As promised, my family came over a little after four to help me finish up what I needed to get done, and since there wasn’t much left besides my bedroom, they ended up helping me hang pictures and take boxes to be recycled and some stuff to Goodwill.
When my mom asked how I got so much done, I told her that Harlen had come over to help me after running into him at Marco’s. My mom, who knows Harlen, got a funny look on her face at the mention of his name, but she didn’t say anything besides “That was nice of him.” July and June, who overheard me telling Mom about Harlen, shared a look I didn’t understand. Thankfully, the rest of my family (the guys) weren’t around for that part, so I didn’t have to deal with them going all overprotective.
Shaking away those thoughts, I go to the bathroom and shut the door to see the mirror behind it. I rest my hands on my hips and study my black tank top, jeans with holes in the knees, and my four-inch black wedge booties with a peep toe. After thinking about what to wear all day, this is what I came up with—something casual but still cute. Looking at my watch again, my stomach starts to dance. The compound is about twenty minutes away, on the other side of town, so if I’m going to get there on time, I need to feed Dizzy then head out.
Going to the kitchen, I dump a can of wet food in his bowl and give him a pet before grabbing a case of beer from the fridge, my keys, and my bag from the counter.
Parking out front of the auto shop a little over twenty minutes later, I take a few deep breaths and open my door. Before I even have one foot on the ground, I see Harlen step out of one of the open bays, wiping his grease-covered hands on a red towel. Taking him in I notice that he’s wearing a pair of navy blue coveralls with the arms of the top down and tied around his waist and his torso covered in a black tee that’s been washed so many times it’s faded to an almost gray color.
“Hey.” I smile then bend back into my car, reaching across the seat to grab the beer I brought with me.
“You’re early,” he says, and I feel my stomach drop as I turn to face him. Lifting my wrist, I look at my watch and see that it’s six. Actually, it’s two minutes after six. I’m not early, technically I’m late.
“You said six.” I hold up my watch toward him. “That’s now,” I say, and his head tips to the side.
“Most women show up at least thirty minutes later than the time you give them,” he tells me, and my brows draw together tightly.
“So you told me six thinking I’d be here at six thirty?” I ask, and his lips twitch.
“Just figured if I told you six you’d be on time.” He comes toward me, taking the beer out of my hand.
“I’m always on time,” I inform him, and his lips tip up into a small smile.
“I see that now,” he replies, and my eyes turn squinty as I rest my hands on my hips.
“Do you want me to get in my car and drive around for half an hour?”
“Nah, since you’re here, you can come help me,” he says, turning back toward the shop taking the beer with him.
“Help you?” I ask his back, and he looks at me over his shoulder. “Yeah, you can hand me tools while I finish up on the car I’m workin’ on.”
“Great.” I shake my head then follow behind him, thinking this isn’t starting how I thought it would.
After we head through the open bay door he came out of earlier, I watch him drop the beer to the top of a tall black toolbox then go to a white Toyota that has seen better days—those days being a century ago—and lean into the open hood. Not sure what to do with myself, I cross my arms over my chest and watch him work, his arms flexing and his jaw twitching in concentration.
“Hand me the wrench,” he says, and I look from him to the toolbox. Finding what he’s asking for in the mess of tools, I pick it up and hand it over.
“What?” I ask when he looks at me strangely, closing his large hand around the wrench.
“Nothing.” He goes back to work, and I go back to watching him. “Did you finish unpacking?” he asks, looking up at me, and a piece of his dark hair falls forward across his brow, making my fingers twitch to move it aside.
“Mostly.”
“You want me to help you some more tonight?”
Him… in my bedroom? Yeah, I don’t think that would be smart.
“No, I got it covered, but if you feel up to the task of going with me barstool shopping on my next day off, I won’t turn you down,” I say without thinking.
“I can do that.” He says looking up at me.
His easy answer catches me off guard. All the men I know would rather shoot themselves in the foot than go shopping for anything besides groceries, and even that’s a stretch.
“Cool,” I agree, and then take the wrench from him when he holds it out to me.
“Pliers.” He nods to the toolbox, so I grab the first pair of pliers I see and hand them over, then out of boredom, I move the beer out of the way and start to arrange his tools. “Waste of time, babe. They’ll be fucked up again by tomorrow morning.” He startles me, and I look over at him just as he moves the cloth from the side of the car and slams the hood closed.
“Well then, for about an hour tomorrow, things will be in order,” I retort, and he shakes his head then gets in the car, leaving the door open. He turns over the engine, and it purrs quietly like it’s brand new. After revving the engine a few times, he shuts it down and gets out. “It sounds good.”
“You wouldn’t have thought that a few hours ago,” he says, and I nod, having no doubt it probably sounded just like it looked before he fixed it. “Now that work’s done, it’s time for a beer.” He drops the pliers he’s holding next to another pair then grabs the beer and my hand. With no choice but to go wherever he’s leading me, I follow him toward an open door that looks like an office. “Toyota’s done. Call Mike and let him know,” he says, and I peek around his big frame and see Wes sitting in a rolling chair in front of a metal desk. “Harmony’s here,” he adds.
