by Meghan March
My hand shakes as I carry the phone and my drink to the tub, and position both on the edge as I slide into the steaming water.
After dabbing my wet fingers on the towel rolled up in a basket to my left, I tap out my reply.
BANNER: Brandon Sidewalk, never to be repeated.
I flip my phone facedown on the ledge around the tub and sink into the water.
Logan could definitely make me beg. Jesus, this is the worst idea I’ve ever had. What made me think I could keep from ruining this?
When I first got a text from Logan Brantley’s number, it was really coming from my best friend, Greer, who’d been without her phone due to some really crazy shit. Greer, being the awesome friend she is, found a Good Samaritan who let her use his phone to text me so I’d stop losing my freaking mind.
But instead of getting Greer when I texted back, I got the Good Samaritan—Logan Brantley, former US marine, one hundred percent Kentucky redneck, and the opposite of every man I’ve ever met. Once I finished my online stalking and saw his picture, is it any surprise I kept texting him?
I reach below the surface of the water, wishing I’d grabbed a toy to aid the Get Banner to Orgasm Really, Really Fast cause, but I can do the job without any assistance.
Adjusting into a more comfortable position, I let my legs fall to the sides of the tub. Pleasure buzzes through my veins as I picture the forbidden: Logan on top of me, pounding into me over and over.
My phone vibrates from the ledge. I shake off the water and once again blot my fingers on a towel.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: I’ll be there on Friday. BRANDON SIDEWALK better have a real name by the time I get there.
My pounding heart kicks up, thudding with a jacked-up rhythm as my phone slips from my fingers and tumbles to the floor, sliding across the travertine tiles and out of reach. Motionless in the tub, I stare at it as I freak the hell out.
No. Not possible. Logan has no reason to be in New York. He’s kidding. It’s fine. My fantasy isn’t going to come to life only to be shattered as soon as I meet him. Nothing is going to happen. I can keep him in the safe zone. No more dirty texts. Just dirty thoughts. It’s fine.
I stay in the water until it cools down, no orgasm in sight, because my brain won’t stop spinning with the possibilities.
He has to be joking. There’s no possible way that Logan Brantley of Gold Haven, Kentucky, is coming to New York. Nothing to worry about here.
When I finally climb out of the tub and wrap myself in a fluffy towel, I take measured steps across the floor to retrieve my phone. My hand isn’t shaking when I pick it up, or so I tell myself.
With the rampaging beat of my heart nearing life-threatening levels, I stare down at the screen as it comes to life.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: What’s your address?
Holy. Shit.
Chapter 3
Logan
I take a swig of my Bud, grab my wrench, and lean over the engine of the car I’m working on. My grip flexes hard against the steel at the thought some guy would dare touch a woman without her consent. What the fuck is wrong with those New Yorker assholes? It’s not how I planned to tell Banner I was going to be in town, but fuck if that woman doesn’t get me all kinds of tied up.
Banner.
What the hell kind of name is that for a woman, anyway?
After one encounter with her friend Greer, I know exactly what kind of woman she has to be—the kind who’s so far out of my league, I shouldn’t even be thinking about her.
And yet here I am spending time I need to be using to turn cars into cash, texting with her.
If you asked me a month ago, I would have laughed my ass off at the idea that I’d get into something with a woman I’ve never met in person. I’ve never even thought about trying the disaster of online dating. But somehow I ended up sucked into something I’m not sure how to explain, with a woman living hundreds of miles away.
But dammit, I’m intrigued by her. Her would a real man questions never fail to make me laugh. What the hell kind of men are living up there? Jesus fucking Christ. These douche bags make it stupid easy to make fun of them.
Then again, the same guys would look at me and see a former jarhead, lifelong redneck, and now professional grease monkey trying to carve out a living in a one-stoplight town. Those Wall Street types wouldn’t even shake my hand. Fuck ’em.
So, why am I hauling my ass all the way to New York to deliver the Road Runner instead of turning it over to a car hauler?
Because I have to meet her. I need to find out once and for all that she’s not really as funny and cute as she comes across over these damn texts. The best way to ruin a fantasy is to meet the reality, right? I’m sure she’ll take one look at me and turn up her nose.
But what if she doesn’t?
The fact that she hasn’t answered my text yet isn’t sitting right with me. That’s all fine and good because a real man isn’t afraid to fight for what he wants—and what I want is to cure myself of this fascination.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. If I were to admit the truth, it’s that her messages seem to pull a smile from me every time, even when I’m staring down the deadline from hell like I have been on this rebuild. Somehow, whatever we have going on reminds me that there’s more to life than making a dollar.
I toss the wrench aside and grab a rag off my workbench to wipe my hands. I’m done for tonight.
Over the earsplitting sound of Metallica, someone pounds on the garage door.
What the hell?
It’s quarter after ten, and this whole sleepy town is tucked in except for the diehards drinking at the bowling alley for Wednesday night league. The only reason I’m up is to hit this ridiculous fucking deadline so I can load the car on a trailer tomorrow and collect the rest of my cash.
I stride to the service door, flip the lock, and pull it open.
