“Brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it?” Nick Kelley slapped him on the back as they stood on the fringes of the rally taking place on the steps of the old gazebo in Overlook Park, the large, grassy gathering space that gave Park Heights its name.

“Until I look at that steely glint in hers and know she’s cooking up her special brand of crazy.”

“Which we all love and admire,” Nick quickly added.

Fender Blackstone smiled at his brother but was prevented from saying anything further as their mother took the podium in the gazebo. Louisa Mills—a.k.a. Mama Lou to him and his brothers and, over time, half the neighborhood—was running for Brooklyn borough president. She’d faltered a bit earlier in the summer, nearly ending her run, but a well-placed talking-to had put her back to rights.

Even without the near worshipful love he and his brothers felt for her, Fender knew his mother would be good for the borough. The continued growth and development—the renaissance that had defined Brooklyn for the past decade—needed someone who understood the new as well as the importance of preserving the old. Progress didn’t mean abandoning your roots, and no one understood that better than Louisa Mills.

So here they were. Summer was in full swing, the dog days of August now upon them, and Brooklyn was as hot and steamy as any summer he could remember. If it were only the weather, Fender would shake it off and move on, but he was restless, too.

Maybe it was only natural. Between his mother’s political run and his brothers’ deep dives into the waters of commitment, a lot had changed over the past few months. Nick had hooked up with Emma Vandenburg, the two of them already planning a wedding in the spring. And Landon had surprised them all on the Fourth of July with some fireworks of his own with the very sexy detective, Daphne Rossi.

Their relationship had somehow survived the reappearance of Landon’s birth mother and the machinations of Louisa’s one and only enemy. And with the ring Landon had flashed him the night before still glittering in his mind’s eye, there was more change still to come.

Nick’s shoulder bump pulled Fender from his thoughts. “Here comes her big finish. She cornered Emma and me last night and practiced this one over and over.”

Fender let his mellow thoughts fade as his mother’s voice washed over him. As she spoke of Brooklyn’s future, he couldn’t help but wonder about his own.

He was a rolling stone. He loved his family and he’d do anything for them, but he wasn’t a settle - down - and - get - hitched sort of person. That was for people with a plan. And beyond running his auto body shop with an honest hand and keeping an eye toward a kick-ass vacation each year, Fender planned very little.

Plans were also for people who hadn’t grown up in Dysfunction Junction. His father was a bastard of the first order, and in the ten short years they’d spent together, Trent Blackstone had laid down a rather firm foundation. Key to that was to always have an exit strategy.

Fender didn’t need one from his family because they were all more than capable of taking care of themselves.

But start a family of his own? Well now, that was real, honest-to-God commitment. The sort you didn’t run from. And since he couldn’t guarantee what he’d do when his back was up against the wall, he’d opted out. No use in dragging someone else into your lifelong dysfunction.

He might not be a planner, but he was a pragmatist.

“And that’s why I’m running for Brooklyn borough president. In unity, there is strength!”

Nick’s piercing whistle six inches from his head eradicated whatever Fender had been thinking as he keyed back into the closing notes of his mother’s speech. Her last nod to Brooklyn’s motto was nicely done, and the crowd was cheering as loudly as his brother.

“They love her.” Nick’s gaze roamed over the crowd before he drew his fingers to his lips and launched into another ear splitter.

Fender lifted his hands to clap again when something caught his attention. The merest flash of color, yet vivid enough to catch the eye. Curious, he shifted his full attention, his gaze alighting on Harlow Reynolds. Her bright sleeveless dress was the color of a tangerine, which should have been weird, but instead looked amazing stretched over firm, high breasts and nipped in above the small, sexy curve of her hips. He finished the quick catalog of assets. Her long legs, gorgeous in their own right, were finished off by about four inches of ice-pick heels that made a man grateful for the female form.

The heels were the same shade as the dress—who knew you could even buy that color?—but it was the subtle smile when his gaze alighted back on hers that had him doing a true double take.

They’d met once before, a result of his idiotic idea to go barging into her turf to force her to deal with her mother, Gretchen, who had interfered with Louisa’s campaign and life earlier in the summer. He hadn’t been prepared for Harlow’s quick and ready agreement to deal with the problem.