Wes’s head jerks back then his eyes come to me and drop to Harlen’s hand still wrapped around mine. Letting Harlen go, even though I kinda like… okay, really like holding his hand, I move around him and into the office to give Wes a hug.
“You settling in okay?” Wes asks once he’s released me and I’ve taken a step back.
“Yep.” I smile, and his eyes roam my face before he looks over my shoulder to Harlen. Not really understanding badass guy eye talk, I don’t know what he’s communicating; I just know it’s something.
“I’ll let Mike know he can come by to pick up his ride,” Wes mutters then lifts his chin. “Be smart.”
Without a word to Wes, Harlen grabs my hand once again and leads me away, through another door, this one on the back wall of the shop.
“Be smart about what?” I ask him as we walk side by side down a long hall and out into an open courtyard, where there is a grill covered with a blue tarp, along with some tables and three metal barrels that are black, as if they have had fires in them before.
“Nothing,” he answers as we head up a flight of stairs. Stopping at a metal door on the second floor landing, he lets my wrist go and I watch him pull out a key then put it into the lock. The second he opens the door and I step into the dimly lit room, I look around. There’s a queen size bed with a fitted sheet halfway coming off the mattress. The top sheet is gone to places unknown. A small, crappy dresser with the drawers shoved in, most of them off-kilter, with clothes hanging out of them is against one wall, and there’s a bedside table with a lamp on top with the shade missing.
“Just gonna clean up,” he says, dropping the beer to the top of the dresser that is piled high with dusty receipts, loose change, and other odds and ends. Watching him go into the bathroom and close the door, I look around again, wondering what this place is. The night I took him home from June’s, I took him to an apartment building that was similar to the one I lived in in Nashville. It was nice. This place, not so much. Hearing the toilet flush then water turn on, I turn to face him when he
comes out.
“What is this place?” I wave my hand around, and he stops in the open doorway of the bathroom, looking at me then around the room.
“I used to crash here before I got my place,” he says, moving to the dresser. Opening one of the drawers, he then does something I don’t expect him to do. His hands go behind his head and he pulls off his shirt. His chest is covered in dark hair that thins out over his cut abs then turns into a narrow line that disappears into his jeans. Seeing all of that and imagining feeling that hair against my bare skin and breasts, my core tightens and my cheeks heat.
Holy shit.
Jerking my eyes off the trail of hair leading into his jeans, I look toward the bathroom. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?” I squeak, not even bothering to wait for him to answer before heading that way. Hearing him say “sure” to my back, I go in and close the door.
Flipping on the light, I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are pink, and my eyes are dilated so much that there isn’t any blue left. They are almost all black. I’m turned on. I’m turned on from just seeing Harlen shirtless. He didn’t touch me, didn’t look at me, didn’t do anything but take off his shirt. Turning on the water, I rest my hands on the edge of the sink and drop my head forward. I need to ask him what’s going on. I need to find out from him where his head’s at. With that thought in mind, I shut off the water and open the bathroom door.
“You ready?” he asks, and my step falters, along with my resolve to ask him the question I need to ask him.
“Yep,” I lie, and he steps around me to the door, opening it. Without taking my hand, he leads me back into the building we came out of but into another room, this one with a pool table, TV that must be a hundred inches with a crappy couch in front of it, and a kitchen. Going into the kitchen area, he dumps the beer I brought into the fridge then grabs two others from the door, twisting off the tops before handing me one. I take it, but what I don’t do is ask him why I’m here.
“Have you played pool before?” he asks, leading me toward the pool table.
“No.” I shrug, taking a sip from my beer and wishing it were apple cider, since I don’t really like real beer at all.
“Finally,” he says, and I look at him.
“Finally what?”
“Been thinking you’re too good to be true.”
“What?” I repeat, this time sounding breathy, wondering if I heard him right.
“You eat actual pizza, show up on time, know which tools are which, you don’t suck to look at, and you look fucking great in a pair of jeans. Too good to be true.”
Did he just say that? Holy shit, my legs go weak and I have to lean into the pool table to keep standing. “I… thank you, I think.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” He laughs, and the sound washes over me, making my insides turn liquid and my pulse kick into overdrive. Last night, I got him to smile a few times, but that’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh, and I know I don’t want it to be the last. “You ready to get your ass kicked?”
“Are you really going to kick my ass when I don’t know what I’m doing?” I question, and he laughs again, this time softly.
“Right, I’ll show you how to play. Then I’ll kick your ass.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes then take the stick he hands me. Taking another sip of the beer, I must make a face, because his eyes focus on me. “What?”
“You want a wine cooler?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately, and he chuckles.
“I’ll add that to the list,” he mutters, going to the kitchen and coming back a minute later with a blue wine cooler, handing it to me.
“What exactly are you adding to the list?” I ask.
He grins. “The fact you don’t like real beer.”
“So that’s going into the negative line of my resume?” I joke, and his grin gentles into a smile but he doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he moves to the table and sets up the balls in the middle. “Should I start my own list?” I ask, and his eyes come to me.
