Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  “Cop. Singular. Sheriff Nate.” Her tone implied she had no qualms about getting out of any legal trouble he made for her. “He made an appointment for a haircut.”

  Whatever cachet he’d achieved as a mechanic to the stars meant nothing on this side of the river. “Just because I’m a Messina doesn’t mean you can steal from me.”

  “I wasn’t going to steal anything.” She stumbled as she passed, smelling of lemons and lies.

  Joe grabbed hold of her arm, not sure if he was being a gentleman or if he planned on conducting a body search. “But you knew I wouldn’t approve or you would have asked me.”

  “Dad? Dad. Dinner’s ready.”

  They were so close, he heard Brittany’s stomach rumble. Although it was so loud, he could have heard its thunder from the shop.

  “Who’s that?” Sam wandered into the parking lot. “Is it—”

  “It’s Brittany,” Joe said before Sam could ask if Uncle Turo was here.

  Her stomach rumbled again. Louder this time.

  “Did you hear that?” Sam stopped at the edge of the field and glanced about. “Is there a cat out there?”

  “That was me.” Another chink in Brittany’s blustery armor. “I didn’t have dinner.”

  “You didn’t eat?” Sam shifted into nurturing mode, a soft scold in her young voice. “Come eat with us. Dad makes plenty because he likes leftovers.”

  Joe hated leftovers, but they cut down on the number of dinners he had to cook and made good economical sense.

  “I don’t want to impose.” Brittany’s stomach practically roared in disagreement, making Sam laugh.

  Joe held on to the sound as firmly as he held on to Brittany.

  “Besides,” the trespasser said. “I don’t think your dad wants to invite me to dinner.”

  “Your stomach has the growlies. I won’t take no for an answer.” Now Sam sounded like Uncle Turo, competent and in charge. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  “She’s not our neighbor,” Joe muttered, even as a small voice in his head whispered, She makes Sam laugh.

  “Dad.” Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh. “This is a small town. Everyone is our neighbor.” And then she laughed again.

  “Don’t you dare refuse her,” Joe said to Brittany.

  * * *

  “IT SMELLS DELICIOUS.” Nothing like liver and onions. And certainly better than frozen burritos or cereal. Brit was almost happy she’d been caught.

  She wove through the mazelike stacks of moving boxes to stand out of the way, taking in the dingy white walls, dingy beige curtains and dingy gray linoleum. Not that she was a snob, but Grandpa Phil’s place was looking better and better.

  The living room, galley kitchen and small dining area were one combined area. The furniture wasn’t purposefully retro. It was just plain old. Really, all the place needed was a good cleaning—the theme of the day—a coat of paint and some throw rugs and pillows to make it look less forlorn.

  And then her gaze caught on the framed pictures sitting where a television should have. Joe standing with his arm around a curvaceous woman in black leather boots and jacket. She was staring at Joe adoringly and Joe...he was smiling at the tiny baby in her arms—warmly, tenderly, no hint of ice in his gaze. An older man stood behind them, his hands on Joe’s broad shoulders. He had the same dark, unruly hair as Joe. But his smile was different—playful, perhaps a bit slick.

  There was another picture, one of a young Joe standing a little apart from two older boys, so alike in appearance they had to be brothers. Their jeans were too long, their multicolored striped T-shirts too short, but that didn’t handicap the promise of gorgeous men in the making. A glance Sam’s way confirmed she had the promise of the Messina beauty.

  As the ugly duckling, Brittany was out of place here. And...to top it all off, there was a rip in her leggings from her shin to her knee. Brilliant.

  Joe moved past Brit toward the kitchen with the stiff air of put-upon male that plucked at Brit’s patience. She was in the wrong, but somehow he managed to make her forget it. He sighed as if being put-upon was his lot in life, as if reminding himself not to complain about dingy apartments, small judgmental towns or persistent, trespassing, auto-part pickers.

  Try staying mad at the man when you were the trespassing, persistent, auto-part picker.

  Brit couldn’t. She could cling to her hurt and anger toward Reggie, but she was going to have to apologize to Joe. Just...not yet.

