Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

My hand shakes as I carry the phone and my drink to the tub, and position both on the edge as I slide into the steaming water.

After dabbing my wet fingers on the towel rolled up in a basket to my left, I tap out my reply.



BANNER: Brandon Sidewalk, never to be repeated.



I flip my phone facedown on the ledge around the tub and sink into the water.

Logan could definitely make me beg. Jesus, this is the worst idea I’ve ever had. What made me think I could keep from ruining this?

When I first got a text from Logan Brantley’s number, it was really coming from my best friend, Greer, who’d been without her phone due to some really crazy shit. Greer, being the awesome friend she is, found a Good Samaritan who let her use his phone to text me so I’d stop losing my freaking mind.

But instead of getting Greer when I texted back, I got the Good Samaritan—Logan Brantley, former US marine, one hundred percent Kentucky redneck, and the opposite of every man I’ve ever met. Once I finished my online stalking and saw his picture, is it any surprise I kept texting him?

I reach below the surface of the water, wishing I’d grabbed a toy to aid the Get Banner to Orgasm Really, Really Fast cause, but I can do the job without any assistance.

Adjusting into a more comfortable position, I let my legs fall to the sides of the tub. Pleasure buzzes through my veins as I picture the forbidden: Logan on top of me, pounding into me over and over.

My phone vibrates from the ledge. I shake off the water and once again blot my fingers on a towel.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: I’ll be there on Friday. BRANDON SIDEWALK better have a real name by the time I get there.



My pounding heart kicks up, thudding with a jacked-up rhythm as my phone slips from my fingers and tumbles to the floor, sliding across the travertine tiles and out of reach. Motionless in the tub, I stare at it as I freak the hell out.

No. Not possible. Logan has no reason to be in New York. He’s kidding. It’s fine. My fantasy isn’t going to come to life only to be shattered as soon as I meet him. Nothing is going to happen. I can keep him in the safe zone. No more dirty texts. Just dirty thoughts. It’s fine.

I stay in the water until it cools down, no orgasm in sight, because my brain won’t stop spinning with the possibilities.

He has to be joking. There’s no possible way that Logan Brantley of Gold Haven, Kentucky, is coming to New York. Nothing to worry about here.

When I finally climb out of the tub and wrap myself in a fluffy towel, I take measured steps across the floor to retrieve my phone. My hand isn’t shaking when I pick it up, or so I tell myself.

With the rampaging beat of my heart nearing life-threatening levels, I stare down at the screen as it comes to life.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: What’s your address?



Holy. Shit.





Chapter 3


Logan


I take a swig of my Bud, grab my wrench, and lean over the engine of the car I’m working on. My grip flexes hard against the steel at the thought some guy would dare touch a woman without her consent. What the f*ck is wrong with those New Yorker ass*oles? It’s not how I planned to tell Banner I was going to be in town, but f*ck if that woman doesn’t get me all kinds of tied up.

Banner.

What the hell kind of name is that for a woman, anyway?

After one encounter with her friend Greer, I know exactly what kind of woman she has to be—the kind who’s so far out of my league, I shouldn’t even be thinking about her.

And yet here I am spending time I need to be using to turn cars into cash, texting with her.

If you asked me a month ago, I would have laughed my ass off at the idea that I’d get into something with a woman I’ve never met in person. I’ve never even thought about trying the disaster of online dating. But somehow I ended up sucked into something I’m not sure how to explain, with a woman living hundreds of miles away.

But dammit, I’m intrigued by her. Her would a real man questions never fail to make me laugh. What the hell kind of men are living up there? Jesus f*cking Christ. These douche bags make it stupid easy to make fun of them.

Then again, the same guys would look at me and see a former jarhead, lifelong redneck, and now professional grease monkey trying to carve out a living in a one-stoplight town. Those Wall Street types wouldn’t even shake my hand. f*ck ’em.

So, why am I hauling my ass all the way to New York to deliver the Road Runner instead of turning it over to a car hauler?

Because I have to meet her. I need to find out once and for all that she’s not really as funny and cute as she comes across over these damn texts. The best way to ruin a fantasy is to meet the reality, right? I’m sure she’ll take one look at me and turn up her nose.

But what if she doesn’t?

The fact that she hasn’t answered my text yet isn’t sitting right with me. That’s all fine and good because a real man isn’t afraid to fight for what he wants—and what I want is to cure myself of this fascination.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. If I were to admit the truth, it’s that her messages seem to pull a smile from me every time, even when I’m staring down the deadline from hell like I have been on this rebuild. Somehow, whatever we have going on reminds me that there’s more to life than making a dollar.

I toss the wrench aside and grab a rag off my workbench to wipe my hands. I’m done for tonight.

Over the earsplitting sound of Metallica, someone pounds on the garage door.

What the hell?

It’s quarter after ten, and this whole sleepy town is tucked in except for the diehards drinking at the bowling alley for Wednesday night league. The only reason I’m up is to hit this ridiculous f*cking deadline so I can load the car on a trailer tomorrow and collect the rest of my cash.

I stride to the service door, flip the lock, and pull it open.

“Damn, Logan. What’s a girl gotta do to get your attention these days?” Julianne Liefer stands at the door with a fifth of Wild Turkey and a bucket of a fried chicken from Cluck You.

“Did you need something?” I ask as the wafting scent of grease hits my nose.

“Thought you might need some dinner. I just finished a super-f*cking-long appointment turning a client’s hair into a friggin’ masterpiece, and she had her husband drop me off some fried chicken and booze when he picked her up. I saw your truck, so I figured I’d offer to share. There’s potato wedges, biscuits, and slaw too.”

Julianne’s salon sits right across from my repair shop, and we’ve fallen into an easy friendship. The people of Gold Haven jokingly refer to her salon as Cut a Bitch, rather than the real name, Cut It Best. Cut a Bitch is more accurate when it comes to how she treats the people who piss her off.