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  Copyright © 2016 by Marie Harte

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Craig White

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  An Excerpt from A Sure Thing

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For D&R. I love you.

  And to all the women out there who never feel good enough, this one’s for you.

  Chapter 1

  Foley Sanders stared at the door, where minutes ago one sexy, pissed off woman had stalked out of the garage. She’d worked the hell out of those black heels. They’d rapped against the concrete floor, the angry staccato an unsubtle reminder to get out of her way. Talk about a fine pair of legs. To his chagrin, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. The guys had stared after her as if they’d never seen a woman before. He wanted to be better than that, but…

  God love him—a redhead. The woman had wine-red hair so dark it looked almost brown. And that body… She had curves, a lot of them. And height.

  Man, talk about Santa coming to town early. Just breathing, the woman qualified as a statuesque knockout. But angry? A serious threat to his sanity. Now how to calm her down… Oh, right. Find and kill Dale, then get their cars out of her lot.

  He glanced around for their young service writer and saw nothing but steady business. With three lifts and space to spare, there was never an excuse for downtime in Webster’s Garage. Lining the back of the shop and the rear wall, multidrawer mechanic toolboxes separated several workstations. A few calendars, sadly of clothed women, cars, and motorcycles, adorned the red and brown brick walls.

  But no Dale to be found.

  Foley wondered if strangling the guy would annoy his bosses. Not Liam so much. The hard-ass was old-school when it came to screwups. Del, though. She might be a problem. Ever since getting engaged to McCauley, she’d been going hot and cold on discipline around the place. One minute jumping down his throat for something, the next babying their twenty-one-year-old service writer like he was four.

  “Dale,” he yelled, then remembered the kid had taken off early today.

  “He’s not here, genius. Probably wants to beat the snow.” Johnny Devlin, one of the mouthier mechanics in the garage, lovingly stated the obvious. With Seattle’s winter nearly officially here, the weather seemed to be getting worse. “Boy had plans to help his sister move, I think. He’ll be in first thing Monday morning.”

  “Hell.” Foley rubbed his eyes, irritated. He needed to get a bunch of cars moved out of the fiery siren’s lot before she had them towed. Had Dale left the keys where Del normally kept them? Or had he taken to reorganizing again, so no one could find anything without the kid’s help?

  Johnny went back to cheerfully whistling a Christmas tune while Credence Clearwater Revival came on the radio to replace some seriously awful folk music. Thank God. Now if Foley could just get Johnny to shut up.

  “Must you whistle?” he growled, a headache brewing as the temperature started to get to him. They kept the garage bay doors closed, but the cold didn’t seem to care, and the T-shirt and jeans he wore under his coveralls weren’t doing him any favors.

  The bastard grinned back at him. “I must.” Johnny had recently fallen in love and now considered himself a dating guru. Well, technically the little bastard was pretty good with the ladies. He had a pretty face, a big brain, and had grown up around a bevy of strippers, so he had the female perspective down pat. Still, Foley would rather pull out his own teeth than admit Johnny knew more than he did about chicks.

  Women, not chicks, you Neanderthal, he imagined his mother saying before slapping him on the back of the head. He rubbed the imagined smack and sighed.

  “Ha! I found it.” His best friend, Sam, victoriously raised his previously misplaced air ratchet and narrowed his gaze on Foley. “Quit fucking with my gear.”

  Foley frowned, still off-kilter from the angry beauty in heels. “I told you I didn’t touch your tools. You need to clean up that mess.” He nodded at Sam’s tool bench, a clutter of disorganization that hurt to look at.

  After nearly two decades spent around Sam and Sam’s chaos in regards to living, Foley should have known better than to try. But he figured one of these days Sam might actually heed his advice.

  “I’m not seeing the problem.” Sam shrugged and tapped the ratchet into his huge palm. “You seeing a problem, big man? Want me to fix it? How about I fix you?”

  He glanced at Sam’s thick, tattooed biceps, then at his own, and raised a brow. “I know you don’t seriously think you can take me down.”

  Sam’s scowl lightened into what—for Sam—could be considered a grin. “You want to go, boss man?”

  “Must chafe your ass that Del and Liam left me in charge.” Foley crossed his arms over his chest, amused at the thought of Sam taking the lead. His buddy didn’t want the responsibility. He just liked needling Foley for being a—quote—kiss ass. Foley continued his rant. “But then, what choice did they have?” He looked at Johnny, monkeying under the hood of a Honda. “The happy whistler who can’t think beyond his new girlfriend?” A glance at Lou, who leaned against his workbench, smirking at them. “The resident Romeo who’s better with a paint gun than a wrench?”