  Sam seemed unaffected by her father’s mood. She was in the kitchen, stacking plates and counting out forks. She’d taken off her baseball cap, revealing a bad case of hat hair to go with her lifeless shoulder-length bob.

  Brit had a sudden urge to style or cut or at the very least shampoo and blow-dry with a round brush. She forced her gaze toward the source of that tantalizing smell—a Crock-Pot bubbling with beef stew. And there was a package of rolls on the counter. Hello, carbs! “Can I help with anything?”

  “Guests don’t help.” Drying his hands on a paper towel, Joe hit Brit with a glance that said she was an unwelcome guest, but it lacked bite now that she’d heard that weary sigh. “Sam will make you a plate. Cups are over the sink. Clean hands are mandatory.”

  All hands were clean. All plates filled. All three seats occupied. Sam and Joe bookended Brit at the table. The tension was as thick as commuter traffic over the Bay Bridge, just a heck of a lot quieter.

  Brit tried to fill the silence. “This is delicious.” It really was. The gravy was a rich brown, thick and seasoned with more than salt and pepper.

  Sam cast a subtle glance at her father. Joe didn’t look up from his plate.

  Brit should enjoy her food in silence, give a hearty thank-you and be on her way. That’s what her artisan side counseled. Her beautician side whispered that she’d had her fingers in Joe’s hair a few hours ago. Right or wrong, that created a bond she couldn’t ignore. “I apologize for trying to go behind your back with the BMW.” It was the right thing to say, but the words seemed to bounce off Joe and clatter to the floor.

  Joe’s expression didn’t soften to forgiveness or understanding. His eyes—when they found hers—remained as icy blue as a south-facing glacier. “What would you have done if you’d found documentation? Contact the ‘real’ owner? Make him an offer for the grille?”

  “Yes.”

  “Parting out cars...” His voice was just as gruff as it’d been when they’d first met this morning. But now Brit heard a different growl beneath the boundary-marking bark—the weary rumble of trying to do what was right. “You and me...we don’t see eye to eye. And we never will.”

  “Dad restores cars to their former glory,” Sam said staunchly. “Chromed-out engines. Metal-flake paint jobs. Racing wheels.” She turned her gaze to the ceiling and sighed dreamily. “We had the best garage in all of Beverly Hills.”

  Brit squelched the urge to pry about the loss of their garage. “That doesn’t sound like restoration,” she pointed out, trying to be diplomatic for Sam’s sake. “You’re taking the bones of a car and making it into something more modern, more attractive and more functional for today’s world. That’s the same as what I do.”

  Joe sat back and held up his hands in near eye-rolling incredulity. “How does welding a mermaid to an antique motorbike make it more functional?”

  For the first time since they’d met, Brit smiled. And all because of his misplaced passion. “Oh, come on. Guys with big bank accounts buy up automotive antiques, pay guys like you to ‘restore’ them and then lock them away in their man caves where no one else can see them. I call that hoarding.” She tore apart her roll and shook a piece in his direction. “I take car parts and turn them into lamps and tables and—yes—gates. But also sculptures that can make a business or event or even a town more memorable. Keira is a calling card for m
e, both for my art and my beautician business.” Brit mopped up some brown gravy with a chunk of dinner roll. “Now, that’s functionality, and restoration, and social responsibility.” Boo-yah! She popped the soggy bread in her mouth.

  Her soapbox must not have been as high as she thought it was, because Joe was looking down at his food and shaking his head.

  If he laughed at her art or called her a stripper in front of Sam, Brit might have to go back to completely disliking him.

  “We aren’t the same.” Joe lifted his head and leaned forward, speaking directly to his daughter in a tone that sent a message. “Messinas respect cars. We fix cars. And we do it honestly for a cash profit. Not for friends and not for barter.”

  Brit frowned. Joe apparently didn’t do anything for free, not even for friends. “When we find a classic car, we feel a responsibility to restore it to its former self, even if it’s a modern take on its heyday.” His gaze hit Brit’s with enough chill to frost the field of cars by morning. “I’ll research the vehicles in my possession to make sure there are no questions about ownership.”

