Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  A man called Joe

  Building a new life for himself and his preteen daughter brings Joe Messina home to Harmony Valley. That and showing his town that the onetime bad boy is now a responsible single father. His first move is to get his grandfather’s defunct garage up and running. Except now he’s got the FBI poking around, and there’s a beautician with her eye on the abandoned auto parts. An artist who’s happiest turning rusty junk into sought-after treasure, San Francisco transplant Brittany Lambridge is making Joe think they can create something rare and special together. But he has unfinished family business that could jeopardize his fresh start. Is Joe ready to believe in himself as fiercely as Brittany’s beginning to believe in him?

  “Why, shaggy-hair Joe...I never expected a beauty compliment from you.”

  “Stop talking like that, Brit.” He placed his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Stop talking and kiss me.”

  She froze. A deer in his headlights.

  And then she laughed, shaking her head, loosening his hold. “You almost had me.”

  He did have her. He had his arms around her and she relaxed. He kissed her.

  A simple act. Four lips. Two hearts. One beat.

  It didn’t feel simple. It felt complex and intense and terrifying.

  He had no right to kiss her. Kissing implied intent. He was broke, with a daughter to provide for. His world was imperfect when she deserved perfection.

  He had no right to kiss her. Kissing opened the door to heartbreak. He couldn’t stand to be left or betrayed by another person he loved.

  He had no right to kiss her. And yet he did.

  And for a moment, everything felt perfect.

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Harmony Valley!

  Just a few short years ago, Harmony Valley was on the brink of extinction with only those over the age of sixty in residence. Now the influx of a younger generation is making life in Harmony Valley more fun for its gray-haired residents than afternoon television.

  Brittany Lambridge dreams of being an upcycle artist. Although she pays the bills by working in her grandfather’s barber shop, she’s been commissioned to make a driveway gate with a luxury car grill. Now all she needs is a luxury car grill. She thinks she’s found one in an abandoned car cemetery next to a closed auto-repair shop. Too bad Joe Messina bought the defunct garage the day before Brit tries picking the place. This single dad refuses to let Brit take anything away until he identifies the owners of the abandoned cars. In the meantime, if Joe wants to make a living fixing cars, he’s got to prove to Harmony Valley that he’s no longer the bad boy they remember.

  I hope you enjoy Joe and Brit’s journey to a happily-ever-after, as well as the other romances in the Harmony Valley series. I love to hear from readers. Check my website to learn more about upcoming books, sign up for email book announcements (and I’ll send you a free sweet romance read) or chat with me on Facebook (MelindaCurtisAuthor) to hear about my latest giveaways.

  Melinda Curtis

  www.MelindaCurtis.com

  Marrying the Single Dad

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Melinda Curtis

  Award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author Melinda Curtis is an empty nester. Now instead of carpools and sports leagues, her days go something like this: visit the gym with her husband at 5:30 a.m., walk the dogs, enjoy a little social media, write-write-write, consider cooking dinner (possibly reject cooking dinner in favour of takeout), watch sports or DIY shows with her husband, read and collapse in bed. Sometimes the collapse part happens before any TV or reading takes place.

  Melinda enjoys putting humor into her stories because that’s how she approaches life. She writes sweet contemporary romances as Melinda Curtis (Brenda Novak says of Season of Change, “found a place on my keeper shelf”), and fun, steamy reads as Mel Curtis (Jayne Ann Krentz says of Cora Rules, “wonderfully entertaining”).

  Books by Melinda Curtis

  Harlequin Heartwarming

  Dandelion Wishes

  Summer Kisses

  Season of Change

  One Perfect Year

  Time for Love

  A Memory Away

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

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  This book is dedicated to those who—like my heroine—dare to dream. Sometimes it just takes one person to have faith to make you believe in yourself.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  EXCEPRT FROM A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE BY ANNA ADAMS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “WHAT DO YOU think you’re doing?” a deep masculine voice bellowed across the overgrown, wreck-strewn field in Harmony Valley.

  Brittany Lambridge jumped and thunked the back of her head on the hood of the ancient BMW sedan. Add headache to her list of injuries this morning.

  “I told you we’d get caught,” Regina whispered. Brit’s sister was the queen of I told you sos.

  Brit stepped back from the decaying car, rubbing her head beneath her baseball cap. The nip of early morning bit into her scraped knuckles while dewy knee-high grass hid her feet. She peered to the left, then the right, but the rusting, abandoned cars were still rusty and abandoned. No one else was in the flat patch of land with them. No one driving past on the two-lane highway bordering the field. No one stood near the thick blackberry bushes along the river. And she’d been told the car repair shop and nearby house had been empty for at least a decade. Had she imagined the voice? Or... Brit stopped rubbing her head and faced her sister.

  “Don’t look at me.” Regina rolled her artfully made-up brown eyes and said with disdain, “I’m not a ventriloquist.”

  “No, but you hate helping me with my art.”

  “I love helping you and your hobby,” Reggie corrected. “I just worry about getting bitten by angry, territorial spiders or snakes, or—” she glanced around nervously “—angry, territorial property owners.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” An angry, territorial-looking man appeared from behind a dented gray minivan. “I said, what are you doing here?”