  “Watch it, hombre, or I’ll paint your face a new color.” Lou didn’t put any heat behind his words, but his mammoth frame would be a challenge if it came to a fight. He was as big as Foley, though not as badass. Then again, Foley had never actually b
attled the garage’s resident know-it-all. He wondered, between them, who might actually win, and could see Lou thinking the same, his lips curling into a grin.

  Thoughts of fighting brought Foley’s attention back to Sam. “Or you.” Foley scrutinized his buddy, teasing to conceal the worry he’d been feeling. “You’re practically all skin and bones. Eat a sandwich, jackass. It won’t kill you. Unless you’re starving yourself to impress Shaya?”

  Sam snorted. “Shaya likes me just fine.”

  “You mean she likes the wad of bills you shove down her G-string at Strutts,” Lou said under his breath.

  Sam turned a cold eye on him. “Anytime you want to throw down, Cortez. I’m game.”

  Johnny took a break from his work, straightened, and faced them. “Guys, it’s almost Christmas.”

  “So what? Santa ain’t bringin’ Sam a personality. What can I do but help him adjust to good cheer?” Lou offered.

  “Fuck off, Lou,” Sam snapped.

  Johnny pleaded, “Tone down the testosterone, would you?”

  Lou took a threatening step toward Sam, then stopped, grinned, and held out a hand. “Pay up, Hamilton. I told you he’d make sure none of us shake the peace around here. Getting laid has made our Johnny a lover, not a fighter.”

  Foley laughed. They placed bets on everything in the garage, and Johnny’s maddening good mood was fair game. Good to know Foley wasn’t the only one who could use less whistling, more classic rock.

  Sam gave Johnny a sad look as he put a five in Lou’s hand. “Johnny, Johnny. All that happiness is turning you into a pussy. Does Lara know what she’s getting with you, man?”

  “Turning into?” Foley repeated. “I thought he was born that way.” He laughed at the finger Johnny shot him.

  Then in a sly tone, Johnny said, “Calling me names and betting on me isn’t getting you guys any closer to an invite to dinner next weekend.”

  Foley and Sam exchanged a glance. Free food changed things.

  Sam coughed. “I don’t suppose Lara would make anything special for us. Like say, chocolate chip cookies?”

  “I don’t know.” Johnny rubbed his greasy nails on his coveralls. “How sorry are you for being a dick?”

  “I’m sorry Sam’s a dick,” Lou apologized, ignoring Sam’s suggestion of where to stick his head. “And that you have to constantly deal with lowbrow humor from the badass bros.”

  Foley rolled his eyes. They’d been calling him and Sam that for years, and he hated to admit it, but he liked the title.

  “Lowbrow, my ass,” Sam muttered.

  Lou shrugged. “Just my opinion.” He turned to Foley. “But then, I’m just a lowly peon working for the big man.”

  “Please.” The guys always ribbed Foley whenever the Websters left him in charge. “Like you work for anyone but yourself.” All of them contracted their work for a percentage. With the raw talent and experience Webster’s had pooled the past few years with their current team of mechanics, it was no wonder the garage had overflowing lots and no time to spare anymore.

  “That’s true.” Lou grinned. “But right now, I’m more than glad Del and Liam left you in charge. I wouldn’t want to be you when you’re standing in front of them, explaining why all our cars got towed away.”

  Foley had been trying to avoid the pressing need to fix the situation. “Shit.”

  “Good thing Del’s not here to collect on all the swearing,” Johnny just had to remind them.

  As one, they glanced at the change-filled glass jar on a nearby counter. The ROP—Rattle of Oppression, as they’d taken to calling it—had been getting filled on a weekly basis. The boss had decided that to keep from swearing at her upcoming wedding, she’d practice clean speech at work. Unfortunately, if she had to talk nice, she expected them all to do the same.

  Foley grinned. “You have to admit it’s a challenge. Even Liam has cut back on his ‘fucks’ and ‘goddamns.’”

  The guys chuckled.

  Foley finished putting his tools away, then realized he’d only given himself a ten-minute reprieve. “Oh hell. I’ll be at the coffee shop dealing with our angry neighbor. If you guys leave before I get back, have a good weekend. And, Johnny? I’m marking down in my calendar about dinner next weekend.”

  “With cookies, right?” Sam asked.

  “Maybe.” Johnny shrugged. “Lara seems to like you, though I have no idea why.”

  Foley removed his coveralls and hung them in his locker in the break room, leaving him in jeans, steel-toed boots, and a thin T-shirt. When working, he tended to run hot. But as soon as he stopped, the cold hit him. He washed his hands thoroughly and tried to finger-comb his hair, wanting to make a better impression on his would-be lover. He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the exit.

  Johnny hummed the funeral march, which earned a rare chuckle from Sam.

  Lou called out, “Good luck, jefe.”