  Hello, boundary setting. Goodbye, jump start to the gate project. Brit couldn’t contain a sigh just as weary as Joe’s earlier one.

  A crease appeared between Joe’s black brows, as if her sigh had thrown him off his stride. But that didn’t stop him from adding, “Until then, don’t sneak onto our property. Or I will call the sheriff.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “WHY DON’T YOU like her?” Sam climbed into her twin bed and slid her legs beneath the denim quilt Athena’s mom had made for her. “I think she’s cool.”

  “Who?” Joe feigned ignorance, picking up Sam’s dirty clothes and stuffing them into her blue wicker hamper.

  When he scowled in Turo’s shop, guys backed off. When he scowled at Brittany, she came forward. When he threatened dire consequences at Turo’s shop, guys gave his threats credence. When he threatened Brittany, she came to dinner. He was trying to rebuild order in his life. She was chaos.

  “Dad.” Sam wasn’t buying his act. “Brittany? The lady who cut your hair? The lady who ate dinner here?”

  “Oh, her.” Joe picked up an empty cardboard box and broke it down, wishing he could flatten the unsettling feelings Brittany gave rise to. Because despite her blatant disrespect for his rules, for the law, and despite the pandemonium she caused, a part of him wanted to like her.

  That streak of purple in her hair said she was a rebel. Her black polka-dotted fingernails said she was independent. The sparkle in her clothes matched the sparkle in her eyes. And as much as he wanted to hate her mermaid sculpture, the craftsmanship was top-notch.

  “Oh, wow,” Sam said after several moments of silence. “You like her. I was thinking Regina was more your speed.”

  “Don’t start.” He looked around Sam’s room, forcing himself not to think of Brittany or her passionate ideas about junk. He should be thinking about how to return Sam to the standard of living she was used to. Her room didn’t have a fold-out couch loaded with stuffed animals. Or a flat-screen television mounted on the wall. It didn’t have a walk-in closet or its own bathroom. God love her, she hadn’t complained beyond the initial hit of ew. “We should get you a lamp in here.” She liked to read at night and there was only the overhead light.

  Sam grinned. “Oh, you like her, all right.”

  “Quit with the matchmaking. You’re no good at it.” There’d been the painfully awkward time she’d asked Joe to pick her up at Holly Prichard’s house and Holly’s single mom had expected him to take her to dinner. And the painfully awkward situation she’d put him in during a parent-teacher conference when Sam told Miss Carson that Joe had a crush on her. And...well...he’d rather avoid round three of painfully awkward.

  No matter how intriguing Brittany’s unexpected smile was. He’d been trash-talking and bam! There came her smile. He’d nearly smiled back...but he had nothing to smile about.

  Sam snuggled deeper in her bed, yawned and closed her eyes. “I’m as good a matchmaker as I am a mechanic.” She looked small and fragile, her dark eyelashes thick against her cheeks.

  So like her mother, yet so different.

  Athena had been tough. She’d managed mixed martial arts fighters and was on the road three to four days a week, accompanying her clients to matches, meeting promoters, recruiting new fighters and making deals. Athena’s style had been boots, blue jeans and a black motorcycle jacket. The first time Joe had seen her, she’d been riding her motorcycle on the freeway as if an angel rode shotgun on her shoulder. She’d been gutsy, but she hadn’t been careful.

  He was trying to raise Sam to be careful. He should have been more careful about his own life. If he had been, he would’ve seen the signs at Uncle Turo’s shop that something wasn’t right. He would’ve left sooner, like day one.

  “Good night, baby.” He kissed her forehead, flicked off the light and closed the door.

  He went to stand at the living room window, staring out into the night, trying not to look at the house where he’d grown up, at the weathered swing set in the backyard or the pile of bald tires stacked next to the garage. But he focused on them anyway and found himself wondering how Brittany would make those things functional.

  * * *

  “HALLOO!”

  Joe slid out from under the tow truck Sunday afternoon and sat up. “Hey, Irwin.” With the music on, neither he nor Sam had heard Irwin drive up. “You’re not here for the tune-up, are you? That’s not until Monday.”

