Fender tossed his wadded up napkin in a nearby trash can as he and Harlow walked off their dinner through Central Park. She’d surprised him by suggesting hot dogs off a cart—who knew the woman could down two chili dogs like a champ?—and had succeeded once again in catching him absolutely and completely off guard.

“You’re suspiciously quiet. Which makes me think I succeeded in boring you senseless over art.”

He looked at her as they strolled. “I’m not bored. Not even close.”

“You liked it?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But I did like the Egyptian thing.”

“We could have left sooner. Although I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that your quiet disdain for art is sort of a turn-on.”

Surprised morphed to shock. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It sort of completes the bad-boy triumvirate. I’m only human, you know.”

He grinned at the description. “The bad boy triumvirate?”

“The worn jeans and black T-shirt that shows off killer biceps. The surly, smoldering looks. And the hatred of art. It’s hot. But I suspect you already know that.”

Know that?

How the hell would he know that? Or that describing what she did for a living as boring and uninteresting was even polite, let alone a sexual turn-on?

“You’ve lost me.”

“Nope. I don’t buy that.”

“Why not?”

“You seriously don’t know that you’re hot? Like eight women have nearly fallen over in our winding path through the park. I swear one mentioned to her friend that you were ‘eminently fuckable.’ And one sighed. Actually sighed.”

Heat fired beneath his skin, licking a path up his face. “No one said that.”

“Hand to God.” She slammed a palm against her chest. “You really didn’t hear any of that?”

“No.”

She shook her head. “Dear, sweet, clueless man.”

“Well what about you? Every man who’s passed by has ogled your chest and your legs.”

“Because both are, to borrow that oh-so-classy turn of phrase, eminently fuckable.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I’d say get eminently fucked, but I’m not sure that’s what you mean.” Harlow slowed before turning toward him, the smile fading from her face. “Even if we both know that’s where we’re headed.”

“Are we?”

“I know so. And so do you.”

He did know. Had known it—at least for himself—from the moment she’d walked out of her gallery office the prior month to greet him and Landon. “So what are we going to do about it? Because nothing about you is easy, Harlow. Neither is this situation.”

“Not in the least.”

“And while I normally don’t bring my mother into any discussion of sex, she’s a part of this.”

“Just like my parents.” A small smile tipped her lips. “And for the record, I normally don’t bring them up when contemplating sex, either.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“Maybe we just consider today a success and leave it at that?”

“Today’s a success?”

“Still clueless.” She shook her head and managed to land a swift, surprisingly effective smack against the side of his head. “You telling me I’m a bad date?”

“No.”

“Then yeah, today was a success. It might be an even bigger success if you asked me to dinner this week.”

They might not be doing anything “eminently,” but she wanted to see him again. This did little for his immediate discomfort, but it went a long way toward kicking his anticipation of what was to come into high gear.

Ratcheting that need down to an anticipatory simmer, he couldn’t resist teasing her. “You’re still thinking about food after mowing through two chili dogs like a longshoreman?”

Delicate eyebrows lifted over those vivid blue eyes. “You want the truth or a polite lie?”

“I told you I don’t lie. I don’t expect them in return.”

“Then I could go for a third.”

Despite the tension and sexual frustration that gripped his body even thinking about the woman—a state that had grown nearly torturous being so close to her for the last several hours—he felt something inside ease up. It was light and airy, and if he were a fanciful man, he might call it joy.

“Harlow, would you like to go to dinner this week?”

“I’d love to.”

“We can figure out where as we walk.”

“Where are we walking to?” she asked, easily taking the hand he held out to her.

“We’re going to go get you another chili dog.”

* * *

The scent of pancakes greeted Harlow as she walked into the Park Heights Community Center. She’d struggled to fall asleep the night before, her mind whirling with the events of the day.

And how unexpected it had all been.

The morning spent with her mother and brother had left her frustrated and slightly disillusioned. And then, as if she’d conjured him up, Fender had called and changed the entire day for the better.

Their quiet jaunt through a lazy Sunday, from the coffee shop to the museum to the park. Even with the tense awareness of him and the wondering about what it all meant, the day had been fun.