“Damn, Logan. What’s a girl gotta do to get your attention these days?” Julianne Liefer stands at the door with a fifth of Wild Turkey and a bucket of a fried chicken from Cluck You.
“Did you need something?” I ask as the wafting scent of grease hits my nose.
“Thought you might need some dinner. I just finished a super-fucking-long appointment turning a client’s hair into a friggin’ masterpiece, and she had her husband drop me off some fried chicken and booze when he picked her up. I saw your truck, so I figured I’d offer to share. There’s potato wedges, biscuits, and slaw too.”
Julianne’s salon sits right across from my repair shop, and we’ve fallen into an easy friendship. The people of Gold Haven jokingly refer to her salon as Cut a Bitch, rather than the real name, Cut It Best. Cut a Bitch is more accurate when it comes to how she treats the people who piss her off.
Julianne recently broke it off with my buddy Granger, and I’m really fucking hoping she hasn’t decided I’d make a hell of a rebound.
There’s no way I’d go there, even if she isn’t like most of the women in this town—just looking for a man to take care of them. Julianne works her ass off as hard as I do.
“I already had some dinner.”
She gives me a look that says oh really? “A Hot Pocket doesn’t count as real food.” She slides by me, the bucket of chicken crushing around the edges between us.
“You’re bound to get grease all over yourself if you’re not careful.”
She looks back and winks at me. “A little grease isn’t gonna hurt a real woman. I like getting dirty.”
Banner’s blunt message comes back to me. A real man would have her begging him instead, right? I know you would.
She called it right, because there was nothing I like more than a woman at my mercy, begging for relief.
I glance at where my phone waits in my toolbox, and wonder if Banner has responded with her address or if she’s gonna chicken out on me.
I don’t have time to think about it for long because Julianne drops the bucket of chicken on the workbench and pulls two stool
s together. She twists the top off the Wild Turkey and takes a swig before holding it out to me.
“Today has been for shit. One of my stylists got into it with my nail tech and they both walked out, leaving me to deal with the mess of appointments they had scheduled. I could’ve gone home and eaten my fried chicken alone on my couch, but that would put me in an even worse mood than I’m in now, so just fucking humor me, Logan.”
I take the bottle from her and twist the cap back on before grabbing a piece of chicken from the bucket.
“At least you don’t have to worry that I’m using food to try to trap you into a ring like Emmy Harris. I just want some company.”
I almost choke on my first bite of chicken at the mention of Emmy Harris, the manager of Home Cookin’ who brings apple dumplings and peach pie to the shop on what seems like a regular basis. It started out innocently about nine months ago when I got so frigging busy I didn’t have time to go home and cook for myself, and ended up at Home Cookin’ damn near every day of the week.
Emmy talked me into taking her to the movies a couple of times, and dinner somewhere other than Home Cookin’ once, but when she started dropping hints about wanting to see each other exclusively and talking about how the house she’s building would be great for a family, I backed off. I thought we were friends, but she seems to have developed different ideas. It helps that I’ve been too busy to go on a date anyway, so my excuses to her haven’t been complete BS.
Especially since I’d rather work my ass off and take random breaks to text a woman I’ve never met.
Yeah, I’ve got no explanation for that.
The more I think about it as I pack away the greasy chicken, I decide there’s something seriously wrong with me. I’ve got flesh-and-blood women in Gold Haven who understand exactly the kind of man I am, but instead here I am getting ready to drive to New York because I need to satisfy my curiosity about Banner. She’s from a totally different world, and we’re not going to have a damn thing in common, but even that knowledge isn’t stopping me from doing it.
Julianne knocks back another shot of Wild Turkey, not expecting or waiting for a reply from me, which is smart. I don’t have a whole lot to say when my thoughts are all twisted around Banner.
Why am I pushing this with her?
Because there’s something about her I can’t get out of my mind.
One trip. One meeting. That’s all I need, and I’ll know exactly how ridiculous this has been from the beginning.
My phone buzzes from its spot in the open lid of my toolbox, and both Julianne and I look toward it.
“Someone who’s going to be jealous that I’m sitting here?”
Would Banner be jealous? I have no fucking clue. I wipe my hands and reach for it.
Instead of the address I asked for, I get a different message.
BANNER NYC: Are you serious?
I give her the truth.
LOGAN: Yes. Friday. It’s time we meet in person.
I wait for a moment, but when her reply doesn’t come right away, I put the phone back in its place and respond to Julianne.
“A friend.”
“Does she know she makes you light up like that? Or that she’s a lucky bitch because of it?”
“She’s not up for discussion.”
Julianne whistles as she grabs for another piece of chicken. “Does Emmy know about her competition?”
“This isn’t any of Emmy’s business.”
Julianne raises an eyebrow. “So . . . who is the mystery woman? Do I know her?”
Finally, I snag the bottle of Wild Turkey, uncap it, and dump some in the empty coffee mug that’s still sitting unwashed from my last fill-up this afternoon. “No.”
“Fine; be difficult. I’m sure I’ll find out one way or another.” She pauses, and the shit-stirrer in her comes to life. “You tell her you’re with another woman right now?”