“Probably,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes from mine. “Ready?” He stands back and I sigh.
“Ready,” I agree, and then I listen as he walks me through how to play the game and tells me that I’m solids. After that, he breaks and we start playing, and it’s much more fun than I thought it would be.
“You sure you never played pool before?” Harlen asks an hour later, and I grin at him, bending over the pool table to take my shot.
“I’m sure.” I slide the stick between my fingers and hit the white ball into the yellow one, watching it sink into the right corner pocket.
“Maybe we should go into town and make some money,” he says as I stand.
“What?” I laugh, picking up my second wine cooler from the edge of the table and taking a sip.
“Never mind.” He smiles as I move around the table to take another shot, this one missing. Watching him take his turn, I study him. He’s full of contradictions. Just seeing him, I would never guess he could be sweet, that he could make me laugh and put me at ease without even trying. “How do you feel about Chinese?”
“Pardon?” I come out of my thoughts and focus on him.
“I need to eat. You want Chinese or a burger?”
“Chinese works,” I agree then watch him pull out his phone, press a few buttons, and put it to his ear.
“What do you want?”
“Sesame chicken, fried rice, and an eggroll.”
“Got it.” He places the order then gives them the address to deliver. Once he hangs up, he takes another shot, and I narrow my eyes when the white ball hits the stripped one into the pocket at the corner.
“Did you just cheat?”
“No,” he denies, taking another shot, this one putting the eight ball into the pocket and winning the game.
“You did. You just took a shot and it wasn’t your turn. Then you took another and won,” I accuse, resting my hand on my hip, and his lips twitch.
“Babe, I didn’t cheat.”
“You totally did,” I say, looking at him then the table. “You cheated so that I didn’t win.”
“Did not.” His eyes scan me, my hand on my hip, and my tapping foot, and his lips twitch into a smile.
“Did too, Harlen… Wait. What’s your last name?”
“MacCabe,” he answers, and I blink. “Full name’s Harlen Alistair MacCabe.”
“Harlen Alistair MacCabe,” I repeat. Wow, okay, a totally cool, totally badass name. I can actually picture him overlooking a castle in Scotland on the back of a giant horse, going into battling with a sword in his hand, wearing a kilt and making that shit look, again, badass.
“My family’s from Scotland. Dad was a second generation, and Mom was third.”
“Was?” I whisper, and his eyes flash.
“Lost both my parents when I was fifteen.”
At his words my heart seizes in my chest. “I’m so sorry.”
“Long time ago,” he says, but I can see pain in his eyes, pain he doesn’t try to hide from me.
“Still, I’m sorry, Harlen,” I continue whispering, feeling my knees shake and my eyes burn. I have no idea how he is still standing. I know one day I will have to face losing my parents, but I pray every day that time is a long way from now.
“Don’t cry, Angel,” he tells me, getting closer and wrapping his warm hand around the side of my neck. “Not for me.”
Shaking my head, I close my eyes and pull in a deep breath. “I’m good,” I lie, opening my eyes back up. Then, without thinking, I close the distance between us and slide my arms around his waist. It takes a second, but his arms close around me then his chin rests on top of my head.
“So damn sweet.” Those words rumble against my ear and my hold tightens.
“Yo!”
Hearing that, I jump and release Harlen quickly. So quickly, I almost fall over on my wedge heels. Luckily, Harlen wraps a hand around my waist, preventing me from going down. Unlucky for me, I’d k
now that “yo” anywhere.
“Fuck,” Harlen mutters just loud enough for me to hear, and I look to see his eyes on my dad, who’s looking between the two of us.
“Dad.” I walk across the space separating us and wrap my arms around him. His arms close around me then his lips touch the top of my head. “What are you doing here?” I ask, tipping my head back to look up at him.
“Came to talk to Harlen.” His arms tighten before he asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Learning to play pool.” I smile at him then loosen my hold and step back. “Is everything okay?”
“Not sure.” He looks over at Harlen, who’s watching us with his feet spread wide and his arms crossed over his chest. My heart sinks when I realize my mom probably talked to him about Harlen. I love my father, but he’s protective to the point of being overbearing. I have never dated a guy he’s liked, and he’s always made that perfectly clear, which means the guys I’ve dated tend to disappear, never having the balls to stick around. I get it; my dad’s scary, covered in tattoos, tall, and fit. Even at his age, he doesn’t look like someone you fuck with. Still, it would be nice to someday meet a guy who likes me enough to weather the storm that is my father.
“Dad.” His eyes come to me. “Don’t,” I whisper, and his brows pull together. “Please don’t.” I shake my head, holding his gaze.
Hearing Harlen’s phone ring, I turn to look at him as he comes toward us, pulling out his wallet. Holding money out toward me, he mutters, “Food’s out front. You mind getting it for us?”
“I…” I look between him and my dad and cannot imagine what will happen if I leave. Harlen, like my dad, is scary, maybe even more so. These two alone together doesn’t seem like a good idea, especially since there’s no way to miss the tension filling the room. “But—”
“It’s all good,” he says, and I swallow, looking between him and my dad again.