Hard: A Step-Brother Romance

  HARD

  Copyright © 2015 by Sosie Frost

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  To My Husband...

  I can’t wait until you’re home!

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Teaser

  I’d planned to give an elaborate toast at my father’s wedding.

  It wouldn’t have been your normal father-daughter, weepy-eyed, get-Aunt-Jasmine-To-Sit-Her-Ass-Down-And-Stop-Taking-Pictures speech.

  This speech would have been epic. The kind of story passed generation-to-generation by offended, busybody cousins. It would have been angry enough to melt through five layers of lemon chiffon cream cake and so profane it’d ruin my soon-to-be-step-mother’s white wedding gown.

  It had metaphor. Imagery. Childhood anecdotes. Hell, I even gave citations.

  And I’d need three glasses of champagne and a shot of whiskey to get through it. But my father deserved to hear it.

  Every last word of it.

  I stared at the tumbler on the bar. The tiny glass filled with something harsh and necessary instead of bubbly and delicate. The bartender owed me a favor and cut me a break. I hadn’t asked for the good stuff, but she gave it to me. I slipped her a twenty for being cool. There’d be more money where that came from soon.

  I knocked the glass with my manicured tips. I even had my nails done for this circus.

  Served me right.

  “You got off lucky.” I raised the shot glass to the air. “If they only knew the real you, Dad.”

  At least my mourning blacks passed for scholarly, and the whiskey’s shallow confidence suppressed my bitterness. Most of it. After a long day of arrangements, phone calls, caterer confusion—yes, we could still serve cream puffs at a funeral, just send a server around with prayer cards too—I was done. Done planning. Done worrying. Just done.

  Especially with him.

  In actuality, I had two speeches.

  One congratulated Dad on his new life and wished him happiness even if he’d buy what he couldn’t earn.

  The other condemned him for running out on his family. It reminded him that when he left Momma, he also left me, and the past seven years without him were hard and terrible. Sure, he sent me money. And, yes, he brought me presents. But his wedding was the first time he wanted me in his life—and it was only so I could be part of his new family.

  I didn’t want to join his wife-to-be and her son in another glorious union or second chance.

  I was his first chance.

  And he blew it.

  Momma warned me about him, especially on my fifteenth birthday when I slid into the brand new Mercedes he bought for me. She said if he couldn’t remember how old I was, maybe accepting a present from a man more stranger than father was a bad idea.

  She was right, but we needed the car, even if she was too proud to accept it from the man who left her to raise a child with only an envelope stuffed with money for help. Still, she said she liked greeting Benjamin Franklin a lot more than Mr. Darnell Franklin.

  I wasn’t so sure, and now, they were both dead and buried. If I knew Momma, Heaven didn’t have a single nook or cranny where Dad could hide. She’d chase his ass from the holy throne to the pearly gates, and, when she got tired? Gran would be there with a rolled up Newsweek and a dog-chewed slipper to relieve her.

  Kinda made me sad to miss the festivities.

  I claimed a stool in the corner to avoid the early crowd and the eye of any loner who decided to take his chances. So when he settled beside me and ordered another round of whatever I was drinking, I readied my prepared response—a semi-casual back off with an apologetic smile.

  Then…I saw him.

  My defenses didn’t just crumble. They catastrophically failed. Sizzled up, fried to a crisp, and left everything in its wake a molten blend of excitement and bad decisions.

  “What are we celebrating?” He asked.

  Charm.

  That’s what he was.

  Just straight-up charm.

  A green-eyed, trouble-making, buzz-cut charmer who saddled up next to me with dimples that’d fool some poor girl’s momma and tattoos that’d worry her daddy.

  I knew the type. He wasn’t mine.

  But I’d drink if he offered.

  “I’m not celebrating.” The whiskey was my first mistake. Letting him flash those dimples was my second. Watching him flex an arm that nearly ripped the fabric of his t-shirt was my third. He would be the latest in a long line of regrets I planned to drink away. “I’m not really looking for company.”

  “Good.” He took a swig from his beer. “Me either.”

  I eyed the bar. Half a dozen empty seats were in peanut scattering distance. I nudged the bowl towards him, hoping he’d take the hint and pick one of the other spots.

  No such luck. He claimed the chair next to me.

  “Maybe we have a different definition of company,” I said.

  He winked at me. Actually winked.

  Craziest part was…I liked it.

  “I’m told I’m excellent eye-candy.”

  “Let me guess. You’re even better to suck on, right?”

  Charmer’s grin was too perfect and his dimples too tempting for someone pretending to be so innocent. He knew what he was after. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “Then you’re worse company than I thought,” I said. “Why should I let you stick around?”