He’d been even less prepared for the instant gut check of attraction that had nearly dragged him to his knees. After one ill-considered attempt to call her a few weeks ago, he’d buried her business card in the bottom of his wallet. His fingers had itched to pull it out a few times, but he’d ignored the urge, leaving the card buried.

The memories of her husky voice, on the other hand, had gripped him in a fever that still hadn’t let go.

With Louisa’s speech at an end, the crowd began moving. Nick had already headed for the stage, but Fender used the crush to hang back, curious to see what Harlow Reynolds would do next.

And he ignored that kick in the gut when she began to walk toward him.

* * *

She’d dressed carefully, the summer orange selected for both its bold impression and subtle friendliness. Her mother had made a shocking mess of things, and Harlow was determined to make things right.

She avoided the urge to run a hand over her stomach in a ploy to smooth her dress, thereby soothing the raging dragons that had taken up residence beneath her skin. She refused to show weakness, even as she knew any movement that gave a man a reason to return his gaze to your figure was worth trying. Somehow, Fender Blackstone seemed above the cheap tricks.

He’d already made it abundantly evident that he knew what she looked like. Where it might have been lascivious—or even just rude—his gaze had been neither. It had been warm. Appreciative. And so very hungry.

She’d seen it from the first. She enjoyed male attention as much as the next woman, but the sheer heat she’d seen in his gaze the moment he’d stepped into her gallery in Midtown a few weeks back had stopped her cold. There was an urgency there—and a subtle promise that nothing about the man was simple or easy.

What had been even more complex than the man standing in front of her had been the news he’d shared: Her mother still harbored a grudge over her father’s infidelities from nearly a quarter century before and was determined to make a mess of others’ lives.

One life in particular: Her father’s former paramour, Louisa Mills.

While Harlow hadn’t been ready to cut the woman much slack—she’d made and slept in that bed after all—she couldn’t shake the impressions she’d formed after doing some internet deep diving. Whatever had led Louisa Mills into a relationship with her father seemed to be a one-time occurrence. After reading a few articles on the woman herself, as well as several about her NFL-bound son, in which she was mentioned, it was easy to see that her reputation in the vibrant Brooklyn community of Park Heights was stellar. And the three men she’d raised since adopting them as boys were a huge part of that.

Whatever youthful recklessness had driven Louisa into a relationship with Harlow’s father seemed to have vanished under the weight of adult responsibility and a parent’s love.

Which only made her own mother’s behavior that much harder to manage, Harlow thought as she took in the bright campaign signs and milling crowd of supporters.

Harlow had spent the past month hell-bent on doing something about Gretchen Reynolds’s behavior and hopelessly out of her league as to what, exactly, she should do. When her Google Alert had pinged that morning with news about the political rally in Overlook Park, she’d decided to take the bull by the horns. She owed Louisa Mills a sizeable apology and the firm reassurance that her mother wasn’t going to make any further trouble.

That Fender was here was an added bonus. And made it worth the time she’d taken in choosing her outfit for the day. Pasting on the same smile she reserved for wealthy patrons at the gallery, she walked over to greet him.

She’d be calm and cool. Pleasant.

If she could just get past her own personal version of Game of Thrones and the damned insistent beat of dragon wings that had taken over her midsection.

She closed the gap between them and layered on her most professional smile. One she’d practiced for years. “Hi.”

“Hello.” The deep voice rolled over her skin like warm honey, and Harlow fought the subtle urge to swoon in the heat. The man was lethal. She remembered her reaction to him of course, but had somehow convinced herself that her memory was faulty, and that no man could possibly have a voice as sexy and seductive as Fender Blackstone’s.

Oh how wrong she’d been.

“It’s nice to see you again, Fender.”

Something bright and warm settled in his gaze, those green eyes appreciative as they charted a course over her face.

She’d been studied before and knew what it was to be stared at. The sensation was odd—and often discomfiting—but it had never before left her with a breathless sensation, while warmth pooled low in her belly.

Attraction?

That seemed too simple a word.

Raw animal magnetism, maybe?