Easy.

And more special than she could have ever imagined.

He’d been willing to discuss any manner of subjects, from the mundane to the deeply serious. Their discussion of the affair between her father and Louisa Mills had been an interesting one, and he’d given her perspective that she hadn’t had before.

The fact was, his mother—a woman who by all accounts had made something of her life that was good, and noble, and responsible—had made a terrible error in judgment. He’d been honest in admitting that it bothered him, yet equally honest in expressing why he could and would move past it.

Harlow had secretly—in her innermost heart of hearts—thought herself somewhat noble for forgiving her father for his indiscretions. Yet Fender had positioned it in a way that not only made more sense, but took the burden off of her. Off of the notion of the entire situation being solely about forgiveness.

It was okay to be upset. To wish the person you loved had behaved better. And it was okay to still love them in spite of the flaw.

Which made her trip to Park Heights that much more necessary.

Around two A.M. she’d finally given in and accepted sleep was going to prove elusive. So she’d clicked into one of those Google links she’d been diligently avoiding, looking to see where she might begin the trip to acceptance. It would also give her a chance to make the apology she’d intended on earlier in the week, at the rally in the park.

The one that had been interrupted by her meatball-sub lunch with Fender.

Louisa was speaking at a breakfast at the community center, and for a nominal fee of three dollars, you could add pancakes, sausage, and coffee to the proceedings. Harlow did just that, quietly picking up breakfast for the elderly couples behind her, and found a seat in the back. The crowd was large, and Harlow quickly realized their excitement went well beyond a surprisingly hearty breakfast.

Louisa was a well-loved speaker. Her tales of growing up in Park Heights, the way the community had kept its roots yet spread its wings with growth and development, were a hit. Add in a few well-placed stories about her boys that were particular favorites, and she held the audience enraptured.

To her surprise, by the end Harlow was enraptured, too.

There was no question that Louisa was well able to do the job. What was even more clear was just how much she wanted the opportunity to do the work. She had plans, from road paving, to borough-wide intramural programs for at-risk teens, to an idea that particularly captivated Harlow—a pilot program at a local elderly care facility that would include a preschool.

By the end, Harlow was on her feet with the rest of the crowd and looked forward to her turn to speak with the candidate.

She helped a few of the volunteers clean up the breakfast plates before they gathered up the tablecloths for washing before the next event. The action helped calm her nerves, and gave her something to do while waiting for the large crowd to slim down.

And then finally it was her turn. All the plates had been tossed and the coffee cups emptied in the sink, and there wasn’t anything holding her back.

“Louisa?”

“Yes?” A soft smile played across Louisa’s face, drooping only slightly when she made the connection. “Harlow?”

“Yes.” Harlow extended a hand, receiving a warm clasp in return. “Harlow Reynolds.”

“I didn’t see you here.”

“I came in just before you started. I was in the back.”

“I hope it was okay.”

Okay? The comment was genuine and Harlow wondered if the woman truly understood the magic she’d woven over the crowd.

Over her.

“Your speech was inspired, and I love your ideas.”

“I’d like to get them off the ground. Even if the election doesn’t go in my favor, I think I’ve got enough support on some of those to push for them.”

“The preschool is my favorite.”

Louisa’s face lit up. “Mine, too. I saw how Emily thrived as my boys grew up, and how good it was for all of them. Then recently I saw an article about a pilot program in the Pacific Northwest—” She broke off on a small, wry smile. “I could keep going on and on, but think I may be overlooking the bigger point. I understand you met Emily Weston the other night.”

“Oh yes. She’s a character.”

“And then some.” Louisa gestured her toward one of the front tables. “And she thought you were something special. She hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

“I enjoyed Friday night and meeting her. Meeting all your family.” The reality of why she was there suddenly hung between them. “I’ve owed you a visit for a few weeks now. Ever since my mother decided to interfere with your election.”

Louisa’s focus shifted to a point on the back wall of the community room before she seemed to come to some conclusion. Her gaze was direct and unwavering when she finally spoke. “Your mother is entitled to her anger. I’m sorry she’s felt the need to express it now, but she’s entitled to it.”

