“I’m going to run into town and grab a sandwich.”
I slide out from under the car I’m working on and look up at my brother. Duke is two years younger than me, and even though he’s a giant pain in my ass, he’s one of my best friends.
“Is that code for hooking up with Candy? Because if it is, can you make it quick?”
“Carrie,” he corrects, shaking his head. “And no, it’s code for I’ve spent the last two hours chasing after your hooligans, and now I’m starving.”
“What happened to Candy?”
“She was too clingy. Stop judging me. I’ll be right back.”
I hold my hands up. “I’m not judging.” I swear he goes through women faster than I go through underwear. “Will you grab me something too?”
“What the hell do I look like?”
“I restored your Camaro for cost. The way I see it, you owe me another thousand hours of babysitting and at least thirty or forty lunches.”
Duke scratches his head. “What do you want?”
“I’ll have a turkey and swiss on white with all the veggies. And grab the kids some chicken nuggets while you’re out.”
It’s not like he can’t afford it. Baby Brother is a tech genius. He’s a coder, or a developer, or…hell, I don’t really know what he does. What I do know is he puts together programs and apps and then turns around and sells them for a small fortune.
“Yeah, yeah.” Duke waves his hand and turns for the door. “Henry is asleep in the pack-n-play and the other two hellions are watching a movie on your iPad. They should be content until I get back.”
“Thanks, bro.” He doesn’t respond, and I push up into a sitting position on my creeper. “Yo, Duke?”
He stops and turns toward me. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean more than just getting me lunch.
He’s really stepped up over the last year and a half, helping me with the kids—the way he is today—and my business. He isn’t around all the time, because he has his own stuff going on, but he’s always here when I need him, and for that I’m grateful.
“You don’t have to thank me. We’re family. I’ve always got your back.”
“Same.”
I watch him walk out the back door of Calhoun’s Custom Cars. My shop isn’t much, but as soon as I moved into the house, I started renovations on the shed. I poured concrete floors, put up some walls to separate the work area from the reception desk and off
ice, threw on a coat of paint, and voila. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s mine, and it more than pays the bills.
Glancing around the garage area, I take in everything that still needs to be done. There’s an old car lift I bought from an auction that’s been collecting dust in the back corner. One of these days I’ll install it, along with the oil-burning furnace I purchased from a buddy of mine. Besides the lift and furnace, there’s the bathroom that still isn’t finished, a bookkeeping program I never took the time to install, two laundry baskets full of dirty shop rags, and piles and piles of invoices and receipts that need to be catalogued—all things Lorelei used to take care of.
And I don’t have the time or the energy to work on any of it.
With a heavy sigh, I slide back under the car and get to work. This car won’t put itself back together, which is unfortunate considering I’m a few days behind schedule.
I’m never behind schedule, but I’ve felt off since walking out of Nick and Jessa’s house Monday night, and it’s interfering with my work. It’s not the kids that have me worked up, or the gum in Emma’s hair, or the fighting and constant bickering, it’s her.
Something about Nora made my head spin, and I haven’t been able to concentrate since. I was drawn to her in a way I didn’t expect, and for a very brief second, I let myself believe maybe she felt it too. But then I overheard her talking to Jessa, and all hope went out the window.
At first, her words pissed me off, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what she thinks about me doesn’t matter. What matters are my kids and making sure they’re happy and healthy. Maybe one of these days when they’re all grown up, I’ll entertain the thought of a woman.
But that realization hasn’t kept Nora’s face from popping into my head. I’m sleep-deprived from trying not to think about her soft curves and long, tan legs. She looks more grown up than I expected. I laugh at myself and shake my head for thinking she’d be the same as her TV persona. I’ve jacked off more in the last four days than I have all year, and I’m still hard. I need to stop thinking about that sexy pop star—her big brown eyes, sweet smile, and contagious laugh—and move the fuck on.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I switch my playlist to something more rock and less country, and crank up the volume. I force myself to focus on the task at hand, and when I finish tightening the last bolt, I slide out from under the car and hop to my feet so I can check on the kids before moving on to the next thing.
Inside the office, Henry is fast asleep, his pouty lips wrapped around his thumb, and the older two are too busy watching the iPad to notice me.