  Guilt, disappointment and a feeling she couldn’t name froze Brit more completely than a complicated updo with too much hair spray.

  The man strode forward. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, rumpled black hair and... Brit stopped cataloging his parts because that hair glinted almost blue in the sunlight and made Brit’s fingers twitch for her hair-cutting scissors.

  “Oh, my,” her twin murmured wistfully, having already forgotten her fear of getting bitten.

  A thin boy appeared next, w
earing light blue, grease-splotched coveralls like Brit’s and a preteen’s poor attempt at a sneer. He slouched against the minivan’s rear fender, thrusting his hands in his pockets. His dark brown hair stuck out from beneath a faded green baseball cap.

  Brit’s fingers twitched again even as Shaggy Man drew closer. As a licensed beautician, bad hair drove Brit crazy. As did the feeling she could now name: artistic appreciation. Shaggy Man was like a Pollock painting—a riot of energy that was perfect chaos. She couldn’t look away.

  The man stopped ten feet from her, propping hands on hips. His black T-shirt and blue jeans had seen better days, while those bladed cheekbones and ice-blue eyes had probably appealed to a fair share of women. Everything about him said he was the kind of man her mother had warned her and Reggie about while they were growing up—tempting, dangerous, a man more concerned with who warmed his sheets at night than who made his coffee in the morning.

  “That car is mine.” Those cool blue eyes of his skated across the landscape with chilly calculation. “Leave.”

  Reggie glanced at Brit.

  Who reminded herself about big-girl panties. She unwound guilt, brushed out disappointment and gripped her defenses as firmly as the socket wrench she’d been using to remove the BMW’s grille. “I was told this was Harmony Valley’s vehicle graveyard.” That the deserted cars and trucks were fair game for picking.

  “The garage over there, this land and everything on it used to belong to my father.” His stance remained as rigid as his words, at odds with that distracting, rule-breaking hair.

  “But...” Used to belong to? Shoot and darn. “It’s yours? The garage and the land?”

  His glacial gaze found hers, so cold it crackled between them like icicles on eaves before they plunged to the pavement. “Papers went through yesterday.”

  A day late. That should have been the title of her life story.

  “Let me handle this,” Reggie said, half under her breath. She waded through the tall grass toward trouble. In her tight jeans and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, she looked like she was walking across a catwalk, not the junkyard. “I’m Regina. I manage the B and B in town.” An overstatement. Their grandmother owned the modest B and B that Reggie hoped to buy. “And this is my twin, Brittany. She uses junk for her arts and crafts projects.”

  Arts and crafts?

  Brit bristled. How was she ever going to be taken seriously in the art world if her own family dismissed her efforts? “Upcycle artist,” she muttered, although based on the iceman’s smirk, the damage was already done.

  “I’m Joe Messina. That’s Sam.” Joe didn’t come forward to meet Reggie. He didn’t even remove his hands from his hips. He held his frown and his ground, not being the type to shake hands with trespassers or fawn over beautiful women.

  Couldn’t Reggie see that?

  Apparently not. Reggie cast a confused look over her shoulder. Being the twin who’d gotten all the good bone structure, Reggie wasn’t used to being overlooked, trespassing or not.

  A breeze blew the wild grass and Joe’s unruly hair. The wind swirled and tugged and then, when neither Joe nor the grass bent, it died out.

  Brit’s hopes of free materials for the gate ornament she’d been commissioned to create nearly died along with the breeze. Nearly. “This grille is doing nothing for you. It’s just sitting here.”

  “I’m not parting the car out.” Joe stepped around Reggie to better glare at Brit.

  “Here it comes,” the boy said quietly, rubbing at the unruly hair at his neck.

  “I’m going to get that car running and sell it.” The determination in Joe’s words would have had Brit believing him if it hadn’t been for the age of Joe’s clothing and the dismissive tone of the boy’s comment.

  She turned to the forty-year-old BMW. The faded paint and oxidized patina were nearly a work of art in themselves. But the tires had sunk into the soft dirt so deeply the sedan sat on its axles; the wheel wells were rusted nearly clear through; and the interior looked as if something furry had taken up residence. “Have you gotten a good look at this car? You’ll need several years and several miracles to restore it.” Brit swallowed her pride and lifted her voice. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for the front grille.”

  His jaw worked. He half glanced at the boy and then back to her. “Do you have the cash on you?”

  Knowing the answer, Reggie headed toward Brit’s small beat-up gray truck.

  Brit barely had fifty dollars in her bank account, which was one reason she’d moved to Harmony Valley in the first place. Creating upcycle art wasn’t cheap. Nor was living in San Francisco. “Well...”

  “Then it’s not for sale.” Joe closed the distance between them and slammed the hood. His gaze drifted to the BMW’s interior and the frost in his icy eyes thawed a smidge. He may have high hopes for the cars in this field, but he’d learn soon enough that building castles in the clouds would be easier than fixing anything here for resale.

  Brit loaded her tools into her toolbox and followed Reggie.

