by Addison Fox
“One and the same.”
Before she could register the shift in loyalty, the driver had the windows down; the rain had already faded into a light, half-hearted drizzle. “Stalled out.”
“I can see that.” Fender said. “I’m a mechanic.”
All loyalty now fully forgotten at the arrival of a professional, the driver was already leaping out of the car, gripes about his bastard brother-in-law drifting back through the open window.
Harlow wasn’t sure if she should laugh, cry, or sink down in the backseat, drowning in her own personal puddle of wet misery. Whatever she’d expected when she’d dressed that morning and headed out to Brooklyn, this wasn’t it.
And damn it all, she thought, as her stomach let up a cry of protest, she was still hungry.
* * *
Fender had the hood up, the slightest whip of a breeze wafting across his arms as he fiddled with the dipstick to get an oil reading. The storm had done its job, cooling off the air before the summer heat went back to work, restoring the brutal humidity likely before the day was out.
Shame the rain hadn’t done a damn thing to cool him off, or the raging attraction that whipped through him at the sight of Harlow Reynolds.
He’d watched her stalk out of Gino’s, already pissed at himself for the cruel taunts that had sent her packing. The lifelong battle between his good sense and his mouth ticked another point in the asshole column, and he figured that was the last he’d see of her.
Which was smart on her part, and served him an immeasurable heaping of cosmic justice. The first woman who’d ratcheted up his interest level beyond base attraction didn’t deserve a surly attitude and the tongue he’d honed at the knee of Trent Blackstone. He’d believed those days long gone. Had truly believed that he’d escaped all the corners of his life he’d once been backed into.
So why did Harlow Reynolds make him feel like he was right back in that narrow space, desperate for air?
He’d been so focused on Harlow—and God, she was beautiful—that the darkening sky and the world outside Gino’s hadn’t even registered until he saw her run headlong into the storm. By then it was too late to stop her.
So he’d asked Gino to box up the food, figuring he’d bring it all back to his shop and give his guys a midafternoon snack.
He’d certainly lost his appetite.
Only then the cab had let out the universal signal for machine death with its belching backfire and brought him one last chance to make up for the lunch he’d ruined. He might be an asshole, but he had a personal policy about never turning down a second chance.
Ever.
“Can you fix it?”
That husky voice rolled over him, and even though he knew he had no right to picture her naked, it made him think of cool sheets on a hot night. “Of course I can fix it.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“For starters, I’d say this old girl hasn’t seen fresh oil in about a year.”
“Bastard!” The driver—already in a heated debate with the mysterious brother-in-law—was also closely listening to the exchange. Arms waving, the man paraded back and forth in front of Gino’s. “I told you the car needed fixing, but you don’t listen to me.”
Fender ignored the family drama playing off to the side and focused on the few other things he could diagnose without tools. “Looks like the oil change is just the beginning. Some people don’t take care of what’s theirs.”
He was well aware most people didn’t worship at the altar of the internal combustion engine as he did, but basic maintenance wasn’t too much to ask. And it certainly wasn’t too much to ask of a cab medallion owner whose business was chauffeuring people around the city.
“What else is wrong with it?” Harlow leaned in, and even through the thick scent of rain, he could smell the subtle scent of flowers.
“You know cars, Park Avenue?”
Those cornflower-blue eyes met the challenge head on, her gaze never wavering. “I know a lot of things, Coney Island. You might want to rethink your biases and expectations.”
Before he could stop her, she pressed on. “If this engine hasn’t seen an oil change in a year, and I’m more prone to give it two, then the engine is done for. The careless brother-in-law of our dear driver over there is looking at a possible thrown rod as the final death knell, along with nasty tar coating every surface in the engine. My diagnosis? Full-on failure.”
Fender wasn’t sure he’d ever heard sweeter words fall from such luscious lips, and he fought the urge to lean over and kiss her right there. Holding himself in check—barely—he decided to continue the pop quiz more out of curiosity than any desire to one-up her. “What about the backfire that echoed through half the neighborhood?”
“I’d say that was a nasty bit of bad luck caused by his engine timing being off because it’s so ruined from what used to pass for oil and is right now likely a pile of Jurassic sludge.” Harlow stood back, careful to keep her head out of the way of the hood, and dropped her hands to her hips. “But, of course, I’ll let the expert decide.”
“The expert figures you’re spot on. He also figures the bastard brother-in-law is going to try and whine to have the engine cleaned out instead of fully replaced, which is the only possible course of treatment here.”
“Buy cheap, buy often. My grandmother’s favorite line.”
Unbidden, a laugh bubbled to his lips and came out on a harsh bark. By all rights, he was lucky the woman was even still standing there with him based on his behavior over lunch. The fact that she’d taken him to task and shared a bit of homespun wisdom was too delicious to resist.
The orange sheath that had tempted him since he’d caught sight of Harlow at the Park had molded even more closely to her skin from the rain storm, offset against the smooth lines of her flesh. Her skin was pale, which was rare for this late in the summer. Was she a sun avoider? If so, it certainly didn’t give much credence to his image of her flitting her sexy ass down to the Hamptons each and every weekend.
