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  For Holly Ingraham.

  For everything.

  “It is rare that one can see in a little boy the promise of a man, but one can almost always see in a little girl the threat of a woman.”

  —Alexandre Dumas

  Prologue

  Throughout his youth, Fender Blackstone wondered how an eldest son carried his father’s name. For families where love shone bright and true, he suspected it was an honor—a torch to keep burning through all the years ahead. But for the child of an abuser and an all-around bastard, carrying the old man’s last name was torture. A steady reminder of all that was expected of you. Or wasn’t.

  His own entrance into the world had been met with little fanfare—unless a bender with a case of beer gifted by the old man’s buddies down at the auto body shop where he’d worked could be considered auspicious. Trent Blackstone had approached fatherhood the way he treated the rest of his life. With a sneer and a bad attitude.

  But it was the name, Fender marveled, that had been the clincher throughout his youth. He might have carried the Blackstone surname, but his first name—the one the entire neighborhood whispered about—was all his own. Named for the job his father had worked the same afternoon he was born, Fender carried the knowledge, sure and true, that his old man had given him as much thought as a car part. And as he grew and gained a deeper knowledge of his sire, Fender could only be grateful for that fact.

  Of course, he’d had little gratitude while walking that path. His mother had checked out around his second birthday, never to be seen or heard from again. Her absence had resulted in the continuation of the benders his father was so fond of, as well as a solid fist a few times a week.

  “Toughens a man, my boy.”

  His father had been equally fond of that turn of phrase, using it to excuse any number of sins. To his credit—and Fender gave very little—the old man had been pleased when the repeated “lessons” resulted in fewer and fewer tears. By the time he was ten years old, Fender could take a punch with the best of them, shake it off, and move on.

  What he’d never experienced—nor could he shake off quite so lightly—was a hug. Tight and strong, with just enough muscle to hold him in place yet not nearly so tight as to feel threatening. Mama Lou had seen to it he learned new lessons.

  She’d marched into his life in unexpected fashion—her stumble near the school playground one bright afternoon, which caught his attention, along with that of his friends, Nick and Landon. They’d been doing their usual litany of trash talk and defensive planning for their upcoming soccer game when the pretty lady with sad eyes dropped her dry cleaning in the dirt and then tumbled over the bag.

  She was the one who changed everything.

  His life stopped consisting of unexpected punches, the stench of day-old whiskey, and a series of garishly made-up women who paraded through their small apartment in Park Heights. Instead, it was made up of a bright yellow kitchen full of the scent of roasts and casseroles, potatoes, pots of spaghetti, and cookies.

  Always cookies.

  Mama Lou had forced him and his brothers to sit at the large table in that kitchen and work their homework, cursing as loudly as they over incomprehensible math problems and science projects no one had remembered to mention. She saw to it they had three square meals daily and a roof over their heads, and when she’d first collected them up and brought them home, Fender had thought that was enough.

  And if it wasn’t, he could always bolt back to the old man. At least he knew what he was in for there.

  Only Mama Lou didn’t act like he thought some lady should act. She had fancy suits in her closet that she never wore. She sorted receipts and did taxes for half the businesses in Park Heights at the long dining-room table old Mrs. Weston had left behind in the brownstone Mama Lou fixed up each and every weekend. And she had tears.

  She didn’t show them often, but he’d caught her a few times in the dining room, crying over the newspaper after she thought he’d gone to bed.

  Fender wanted to know about the tears most of all, but every time he thought he had his nerve up, he realized he didn’t want to make her sad again, so he avoided asking. And just worked harder to make her smile and laugh. To make her proud.

  And by some odd miracle, Mama Lou created a family.

  Fender wasn’t quite sure how she did it, because she’d never had any kids before them, and when he asked her if she ever even babysat, she said no. Yet she made a great mom. He thought so, and so did his brothers. They’d talk about it, when they were back on the playground, tugging at the new jeans they all wore that actually fit, and the sneakers that weren’t worn out or too tight on their feet.

  He’d known them as brothers the first day they wound up on the same soccer team—Nick Kelley and Landon McGee—even before Mama Lou made it official. He’d tried to scare them both off, but they’d stuck. They’d just ignored his surly attitude and lame-ass attempts to swat at them and drive them away.

  And they’d stuck.

  He wasn’t sure why—even now—but he was glad of that.

  The three of them had been a motley lot, with Nick’s oversized body, even as a kid, compared to Landon’s scrawny frame that never seemed to grow rounder, even as he added inch after inch in height.

  He’d understood Nick and Landon and they’d understood him. He knew they wouldn’t ask about the bruises. Or the reason he’d fallen asleep during earth science. Or why there was a large gash on his leg that time he’d fallen over a broken whiskey bottle.

  They saw and understood the things that were better left unsaid.

  And in the end, so had Mama Lou. She’d passed them on that same school playground, a defiant trio of boys one sunny fall afternoon, and within days, their lives had changed.

  And God bless, the woman was crafty. She’d wormed her way in, pushing and prodding and finding an understanding with each of them. Some of it with food. Some of it with one-on-one attention. Even some of it because she knew all the best curse words when those damned math problems wouldn’t right themselves.

  Over time, the boys he’d thought of as his blood brothers became something even better. By decree of the State of New York, they became his actual brothers. And Mama Lou his mother.

  Fender Blackstone had never thought of himself as a particularly lucky bastard, but on the day Louisa Mills officially became his mother, he did the one thing his father thought he’d well and truly beaten out of him.

  He’d cried.

  Chapter One

  “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 podiu
m 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.”