  She’d wait a week, let reality set in and make Joe a second offer.

  Maybe then he’d take twenty-five.

  * * *

  “GRANDPA PHIL IS a simple man. Cold cuts and white bread. Bills paid by check and sent via the post office.” Reggie was in glass-half-empty mode now. “He’s going to fire you for this.”

  Her sister didn’t have to sound so gleeful.

  “Technically, he can’t fire me if I’m renting a station from him. But if he does—” Brit unlocked the door to her grandfather’s barbershop and propped it open “—you can say I told you so.”

  “Hurry up, then. I’d rather be in and out before he gets here.” Reggie picked up the back of the rust-speckled antique bicycle and the metal mermaid rider Brit had welded to its frame. “What did you think of Joe?”

  Brit hefted the heavy end of her sculpture and backed into the shop. “I think he’ll give me that grille for five dollars by Memorial Day.” In her dreams, maybe. But she always dreamed big. At least she had until Dad died.

  “I meant...” Reggie waddled in with her end. The rear wheel spun between Reggie’s legs and the green aluminum mermaid tail swam over her shoulder. “What did you think of tall, dark and frowning?”

  “He could use a haircut.” Just a trim. A crisp cut would imply he’d been tamed. Who tamed a raging storm? “Set it down here.” When the bike rims rested on the ground, Brit soaked in the familiar ambience of the place. It may only be a two-person barbershop, but it had the stations and the shampoo sink of a salon, much like the places Mom had once worked in.

  Brit eyed the large framed mirror hanging over the chairs in the waiting area. A beer brand was stenciled in block letters in the middle of the glass, rendering it useless in a beauty shop. Looking at it made her feel uninspired to do hair or art. “I can’t work with that hanging behind me all day.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You thought Joe was cute, too.” Reggie smoothed her hair using her limited reflection in the mirror. “Admit it.”

  “That man is not cute.” Snowflakes were cute. Kittens were cute. Snow tigers were lethal. “Focus, Reggie. Mirror down. Mermaid bicycle up.” Brit tried not to look in the mirror. She really did, but it was impossible not to. Not to look, not to compare.

  Two women. Sisters. Anyone could see they were cut from the same cloth. Long, dark brown hair. Mahogany eyes. Wide smiles beneath pert noses—granted, Brit’s wasn’t as pert and she could mention more differences than similarities. For years, Brit hadn’t realized she was any different from Reggie. Not when they were five and enrolled in Miss Deborah’s School of Dance, where Reggie was placed front row, center stage, and Brit was relegated to the back row with the other gigglers. Not when they were eight and they’d sung in the school’s holiday choir, where Reggie sang front and center, whi
le Brit was assigned to the end of the middle riser next to Olivia Paige, who blew the biggest gum bubbles Brit had ever seen.

  No. It wasn’t until they were twelve that Brit’s averageness relative to Reggie’s beauty sank in. That year, they’d been allowed to wear make-up when they’d gone to the sixth-grade Promotion Dance. Reggie had put on war paint like a professional model, while Brit had declined. Reggie had danced to every song, each one with a different boy. And Brit? She’d sat on a bench against the wall with Margaret Hilden, whose leg was in a cast. Brit had held back her tears until they’d returned home. And then she’d cried on Mom’s shoulder, on Dad’s shoulder, even on Reggie’s shoulder.

  Later, she’d fought the hiccups while Mom tucked her in bed. She’d kissed Brit’s forehead and whispered, “You have an inner beauty, honey. You’ll always look better and be more popular if you wear makeup and cute clothes.”

  Even at twelve Brit had understood what her mother was telling her: you’re the ugly duckling who’ll never be a swan.

  Mom loved her, but Mom was in the beauty business, which was all about appearances.

  Brit and Reggie had shared the same womb. The same bedroom. The same beat-up pickup their father used to drive. But they weren’t identical. Reggie had won more points in the gene pool. Reggie looked like she hadn’t ingested a carb in years, while Brit looked like she and carbs were on a first-name basis. And from the day of the Promotion Dance, they’d begun to go their separate ways. Reggie ascended to the throne of mama’s girl, while Brit became Dad’s sidekick. He was a metalworker and liked to tinker on cars.

  The summer after the Promotion Dance, the neighbors had met to discuss turning their street into Christmas Tree Lane with lots of lights and decorations. Mom proclaimed they had to do it, but since she was always busy working or being a dance mom, and Dad hated yard duty—he’d taken out their front garden years ago and replaced it with rock and cacti—he had decided to create a metal forest for Santa.

  He brought home his welding equipment, along with scraps from the metal fabrication company where he worked. Brit watched him lay out sheets of metal on the garage floor like mismatched puzzle pieces. But when he welded them together, they created the most amazing seven-foot-tall trees. At her suggestion, they took old car parts and a muffler he hadn’t yet hauled to the salvage yard and welded them into woodland animals—birds, bunnies, reindeer. Having learned nail art from Mom, Brit painted each creation, adding to the impression of whimsy and movement. They’d highlighted everything with lights. The lawn was unique and beautiful. Brit was hooked.