  “Quit calling me boss,” he barked.

  “Okay, walking dead man.” Lou laughed. “Wonder if she’ll puncture a lung with those heels. Might be worth it to see.” Lou made as if to follow him, and Foley ordered him to stay the hell away.

  He didn’t need an audience when he worked his charms on that delectable redhead. And he especially didn’t need any unasked for competition when it came to getting that first date. That was, if he could convince her not to stomp his head in with those four-inch heels.

  He grinned. He loved them mean.

  His grin faded, and he turned around and headed for the service desk. First, he had to find those damn keys.

  * * *

  Cynthia Nichols had done some stupid things in her time, but not wearing a jacket in this weather ranked among her top five. Her earlier phone conversation had made her so blasted angry she’d torn out of the shop without thinking. She shivered and glanced at the mass of vehicles taking up her customers’ spots and swore at all things car related. Spotting a familiar face outside, she waved.

  Hurrying through the door, she inhaled the scent of coffee and freshly baked goods and let out a sigh. Nichols Caffè Bar—her most recent acquisition and newest workplace.

  Warmth unfurled. She finally felt at home. For years she’d been investing in businesses, getting them going, then leaving once they turned a profit. But this was the first one she’d decided to work and keep as her own. A family-run company, since she owned half of it, and her brother and sister-in-law owned the other half.

  “Where have you been?” Nina, said sister-in-law, asked before calling out a name for the cup on the counter.

  The customer collected it with a thanks and headed to a back table. For a Friday late afternoon, they had a decent enough crowd. Icy roads and snow had been forecasted for later in the day, so she hadn’t thought too many Seattleites would stick around. But for coffee, her fellow caffeine addicts would apparently brave the weather.

  “Hold that thought.” Cyn grabbed a hot cocoa and a bag of muffins and took them outside to Francine. The older woman typically passed by on her way to her nephew’s workplace. He’d drive her home after her daily walk. Francine had to be in her seventies, but rain, shine, or snow, the woman refused to miss her exercise.

  “Before you say anything,” Cyn said to forestall the prickly woman, “it’s the holidays. Take the cocoa and the muffins and indulge my Christmas spirit. Please?”

  Francine lived on a budget, and it showed. Yet the woman had her pride. Hell, so did Cyn. But she hated the thought of Francine going without, especially during the holidays.

  “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?” Francine frowned, then gave a grudging nod and accepted the treats. “Thanks, Cyn. Stay warm. See you next year.” She gave a smile. “Micky’s taking me to Vegas for a few days. He won a free trip.”

  “Enjoy yourself. And watch those slots.”

  Francine cackled and shuffl
ed away.

  Cyn watched her go, shook her head, and joined Nina again.

  “You’re a soft touch. That woman is going to live to be two hundred, she’s that mean.”

  “She’s just misunderstood.”

  Nina raised a brow. “The last time I asked if she wanted a free coffee or pastry, she shot me the finger.”

  “She’s got her pride.” Cyn chuckled. “That or she just doesn’t like you.”

  “Whatever. So where were you?” Nina asked again.

  Cyn joined her behind the counter. “I went over to Webster’s Garage to talk to the idiot in charge.”

  Nina frowned. “I like Liam, and I wouldn’t exactly call Del an idiot. Not to her face.”

  Cyn understood. The gang at Webster’s was decidedly…rough. Liam Webster had to be in his late fifties, yet the man looked like he could bench-press her—and she hadn’t been a lightweight since the fourth grade.

  Del, his daughter, had ash-blond hair, a few piercings, tattoos, and the meanest glare on a woman Cyn had ever seen. She had been nice and polite the few times Cyn had run into her, but Cyn had sensed a predator behind those cold gray eyes from the first.

  Eyes a lot like those of the testosterone-laden idiot she’d just lambasted with a bit of redheaded temper. Dear God, where did the Websters find their mechanics? San Quentin? Rikers? Baddies-R-Us?

  Aware her sister-in-law waited for an answer, Cyn said, “The Websters are out of town, so they left Foley Sanders in charge.”

  Nina sighed. “Foley.”

  “Hey. You’re married to my brother, remember?” Cyn frowned. “Do the names Vinnie and Alex ring a bell? You know, your children?”

  Nina laughed. “Hard to forget a house full of boys and your manly brother. Hubba hubba.”

  “Ew. Forget I asked.”

  “But Foley Sanders.” Nina wiggled her brows. “He’s so big and strong and just…yum.”

  Nina wasn’t lying. Which made Cyn dislike him all the more. She knew all about guys like Foley. Men who had looks and muscle, the envy of other men, and the fantasies of heterosexual women. Men who acted like they didn’t mind what a girl looked like, then dumped her for a skinnier, younger model.