  “Because a pretty girl like you shouldn’t drink alone.”

  I smirked. “And a proper lady doesn’t accept drinks from strangers.”

  “In that case…”

  He stood. Good Lord, Charmer was tall. And built. Damn. He was gorgeous. He leaned close just to showcase his muscle stacked upon muscles. He knew how to carry it too. He was no gym-rat, and he was nothing like the coarse frat boys pumping i
ron and cat-calling me on the treadmill while I studied for classes. He had a gift. He actually used his strength for something other than popping a vein in front of a mirror. And he wielded that power with a poise rivaled only by his confidence to flirt with a stranger at a bar.

  He motioned to shake my hand. “Let’s not be strangers.”

  I offered him my palm. My cocoa complexion clashed against his skin. He was calloused, rough, like he worked with his hands. At least mine looked decent, fixed up all pretty for a wedding-turned funeral. It beat the usual—my nails gnawed into nothing with finals anxiety and family drama.

  “Hi.” His voice melted like wax. “I’m Hard.”

  I reached for my purse. “And I’m outta here.”

  “No, wait!” He laughed, stepping in front of me. “I mean, I’m Zach Harden. But I go by Hard.”

  “Of course you do.”

  At least he owned up to it. “It’s just a nickname.”

  “Hopefully it serves you well in thirty years.”

  “Hasn’t failed me yet.”

  So he thought he was cute. He was right. But I had enough cute today. After I filled out the funeral director’s template obituary, I babysat two precocious flower girls whining about not getting to be in the wedding. They needed their hair re-braided as much as their bottoms smacked, but their mothers relented and let them pitch tissues at crying family members. Needless to say, my cuteness quota for the day was maxed.

  “Look, this has been fun…” I said.

  Zach didn’t let me go. “Finish your drink. You look like you could use it.”

  “And you better be careful with which way you’re lookin’.” I arched an eyebrow. “Last thing I need is someone telling me what to do right now. Not after the day I had.”

  “That so?”

  Oh, the pretty boy was testing me. Like my butt hadn’t been dragged from one end of town to the other trying to tie up my father’s loose ends. Change the flowers. Call the caterer. Find the will. Get the attorney. Dad only called me a month before the wedding to even tell me that he was getting married, the first time I talked to him in a year. Now I was the one responsible for finding the string quartet before they showed up to the hall and strummed up Brick House instead of Amazing Grace.

  And now green-eyed charmer—with a nickname that probably far exceeded his reputation—thought it was funny to tease me. Worse, he acted like he wanted to hear about my day.

  I wasn’t about to get consoled by a complete stranger while sitting in a bar where the Hairy Titty was the house drink. And I certainly wasn’t going to fall for his smile, no matter how genuine it seemed. Momma told me she was a fool for marrying Dad, but she wasn’t raising anyone to follow in her footsteps.

  “Come on,” Zach said. “Just hang for a bit.”

  It was a bad move, but I was tempted to sit. Heading home only made me nervous. I wasn’t in the mood to wallow in the few memories I had of Dad. Plus it was too hard to shed twenty-one accumulated years of guilt for holding a grudge against my father until the day he died. I never forgave him for leaving us, but he still managed to enroll me in the best schools, buy the supplies I needed, and deliver my first car.

  For a paternal ATM, he was awesome. For someone who should have been at home teaching me to drive that fancy car he ordered? Not so much.

  It was hard to hate a man who was never around, especially when he’d never be around again.

  Or maybe it was easy.

  I sat down and took the shot of whiskey. It wouldn’t do a damn thing to help me think, but at least drinking gave me a reason to not answer the cocky muscle-bound slice of Heaven who sat beside me.

  I stared into the tumbler. I was supposed to be giving a toast, not a eulogy.

  And, if we were being honest, I was supposed to be forgiving my father, not shrouding myself in anger for years of unspoken grievances and lost opportunities.

  “Wanna talk about it?” Zach had the decency to stare at the basketball game on the television. He sipped his beer.

  “With you?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t know you.” I shrugged. “Aside from a nickname overcompensating for a world of issues.”

  “Oh, there’s issues all right. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

  His nose was crooked, but I liked it. It meant he wasn’t totally perfect. He couldn’t have been much older than me, but he acted like it. Whoever called him Hard should have called him Brass Balls. He packed a lot of heat in those pants if he was trying to get up on me.

  Maybe he thought he was hot shit and could hit on some lonely girl in a bar. Well, I’d teach him a thing or two. My skin might have looked soft and mocha, but I was anything but smooth and tempting. And my cocky charmer? He should have opened his mouth just to insert his foot.