Nor did that image match the sassy, satisfied smile that even now pushed through the former anger. That smile seemed to say, “Serves you right for underestimating me.”
And in a terribly uncomfortable moment, Fender had the sense that this woman had been underestimated more than a few times in her life. He’d experienced the same, and it hadn’t ever sat easy on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh?” Those pretty eyes widened before she blinked a few times.
“What I said before. It was unkind and wrong and out of line. I am sorry for it.”
As apologies went it wasn’t particularly eloquent, but it was sincere.
“If I accept can I have my meatball sub?” She eyed the bag where he had settled it on top of a small newspaper dispenser box on the corner.
“Sure.”
“I like a man who thinks ahead. Since you remembered to grab my lunch, I think we’ll call it even.”
* * *
In what would surely be dubbed the strangest date—if you could call it that—she’d ever had, Harlow found herself staring at the side of a tow truck ten minutes later, a half-eaten meatball sub in hand. She and Fender had taken seats at a small table in front of Gino’s, freshly wiped down by Gino himself. “Blackstone’s Auto Body” was painted on the side of the tow truck, with a phone number, address, and website she promised herself she’d look up later. The guy who’d driven it over helped Fender load the dead cab onto the back, the two of them making various adjustments to the chains as the car slowly lifted.
She wanted to be irritated. Hell, she’d been spitting mad a half hour before. But something in the way the man moved had her interested despite herself.
And he’d apologized.
It had been gruff, tinged with the clear edges of embarrassment, but the apology had been honest. She valued relatively few things in other people—it kept her expectations in check and her emotions out of the equation—but honesty was one of them.
Since she’d hung around to eat her lunch instead of immediately calling a car to take her back over the bridge, Gino had insisted on remaking subs for her to take back to work. When he handed over the white paper bag, his eyes were bright.
“A new sandwich for your friend.”
Harlow glanced down at her plate and mentally groaned as the thought passed her mind that she might keep the second sub for herself. And she wasn’t even finished with the first. “You’re too sweet. And you didn’t need to make me another sandwich. I still have to get back to work. The other one would have kept just fine.”
“New customers get fresh. Sauce is on the side. Heat it up and the sandwich will be good as new.” He winked at her. “Plus, now you’ll come back.”
“I don—”
Gino shot a speculative glance at the truck where Fender and his staffer finished loading the cab. “That’s a good boy over there. He’s mouthy and more than a little rough, but he’s okay. Louisa did right by him and he does right by her. You understand?”
“Sure.”
Gino winked. “Good.”
Before she could even ask what that had to do with anything, the older man was off, hollering orders as he walked back through the door of his shop.
“You have a fan.” Fender strolled over and tapped the top of the white bag. “Gino doesn’t make seconds for just anybody.”
“I’ve already considered bypassing both my benevolence and my good sense and keeping this one all to myself. Jennifer can get her own lunch.”
“I like your style, Park Avenue.”
She’d blame it on the rapidly reheating air and rising humidity. Would tell herself later that the only reason her skin felt too tight and her breath caught in her throat was because of the weather. And recognize fully that for a woman who valued honesty, those lame excuses were the antithesis.
As she stared at Fender Blackstone, backlit by summer sunlight, she had to admit the man did things to her. He drew her in.
He challenged her.
He fascinated her.
Most of all, he made her think.
“I should get back.”
“I guess you should.”
His gaze stayed steady on hers and it was only the ping of her phone, alerting her that the car service she’d secured was a few minutes away, that broke the moment.
“Sounds like your cue.” Fender said. “I’ll wait with you at the curb.”
His attention was subtle but noticeable and she realized she’d never been so aware of another person. Even if she included the men she’d dated in the past, none of them had made her feel like this.
Several comments hovered at her lips, including the crazy thought to ask the man to dinner, but she voiced none of them. Instead, she went straight back to what still felt like unfinished business.
“Why did you apologize before? You don’t strike me as someone who does that very often.”
Something skittered beneath that vivid green before his gaze shuddered. “Because I’m an asshole?”
“That’s too easy.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But the daddy issues comment was a low blow, even for me.”
“Okay then.” She lifted her purse to her shoulder and secured the bag of sandwiches. “Thanks for lunch.”
Harlow was nearly to the waiting car when Fender’s voice whipped out behind her. “I underestimated you.”
Of all the things he might have said, that one was a surprise. She stopped and turned to face him. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“And that’s why you apologized?”
He shrugged, but somewhere in the casual, offhand motion, Harlow glimpsed the good man Gino spoke of. Maybe it was the earnestness in his bottle-green gaze. Or the way that gaze stayed steady on hers, in full ownership of his apology. Or maybe it was simply a sixth sense that telegraphed the sheer awareness she felt around him.
“I took a cheap, easy shot because it was there. You deserve better.”
“Maybe we both do.”