Since that seemed a bit extreme, she attempted to ignore all of it and forced herself to push forward in spite of his evaluating silence. “Your mother certainly has a strong fan base. It’s easy to see why she’s the favored candidate.”

“You follow Brooklyn politics?”

“No, but I do follow your family.”

“Oh?”

The subtle cooling in his gaze, coupled with the stiffening of his shoulders, had her reassessing the situation. There was attraction there, yet it dimmed immediately at a perceived threat to his family.

“Once I understood the depth of my mother’s recent behavior, I figured it would be wise to educate myself on past events. She is my mother, and while I’ll admit she can be brittle at times, she’s not a bad person.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you harbor the same grudge?”

Harlow knew it would be easy to blame the woman on the podium for her family’s dysfunction, but had learned long ago how to view her childhood through the proper lens. “No, I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’d like to offer your mother my support.”

“The Reynolds influence extends to Brooklyn?”

That urge to smooth her hands over her stomach struck her once more, but she held them stubbornly clasped at her waist. “I’m not quite sure I’d have put it in those terms, but yes, I suppose it does.”

Fender was prevented from responding by the arrival of his brother, Nick. Harlow recognized the man from the photos she’d seen online, and quickly catalogued what she knew. He was the third brother, one of three boys Louisa Mills had adopted shortly after her relationship with Harlow’s father had gone south. A former NFL player, he now owned a popular bar in Park Heights and was engaged to be married to the owner of a Brooklyn brewery.

That tidbit had pinged in one of her Google Alerts as well.

He was an attractive man, with the large, impressive physique one expected from a professional athlete. He was an interesting physical complement to his brothers. She’d met Landon McGee along with Fender when they’d both paid a visit to her gallery the previous month. Tall and lanky, there was a strength in Landon that became obvious the longer you looked at him. A strength that was as physical as it was mental.

And then there was Fender.

An odd name for an even more unusual man. She understood the appeal of the bad boy, even if she’d never ventured into those choppy seas herself. She had several friends who’d tried their hand with those who ran well outside the rarified air of the Upper East Side. Most had grown bored; a few had ended up with bruised hearts. None had managed to keep the relationship going.

And clearly she’d spent a few too many lunchtime internet sessions fantasizing about the man she’d met a few weeks back in her office if the word relationship was even whispering through her mind.

Fender made the introductions, the warm welcoming light in Nick’s vivid blue eyes fading at her name. “What brings you to Brooklyn?”

“As I told Fender, I’m here to lend my support.” Harlow eyed the crowd that still lingered and the line that stretched out before Louisa, waiting to speak with her. “Although it looks like she’s doing an amazing job on her own.”

“She is.” Whatever jovial warmth had carried Nick over was gone, even as he maintained a politely bland smile.

If she hadn’t been standing so close she’d likely have missed it, but the shift in Nick’s demeanor seemed to do something to Fender’s. His wariness vanished, and he turned toward his brother, a world of information flashing in his green eyes. “Harlow and I were just leaving.”

“Sure.” Nick nodded, his own thoughts burning like fire in his eyes. “See you later.”

Nick left as fast as he arrived, and Harlow was left alone with Fender. A cocky smile edged up one corner of his mouth. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for lunch.”

* * *

He needed to get back to the shop. The Corvette he had up on the rack still needed its suspension fixed, and the owner paid well to avoid a wait.

But he was damned if he could muster the urge to head back when the light scent of flowers wafted toward him. Fender had no idea what kind—he could pick out roses and that was about it—but she smelled like the whole damn flower shop. With something else lurking just beneath. Something sexy and confident that made his stomach muscles tighten and his mind immediately drift to heated images of tangled sheets.

That scent was alluring and unique and elusive in the thick summer air that barely swirled around them. He’d suggested meatball subs, and she’d agreed, so here they were, moving down the avenue that edged the south side of the park at a rapid clip.

Meatball subs?

What the hell was he thinking? This woman was Park Avenue and art galleries and French food. Not some greasy sub (albeit a delicious one) loaded with mozzarella and provolone.

“A neighborhood favorite?” Harlow asked as he swung open the door at Gino’s. If he had to guess, Fender would estimate he’d eaten roughly a thousand meals in his life inside Gino’s, and it wasn’t until that moment that he actually looked around.