“That’s awfully understanding of you. More than she deserves, really.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I made a poor choice. One a lot of people, including yourself, have had to live with.”

The thoughts that had kept Harlow company shifted once more. Between her understanding martyrdom of silent forgiveness and the freewheeling live-and-let-live attitude she’d resolved herself to in the middle of the night, Harlow realized that maybe there was a middle ground.

Simple acceptance.

Although something had been pulling her toward this moment for a while, she hadn’t been entirely sure what a conversation with Fender’s mother would entail. Would some long-buried anger work its way to the surface? Or would Louisa’s own frustration and embarrassment become something she’d use to lash out with?

Much to Harlow’s relief, neither had happened. Instead, there was just healing conversation over coffee.

“It was a long time ago. I’d like to think my life has more definition and meaning than something that happened when I was a child.”

“It certainly seems to.” Louisa’s gaze drifted away once more before coming back, as she seemed to steel herself to speak. “I was very sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I know it’s been many years, but it’s a painful thing to lose someone you love.”

Once again, emotion rushed Harlow, this time shifting her so hard it nearly upended her before she slowly righted herself. And in the quiet aftermath, she realized something else.

Whether the love was ill advised or not, the day her father died, Louisa Mills had lost someone too.

“Thank you. He was always so much larger than life that it was a shock when it happened.”

“It was a heart attack?”

“Yes. It was massive and not something he’d have recovered well from, if at all.” Harlow thought back on those days—at the news that had been delivered in the hospital lobby by a well-meaning surgical resident. At the questions she’d finally had the courage to ask her own physician the following fall during her annual physical.

And the acceptance through the grief she’d finally found a few years later, when the pain wasn’t quite so choppy or the reality quite so difficult to comprehend.

“He wasn’t a man who would have handled being an invalid very well,” Louisa said.

“No.” Harlow smiled at the thought. “Not him.”

“I am sorry for it.” Something relaxed in the stiff set of Louisa’s spine and Harlow felt hers relax in kind.

“Thank you.” Harlow wanted to say more, yet held back. It was enough that Louisa had asked. It had to be enough.

And then, as if she understood it was enough, Louisa shifted the conversation once again. “I understand you have a gallery in the city?”

“I do.” They spent the next few minutes talking about some of Harlow’s recent shows before the conversational sands shifted yet again.

“Since we seem to have come to some sort of understanding here, maybe you’ll indulge me for a moment.”

“Indulge you?” Harlow asked. “For what?”

“Let’s talk about my Fender.”

* * *

Fender tapped a hand against his thigh as he reached for a wrench with his other hand. The underside of the Buick above him was a mess when he’d started, but he’d have Mrs. Zartman’s Regal purring before he was done with it. Even if the woman had avoided coming in for maintenance for a good year.

He shuddered to think of her barreling through traffic on the Belt Parkway in the car’s previous state, but except for warning her not to let her car get into the same condition again, there was precious little he could do about it. Other than the occasional outreach to someone’s children suggesting that their parent shouldn’t be driving any longer, he had no say in what happened once they drove off his lot.

Someone had left the radio on a country station, and while he was a rock-and-roll man himself, he easily hummed along to a Brett Eldredge tune. Brett had just finished crooning about Illinois and Brad Paisley had started on the great impact of a lone beer can when something tugged on Fender’s foot.

“Yo, Fend!”

Nick’s voice echoed down to him, loud but muted by the two thousand pounds of metal over his head. “Give me a sec!”

He made the last few twists with the wrench, satisfied he was leaving the Buick in a shape nearly as good as when she came off the line, and pushed himself and the dolly out from beneath the car.

His brother stood over him, a heap of man in a gray three-piece suit.

“Look at you. Snazzy as a Sunday churchgoer.”

“I had calls this morning.” Nick looked every inch the businessman he’d become. Between his investment in and subsequent work with at the End Zone, and his recent purchase of the Unity Brewery, the big kid who’d grown into an even bigger football player had become an adult. A bona fide player in Park Heights and, if Fender knew his brother’s ambition, well beyond.

“What brings you by?”