Chapter Three
Harlow rarely pushed where she wasn’t welcome. She’d been schooled in propriety and decorum from an early age, and she avoided inappropriate social situations like the plague.
So why was she so insistent on keeping up with the family of Louisa Mills?
The search engine alerts had picked up steam over the past few days, and with each link she saw more and more evidence of Louisa’s dedication to the people of Brooklyn. The woman attended rallies and participated in debates. She had even gone to help with a playground repair in Red Hook.
Each was detailed by the press.
And each story found its way to Harlow’s email inbox.
“Just turn them off, Reynolds. You’re not welcome or needed there. Walk away.” With purposeful keystrokes, she hit delete on the alert, toggling out of her email and into a spreadsheet on the gallery’s latest exhibit.
The artist had been so temperamental and difficult it was practically cliché, but oh, had he delivered. His large, lush oil paintings were a throwback to an earlier era, yet he’d infused the work with the current and the whimsical. A gothic cathedral rose up in frame, meticulously detailed, while a pretzel cart, a food truck, and a dog walker dragging a small herd of furry companions stole the foreground.
Each piece was more creative than the last, something large and imposing seemingly the subject of the piece only to be offset by reminders of modern times.
Her favorite was the imposing bridge, stretching out into the darkness, a thick, chugging commuter boat taking up the foreground. You could even see several of the passengers, some with earbuds in their ears as they focused on phones in their hands, some laughing and talking, some reading papers.
The detail was exquisite; the juxtaposition even more so.
Each seemed to say the old and the new could coexist. The lavish and the mundane each had a place. The grand and the ordinary were all precious and unique.
It was silly, her attachment to the work, but each sale they’d made had taken a small piece of her heart. The work had spoken to her from the first, and it was only recently, with this issue with her mother, that she had begun to understand why.
For reasons that still eluded Harlow, her mother’s recent actions against Louisa Mills had churned up a surprising well of emotions. Feelings she’d believed long buried had been unearthed for review and examination. Worst of all, she’d been forced to see her mother in a new light—one that illuminated a side of Gretchen Reynolds that seemed brittle and broken.
Was it any wonder she wanted to understand it better?
She’d spent her life in a rare position—a privileged existence that she understood came with opportunity and responsibility—and she’d always worked to be worthy of her life.
Yet in the midst of it all, she’d always believed she could blend. That she wasn’t defined by her upbringing. More, that she could be considerably more than a wealthy stereotype. But perhaps she’d been deluding herself.
Her lunch with Fender Blackstone the day before had suggested otherwise.
While he hadn’t dismissed her, he wasn’t comfortable with her. Nor did he seem to appreciate her genuine desire to make things right after her mother’s actions. She might have been okay with both of those things. What she couldn’t quite reconcile was the whirling sense of attraction that seemed to take her over when she thought of him.
He did apologize.
That thought had kept her steady company as the events of the previous day played over and over in her mind. And it was the only reason she could fathom for the small well of hope that seemed determined to linger when she thought about the man.
He’d called her a few weeks before. He’d surprised her, catching her near the end of a workout on the treadmill, trying to gauge her temperature over the long-finished relationship between her father and his mother. By the time her brain had slowed enough to realize the call was hinting at a date, she’d got
ten a bit between her teeth. Which always seemed to happen when talk veered to her father.
So even with the intimation of a date—one she was more than interested in having—she’d rebuffed him.
“You sure you didn’t know what your mother was doing? Weren’t supporting her in some way?” Fender had asked.
“I said I wasn’t.”
“Sure. Right. But it was your father my mother had the affair with. You don’t have some vendetta like your mother?”
As questions went, it wasn’t entirely unfair. But it pinched all the same. That ever-present reality of just how deeply her father’s infidelity had affected all of them.
“My father was a lot of things, but faithful wasn’t one of them. He cheated on my mother and, by extension, my brother and I. I came to accept that a long time ago.”
“Why accept it?”
“Because my parents won’t define me or my perception of the world. They made their own choices, I make mine.”
She’d used the line before. Often, actually, to the point it had become her personal litany.
“Nice thought. Putting it into practice isn’t quite so easy.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I practice it every day.”
“Maybe you can tell me about it sometime over a glass of wine.”
“Let’s make it whiskey and I’ll tell you when I think you’re ready to believe me.
She’d given it a beat, determined to close the call with the upper hand.
“Goodnight, Fender Blackstone.”
The memory was interrupted by a brisk knock on her door, and she glanced up to see her office manager, Jennifer, standing in the doorway. “Daphne Rossi and Emma Vandenburg are here to see you. They mentioned something about their future mother-in-law, Louisa Mills? I thought maybe it was a referral, or something you’d set up yourself.”
Their mother-in-law?
She’d met Daphne during the mess with her own mother last month, when the Brooklyn-based detective had overseen the break-in at Landon McGee’s office. Daphne and Landon were a couple? Harlow caught up quickly and figured things had turned romantic for the two of them, shocked when a small shot of envy snaked through her chest.