Marrying The Wedding Crasher

Vince’s hands, not Dan’s.

Vince. He drove an old truck, not a new Ferrari. He’d offered her carrots once when he’d heard she’d forgotten her lunch on a remote job site. He’d bought her a drink after work one day, which had led to him buying her dinner—more than once—and then the infamous weekend away where he’d learned she’d quit being an architect. Not that he’d understood Harley and her inability to pick herself up after one undisclosed setback. He may have been seven years older than her, but that didn’t mean he could be judgmental about her career choices.

Note to self... I’m not safe with Vince, either.

“Hey.” Vince gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “Are you with me?”

With him? She would’ve followed him anywhere a few weeks ago, before the let-me-tell-you-what-to-do-with-your-life debacle.

Something crashed outside.

Vince muttered what might have been an oath or a psalm. She couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart.

He moved to sit next to Harley, tucking her beneath his arm, next to his bulky tool belt. “Breathe in. Breathe out.”

Sounded easy enough, but that heart of hers was hammering against her lungs, making her pant. Vince holding her wasn’t helping her recovery.

Not that she moved away from him. Not one inch.

“Like this.” Vince took Harley’s hand and placed her palm on his sturdy chest.

She could feel his heart beat nearly as fast as hers, but she could also feel him fill his lungs with air.

“Breathe in. Breathe out.” Vince was big and warm and calm, and completely different than Dan. He’d never be a slave to fashion. He’d never take credit for someone else’s work. He’d never put his hands on a woman with intent to do damage.

In a distant part of her brain, somewhere where things weren’t pounding, Harley’s mother recited one of her Southern lectures. Life is hard, baby girl. You need to find yourself a big, strong man to lean on when times get tough.

Finding big, strong men was something of a specialty of Harley’s. It was finding the ones she could lean on forever that eluded her.

“That’s it,” Vince reassured her.

Vince was strong, too. He looked like he could play tight end for the Houston Texans. He smelled of fresh-cut wood and hard work. And he sounded the way Disney princes should—reliable, honorable, understanding.

Two out of three...

“Your hair lies,” she murmured. It promised empathy and happily-ever-afters.

She should never have broken the no coworker rule in her dating handbook. But Vince had that hair and that smile and that self-confidence slightly older men with their act together seemed to have.

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Bleeding?” His fingers explored the back of her head and found—

“Ouch.” She held her breath until the pain passed. “Give...me...a...minute.” And then she’d ask Vince to stop touching her.

“Take as long as you need.”

She was afraid she’d take as long as he let her, which just wouldn’t do. She was Harley O’Hannigan. She was tough, independent and wasn’t the kind of woman who expected flowers or pretty words or who waited for men to open the door.

Harley sighed and put some space between them. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

She shot him with a sideways scowl.

“I meant...” Vince held up his hands, revealing scraped and bloodied knuckles. “I haven’t had a good fight in a while.” He grinned. It was lopsided and devilish, and made her girlish fantasies flutter foolishly inside her chest.

Mr. Carrots was a fighter? How had she not known this?

I didn’t know him at all.

“You should press charges.”

A new sensation banged around her chest. Embarrassment. “I can’t afford the time off from work to fill out police reports or show up in court.” What a flimsy fib. “Which makes me sound—”

“Practical.”

There he went, being nice again. This time it sent tears to her eyes. She didn’t want his pity or his kind words. That would destroy the carefully constructed image she had of herself as The Woman Who Could Do Anything.

Which in hindsight was a lie, too.

“How about we call it a day?” Vince stood and offered a hand to help her up, flashing that grin that’d gotten her into trouble a few weeks ago. “Pack your tools and let’s get out of here. First beer’s on me.”

Harley shook her throbbing head, pushing to her feet with the aid of the wall. “Thanks for the offer, but we both know that’s not happening.”

“No worries.” The grin disappeared and, just for a moment, she thought he looked disappointed. “But we are getting out of here. Pack up your tools. I’ll lock up.”

Agreeing with Vince that she’d finished for the day, Harley loaded her tools into a bucket and headed for the driveway where she’d left her tile saw. It’d been hot inside the house, but it was hotter outside in the sun. It beat down on her head as if its goal was to melt her out of existence.

Speaking of existence, the table she’d clamped the tile saw to had been upended. And dragged. And shoved half into the bushes.

“No. Oh, no.” Harley’s stomach fell and fell and fell, all the way to the pavement. Her bucket clattered next to it. She needed that saw to make a living.

She righted the saw, which was still plugged in, and turned it on. It ka-clunked a bunch of times and began smoking. She shut it off and stared at it, unable to move.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Vince approached her, carrying a bulky black tool bag. His eyes narrowed. “I wondered what all that racket was when he left.”

“Dan... He smashed it.” The same way he’d sort of smashed her.

“There are two things a man needs,” Vince said. “Pride and honor. This Dan has too much of one and none of the other.”

Harley nodded miserably.

Vince peered at the saw. “This is totaled. You sure you don’t want to press charges against your boyfriend?”

A weight dropped on Harley’s shoulders so hard and heavy she didn’t correct his presumption about Dan. “I... Can’t you fix it?” By tomorrow when she had to tile the outdoor kitchen? Vince was always fixing something for Jerry, their boss.

Vince set down his tool bag and examined her saw. “See those dents in the casing? When it collapses like that, parts inside get damaged.”

“I can’t afford a new one.” She’d gone from a starting architect’s salary to a tiler’s paycheck. And she’d just put a new truck transmission on her credit card.