“Rumors.”

Fender didn’t miss the dark look that rode Nick’s eyes or the stiff set of his shoulders beneath the mile of Italian silk. “Office?”

“Yep.”

Fender tugged a rag from his back pocket and wiped off his hands as they walked. Pointing toward his office door, he beelined for the sink. “I’ll be right in.”

In moments, he’d scrubbed off most of the residue of Mrs. Zartman’s Regal and headed for his office. When Nick closed the door behind him, something hard settled deep in his chest. “What’s going on?”

“Your father’s back in town.”

Whatever Fender had been expecting—and quite a few things had run through his head in the past thirty seconds, including illness, death, and the possibility something highly unlikely had happened between Nick and Emma—the mention of his father wasn’t remotely on the list. “What?”

“Chili called me a little while ago. Said he’d heard it from an acquaintance that Trent was back in town and looking for some work.”

Fender was well aware his father’s definition of work didn’t pass the usual pressure test. Although the man was a great mechanic, the pay had always been beneath his dreams, so he’d turned to leg breaking, petty theft, and the occasional drug run to augment his income. “Fuck.”

“I thanked Chili for the heads-up. He said you should call him if you needed anything.”

Chili Samuels, Nick’s personal champion and the former owner of the bar that had become the End Zone, had moved to Florida around the same time he’d sold to Nick. Although not a leg breaker himself, Chili had always maintained a base relationship with the less-savory elements of Park Heights. He’d managed and run a business that stayed off their radar, yet sustained a sort of equanimity with the neighborhood’s thugs.

Nick had managed the same, albeit with a bit more polish than his predecessor. But it was always a solid reminder when the distance from respectable bar owner to town thug was pointed out.

“When did he get back?” Fender asked.

“Chili didn’t know. Said he could look into it if you wanted, but I told him to hold off until I could talk to you.”

“Thanks. Yeah. Good call.”

“You okay?”

It would be easy to dismiss the question with a shrug and a sneer—but this was Nick. His brother. And a man who’d grown up under the same shadow of fists and bruises, condemnation and abuse. Nick’s had taken the form of an asshole with fists whose problems lived in the bottom of a bottle.

While the outcome had been the same, Fender’s had carried the extra layer of criminal element. His father was small-time, but he was mean as a snake and, Fender suspected, equally lethal if crossed. To this day Fender didn’t know for certain if the old man had killed anyone, but if he had to bet on it, he’d side in the cardinal-sin column.

“Why do you think he’s back?”

“I don’t know.” Nick stilled for a moment. “A lot of his old associates are gone. Goldfish died a few years ago and Boneyard bit it even before your old man left. Sonny “Lemons” is still in prison and Joe Tortoricci seems to have gone straight since he’s been out on parole. We can check with Cade or Daphne on that.”

It was a good call on Nick’s part that would leave Chili out of the middle of things. Daphne’s brother, Cade, had run vice for over a decade for the NYPD out of the same precinct as Daphne. Cade would know the score.

“It’s a good start, but geez, do you hear yourself?” Fender was the last person who should make fun of a name, but Goldfish and Boneyard and the inimitable Sonny “Lemons,” who had gotten the name on account of the fact that his shitty—and criminal—personality was the exact opposite of the sun or anything that remotely smacked of freshness. “Those names? The backgrounds and the rap sheets each one of them has or had? Shit.”

His office was too small to pace—especially with someone else in it—but Fender stood up anyway, unable to sit. He’d built something, damn it. Had moved on and built a life, and a business, and a future for himself.

What the fucking hell was Trent Blackstone doing back, right in the middle of it all?

And just like that, the leisurely Sunday he’d spent with Harlow filled his mind’s eye, a sheet of ice spreading through his body like frostbite.

He couldn’t expose her to this. Couldn’t take the risk his father might find out about her.

“Fend? You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m great.”

Fucking swell.

The fears he’d harbored over a crappy past and a long-dead relationship between his mother and her father seemed like the least of his problems. If Trent Blackstone got a load of the classy woman with the killer legs and Upper East Side pedigree, he’d never go back to the hole he crawled out of.

Ever.