cleavage shown off by the modest V-neck of her T-shirt—hello, he was just a dude—but he’d kept his hands to himself. That didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about what she’d look like without that shirt during the lulls in their conversation. It was hard not to. That asshole at the bar had been wrong about a lot of things, but he hadn’t been wrong about the fact that Lucy had gorgeous tits. Somehow without him meaning to, his gaze had slid back over to her, taking in the full curvy package.
That was exactly the last thing he needed to be doing. His dick was not in charge. Shannon’s words about him only being a good-time guy echoed in his head. Fucking A. He clenched his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath. What in the hell was wrong with him? Could dudes be nymphomaniacs?
Of course, that’s when the unmistakable crunch of cop shoes on gravel sounded, forcing him to open his eyes and bring his attention back to his window. Never had he been so glad to see one of the boys in blue—or in this case tan and brown.
“So here’s your license and registration back,” the cop said, handing him that along with an all-too-familiar piece of paper. “And your ticket. There’s information on the back ab
out how to pay or dispute it.”
“Got it.” He nodded. “Thanks.”
“Just be sure to slow down,” the officer said with the tip of his wide-brimmed hat.
He watched the officer walk back through the rearview mirror. Sure, he was delaying the inevitable shit-talking smackdown that the woman in the passenger seat was about to deliver, but he did have an ego and he was about to be out three bills.
“Eighteen hours,” Lucy said, teasing him like only his family did. “I should’ve made you bet dinner on it.”
“Miss Scarlett isn’t done showing off yet,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition.
Then he turned it again.
And again.
Miss Scarlett turned over, but the engine didn’t roar to life. He counted to ten and tried again. The engine turned but nothing happened after that.
“Please tell me you’re just giving me shit,” Lucy said, lowering her sunglasses and showing off her mossy green hazel eyes.
He sure wished he was. “Nope.”
Holding his breath as if that would help, he tried again. Nothing. Miss Scarlett was officially not speaking to him. What was it with the women in his life lately? Grudgingly, he admitted defeat and took the keys out of the ignition. There was only one thing to do.
“I’ll be right back,” he said before getting out of the car and walking back to the cruiser still parked behind them.
An hour later, he and Lucy were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the front cab of a tow truck, pulling into the Black and Gold Garage that was decorated with window clings of the ice-skating penguin mascot of one of the Ice Knights’ most hated hockey rivals.
“That’s not a good sign.” Lucy jerked her chin toward the penguin.
It wasn’t. Thirty minutes later, after finding out that Billy, the shop’s one mechanic, was home with a sick kid and wouldn’t be back to look at Miss Scarlett until the morning, he and Lucy were on the front steps of Katy K’s Bed and Breakfast. Everything screamed delicate and cute, from the intricate wooden scrollwork on the wraparound porch to the baby pink bistro table and chairs set in the middle of a garden bordered by shrubbery shaped and trimmed to look like Alice in Wonderland characters. It gave him the heebie-jeebies. Still, it was their best shot at overnight accommodations, according to the woman behind the repair shop’s counter.