I give her a hard look. If I’m not careful, Julianne will spread my business all over town. She’s the queen of the gossip grapevine, and I don’t need any part of it.
“There’s nothing to tell. You said it yourself—this was a better alternative than going home by yourself and realizing you just broke up with the best thing that ever happened to you.”
Julianne’s shoulders stiffen. “Granger Ryan wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to me. I was the best thing that ever happened to him. He just couldn’t get his head out of his ass long enough to appreciate what he had, so he lost it.”
My friend Granger, the fire chief in this small town, is still pissed about how she marched into the station and told him it was over—in front of all his volunteer firemen.
Either way, the subject of who is texting me closes.
Now, I just gotta get Banner’s address so I can track her down as soon as this Road Runner is in the hands of its owner.
Chapter 4
Banner
I drag Sofia into my apartment when she knocks on the door Thursday evening. This is the absolute worst time not to have my best girlfriend around to spill to, but I have to tell someone.
“I apologize in advance, but you have to listen to everything I say and tell me what to do.” Because clearly I can’t be trusted to make rational decisions about this man, I add silently.
“What’s going on?” Sofia’s accent is thicker than normal in her confusion.
“You remember the guy I’ve been texting with?”
“The one you’ve been torturing Mrs. Frances with for weeks?”
“I might dispute the use of the word torture, but yes. Him. He’s coming here. Tomorrow.”
“Here? New York, here?”
“Yes. Here. New York. Manhattan. And I don’t know what to do. Help.”
Rarely do I ever have my confidence totally knocked off its axis, but this situation is an anomaly. Logan is supposed to stay inside my little magic box of a phone where I feel like I’m still in control, because the second he becomes real, as in flesh and blood, all bets are off.
“You have to meet him. I mean, you can’t miss this chance.”
“I can’t! I’m going to screw everything up, and then—” I cut myself off before I can admit that it’s going to suck so much major donkey dick if I lose him in my life. Even in this short period of time, I’ve gotten attached to whatever we have.
“And then what? What could you possibly screw up? It’s not like you’re planning to marry the guy or something, right?”
Sofia’s question stops me cold and tosses me years into the past. I mumble a response as I head for the kitchen and my trusty bottle of vodka in the freezer. Sofia’s Russian, I think, so she can hack it.
Someday, I’m going to be able to face the idea of marriage without thinking of Livingston Armstrong’s mother telling him that I’m the kind of girl you bang in a frat house, not the kind of girl you bring to the Hamptons to meet the family.
I should have known with a name like Livingston, he’d be a pretentious douche bag.
The rest of the memory replays in my head like it happened yesterday.
“But she’s from a great family, Mother.”
Haughty Mrs. Armstrong didn’t care. “She might be from a good family, but that doesn’t mean she’s cut from the same cloth. That girl is trouble. Mark my words. Sow your wild oats with that one, and then go find a nice girl to settle down with. Her mother must be so ashamed to have such a brash and classless daughter. Don’t ever bring her back here.”
Livingston dropped his gaze to his lap as his mother looked up and caught me watching them from around the corner. She didn’t take back a single word or apologize. No, instead she tilted her head and raised a brow.
Bitch.
Livingston didn’t get to sow any more wild oats with me. I told the entire female Greek population at Amherst that his dick was too small to be bothered with, and he had to find girls from other schools to date until graduation.
That was the last time I let myself think about my future in terms of a sin
gle guy.
I’m not the marrying type, and while I fought not to take Mrs. Armstrong’s words to heart, she gutted me with one sentence of solid truth. My mother was ashamed, not only about me being brash and classless, but also about the fact that I refused to go to MIT and follow in my parents’ footsteps.
I ended up at Amherst, much to their disappointment, and they essentially washed their hands of me after that. So instead of becoming a studious little future scientist, I became something else entirely—the life of the party with no intention of ever settling down.
“Banner? Are you listening to me?”
I turn around with the vodka bottle in hand and shake myself free of the past. “Sorry, spaced out. What did you say?”
“Are you worried he’s not going to like you? I’m not sure that’s possible. Men love you. All of them.”
“Men love my tits, ass, and dirty mouth,” I reply, my tone flippant. My pride won’t let me admit that I’m terrified Logan Brantley won’t like the rest of me.
I’m being ridiculous. Screw him if he doesn’t like me. I’m awesome.
I remind myself I don’t care what anyone thinks, let alone some guy I’ll probably never see again. Why am I freaking out about this, anyway?
Taking a swig straight from the bottle, I focus on the smooth burn of the vodka sliding down my throat and announce, “We’re going out.”
Sofia throws both hands into the air, and I know she needs tonight as badly as I do. “Can I change in your bathroom? I didn’t want Mrs. Frances to see me get slutted up. Her words, not mine.”
I smile. “Yes, definitely. Get on with your slutty self.”
She giggles like the twenty-two-year-old girl it’s easy to forget she is, and pauses before turning toward the bathroom. “My skirt is so short, we won’t pay for drinks all night. It might not solve your question about the guy, but it couldn’t hurt.”