  “My father just died.”

  The sudden realization smacked the smirk off his face. I shot my drink and stared at the multi-colored array of bottles neatly arranged on the mirrored bar. The girl looking back at me—the little wannabe teacher with librarian glasses and a wave of ebony curls cascading over her back—didn’t hide the pain very well.

  “Sorry to hear that.” Zach nodded. “I know the feeling.”

  “I doubt it.” The empty glass was making me talk, but refilling it would spill way more than liquor. I tapped my nails over the rim. The rat-a-tat-tat revealed more than I liked. “He wasn’t a good father.”

  Zach didn’t flinch. “We should start a club. Did yours beat you?”

  “No, you have to hang around to beat your kids.”

  “Not if you had mine. He had a long enough reach.”

  Ouch. Zach shrugged it off.

  “It shouldn’t matter,” I said. “He’s dead, and the world didn’t stop turning. My life’s about to change. And I won’t miss him at all.”

  “Oh yeah?” Zach slipped a napkin across the bar-top. “Then why are you crying?”

  Damn it. I didn’t mean for the tears to slip out. I turned away to dab my cheeks. I hadn’t bothered with much makeup. Today was supposed to be the final fitting for my gown, and afterwards I planned to head to the salon for my hair and makeup before the rehearsal dinner. Whoops. I forgot to cancel the appointment.

  Christ, this was a mess.

  I was a mess.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Not my night.”

  “How can I make it better?”

  “Wow, you’re relentless.”

  “I can’t resist a good damsel in distress.”

  I waved a finger at him. “Let’s get one thing straight here, Mr. Hard.”

  He grinned. “Yes? Miss…?”

  “Shay.”

  “Yes, Miss Shay?”

  “I am no damsel in distress. And you, sir, are no prince charming.”

  “Never said I was.” Two dangerously wholesome dimples framed Zach’s smile. “But I might be the guy who’d tie you to the train tracks, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  He was a piece of work. He was a piece of something else too, but I decided to be a lady and keep that particular insult clenched in my teeth.

  “Unless you’re packing a magic wand in those jeans—” I held a hand up before he dared to comment. “And you can reverse time to give me back these last two days, I’m not interested. So you can move along now, Hard.”

  “And leave you to drink alone in a time of mourning?” He ordered another round. “Not gonna happen, Shay.”

  He said my name like he plucked the ice from my glass, sucked it over his tongue, then lapped a path up my neck. He cast shivers in all the right places, and that was absolutely nothing I should have imagined in the sweltering Atlanta evening.

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”

  “Then why don’t you keep me company instead?”

  His hands curled over his beer, large and strong. Whatever he did for a living wasn’t what I planned to do with chalk, finger-paints, and a roomful of sticky first graders.

 
The thick, bulging muscles in his arms gave me goosebumps, and the tight t-shirt strapped over his broad chest flaunted his perfect assets. He was every bit the Southern treat that would tempt me in all the wrong ways. Guys like him would keep me from transferring from Georgia State to NYU, like I planned to do for the past two years.

  Muscles or not, those plans were on hold. Dad’s car accident complicated everything.

  Zach said nothing else. I let him tease me into the question.

  “Why would you need company?” I asked.

  “I just got a letter about seeing some attorney. Legal stuff.”

  I eyed the coiling, barbed line of tattoos decorating his arm. The dark bands of ink merged into a rippling American flag, peeking from under his sleeve.

  “You don’t seem the legal type,” I said.

  “Nah, not really.”

  “So what is your type?”

  Zach’s grin confirmed it for me. Apparently, he liked them young, quiet, and mocha. Not what I was asking. “What I mean is…you don’t seem like an attorney.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No way. You’re not a…” My voice trailed off. Uh-oh, was I staring at his muscles? “You’re not a behind the desk sort of guy.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m military.”

  No wonder he was built. I swallowed and thought my tongue went with it.

  “SEAL, actually,” he said.

  “Seal?” My eyes widened. “Oh! A Navy SEAL?”

  “Yeah. On leave for a bit.” He took another swig. “Gotta take care of this legal stuff. Deal with family. You know how it is.”

  Oh, Charmer was more than some cocksure college kid. Much, much more.

  Damn it, I wanted to just sit in the quiet for a while and feel sorry for myself. Somehow I found the one guy who not only wanted to talk, he actually seemed to understand. I sighed. The rest of my week was already trashed. No reason to not ruin tonight as well. I flagged the bartender.

  “Another round,” I said. “No sense for us to hate our fathers alone.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  The glasses clinked, celebrating our impending regrets.