  “No.” The older man unzipped his red leather jacket. He had a red bandanna tied around his head, but it’d slipped to one side. He sat on a stool near the main workbench. “What is that racket?” He turned off the radio, silencing the boy band. “There. That’s better.”

  Sam didn’t slide out. She kept working on installing the oil pan, leaving Joe to entertain their customer. They’d bought gaskets that morning and spent hours putting the engine back together. A little more lube, several quarts of oil, and the tow truck would be ready for a test drive.

  “Can I help you with something?” Joe asked Irwin.

  “No. Just thought I’d stop by and hang out with the other bikers.” His brow creased. “Where are the other bikers?”

  Joe felt his own brow crease. “What other bikers?”

  “The ones in your club.”

  The man thought Joe was in a motorcycle gang? Worse, he wanted to hang out with Joe because of it?

  Joe opened his mouth to tell him to get out and Sam coughed. She knew they needed Irwin’s money more than Joe’s pride.

  “I’m not in a club.” Joe rolled back under the tow truck. The muffler had a rusty spot from years of condensation. It wouldn’t last much longer than Joe’s patience.

  Sam chuckled. “You must have been hell on wheels as a teenager, Dad. A real punk.”

  “There were worse kids.” Maybe not in Harmony Valley. But he’d make sure his daughter didn’t follow in the Messina footsteps.

  Irwin got down from his stool and walked toward them, boots clumping on the concrete. “I don’t see your hog either.”

  “I don’t have a motorcycle.” Joe’s eye twitched.

  “I must not have heard you right.” The boots stopped, possibly rooted in disbelief. “You say you don’t have a motorcycle?”

  “I don’t have a motorcycle!” Joe applied pressure to the bone over his eye.

  “Dad,” Sam whispered. “He’s just an old man. Go easy on him.” She patted Joe’s arm. “I’ve got the oil pan. You take care of our customer. Our one customer.”

  Joe wasn’t cut out to be the front man for a business. That’s why he’d loved working for Turo. All he’d had to do was fix cars.

  And look where that got you.

  He rolled out from under the tow truck.

 
Irwin paced the perimeter of the empty service bay. “You don’t have any calendars up.”

  “I’ve got a calendar upstairs.” Eager to please, Sam slid free of the truck and ran upstairs before Joe could stop her.

  “We don’t have what you’re looking for,” Joe said, feeling the words curl in his chest like a fist. Irwin expected Joe to have a racy car calendar, the kind with bikini-clad women. The ones that were politically incorrect for upstanding businessmen and inappropriate for little girls.

  “I like to know what date it is.” If Joe looked past Irwin’s wrinkles and his white chin stubble, the old man’s disappointment with Joe looked surprisingly similar to Sam’s—same thin downturned mouth; same disenchanted slant to the eyes.

  Sam returned with a calendar Joe had given her for Christmas, one with cartoony smiling unicorns that glowed with the promise of happily-ever-afters and dreams that came true.

  Irwin frowned at the unicorn for April, despite it sliding gracefully down a rainbow onto a green grassy field. “This isn’t what I was expecting from the Messina Garage.”

  “We’re the Messina Family Garage.” Sam hung the calendar from a hook in the pegboard.

  Irwin pretended not to hear her. He waved a hand toward the radio. “Where’s the hard rock? The pictures of na—”

  “Watch it,” Joe warned, feeling his anger press against his ribs.

  “Where are the pictures of nice women?” Irwin crossed his arms over his out-of-shape chest. “The tattoos? The chains on your wallet? You don’t even have a bandanna around your head!” He swiped the one off his noggin’, crumpling it in his hand. “This isn’t the Messina Garage that I remember.” He clomped out into the crisp afternoon sunshine.

  “I’ve got a chain on my utility knife.” Inside his pocket. Joe held up the knife.

  Sam looked from Irwin to Joe and back. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He doesn’t believe in unicorns.”

  “Barbara won’t start!” Irwin shouted, his face red as he stomped back into the service bay. “Unbelievable.”