The booths were scarred, their red vinyl peeling away to reveal stuffing, or covered over with tape. There was a photo on the wall of Nixon eating at one of the Formica tables. That same table still bore a faded brass plaque announcing the president’s lunch date, a few short months before Watergate broke.

It was shabby. Working class. Dated.

Everything Harlow Reynolds wasn’t.

That the thought even drifted through his mind, let alone rested there for a few seconds, pissed him off. She wasn’t any better than him, nor was he ashamed of where he came from.

So why did he suddenly have the urge to rethink lunch all together?

“Fender?” Her smile never wavered, but something shimmered beneath the pretty cornflower blue of her eyes. Questions?

No, he thought. Answers. There were answers in her eyes, and he was afraid to look at them too closely.

Shaking his head, he keyed back into the conversation. “Sorry. Yeah. This place is a favorite.”

“So how about that meatball sub you promised me?”

“They have other choices. Salads. Sand—”

Harlow’s eye roll stopped him. “Why would I come into a place that smells this heavenly and order a salad?”

As if to prove her point, she marched up to the counter, her smile bright for Gino. “My friend here tells me you make a killer meatball sub.”

“I do pretty lady. What do you want on it?”

“Extra provolone and extra sauce.”

“Coming up.” Gino reached over and laid a large withered hand over hers before shooting Fender a look. “The usual?”

“Of course.”

Harlow had already laid her free hand over Gino’s, a gentle touch for an old man. “What’s the usual, Blackstone?”

“Same as you. Only I get mozzarella on the second layer of cheese instead of provolone.”

“You’ll do.” With a hard nod, she turned back to Gino. “I’ll order one more before I leave. I left my coworker to take an early lunch, and she’ll kill me if I come back smelling so delicious.”

“A little thing like you?” Gino’s eyebrows wiggled. “You’ll be taking half yours back to share.”

Harlow laughed then, her voice low and husky. “Don’t bet on it.”

She exchanged a few more pleasantries with Gino before following Fender to the drink station and then on to their table.

“This place really does smell heavenly.” She glanced around, shooting a smile toward Gino’s grandson, who was showboating with several high twirls of pizza dough behind the counter.

“I think what you’re smelling is nearly fifty years of meatballs, pizza sauce, and grease. Gino’s is the heartbeat of the neighborhood.” Fender’s voice came out gruffer than he planned, even as the idea of planting his fist in the middle of Dominick’s face presented a tantalizing image.

“I thought your mother’s house was the heartbeat of the neighborhood.”

Harlow’s comment brought him up short, and he gave her his full attention, Dominick and his pizza dough twirling forgotten. “How would you know that?”

“I ask questions. I also know how to Google. Your mother has quite a reputation.”

Something uncomfortable settled in his gut. He’d believed his mother well past the intrusions of the Reynolds family, especially after Harlow’s mother’s bad behavior earlier in the summer. Was it possible she was just a pretty diversion, continuing the attack from a closer position?

Gretchen Reynolds had already sent his mother any number of threatening notes, then followed it up with an actual robbery of his brother’s business in an attempt to get her hands on the servers hosting his mother’s campaign for borough president. It had only been the full recovery of everything taken, as well as the promise that it was an unfortunate mistake, that had kept them from taking legal action.

Had they been too hasty?

“Are you spying on my family?”

“Are Google Alerts spying?”

“They are if you use them to nose around.”

Harlow took a sip of her water before facing him full on. “Then maybe I am spying.”

He was a quick study. He’d had to be, growing up with Trent Blackstone as a father. Add on a surprising set of smarts that he let few see, and it made for an ability to outthink most situations.

But there was no outthinking Harlow Reynolds.

Something about the woman had cratered his brain the first moment he saw her, and he hadn’t fully recovered.

In a move reminiscent of Gino’s, she stretched her arm across the table, laying her palm over the back of his hand. “I don’t mean anything nefarious, nor do I wish you or your family any harm. But I am intrigued.”

“Why?”

“Look at it from my point of view.”

“I am. And all I can see is a woman trying to help her scheming mother.”