Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

Julianne recently broke it off with my buddy Granger, and I’m really f*cking hoping she hasn’t decided I’d make a hell of a rebound.

There’s no way I’d go there, even if she isn’t like most of the women in this town—just looking for a man to take care of them. Julianne works her ass off as hard as I do.

“I already had some dinner.”

She gives me a look that says oh really? “A Hot Pocket doesn’t count as real food.” She slides by me, the bucket of chicken crushing around the edges between us.

“You’re bound to get grease all over yourself if you’re not careful.”

She looks back and winks at me. “A little grease isn’t gonna hurt a real woman. I like getting dirty.”

Banner’s blunt message comes back to me. A real man would have her begging him instead, right? I know you would.

She called it right, because there was nothing I like more than a woman at my mercy, begging for relief.

I glance at where my phone waits in my toolbox, and wonder if Banner has responded with her address or if she’s gonna chicken out on me.

I don’t have time to think about it for long because Julianne drops the bucket of chicken on the workbench and pulls two stools together. She twists the top off the Wild Turkey and takes a swig before holding it out to me.

“Today has been for shit. One of my stylists got into it with my nail tech and they both walked out, leaving me to deal with the mess of appointments they had scheduled. I could’ve gone home and eaten my fried chicken alone on my couch, but that would put me in an even worse mood than I’m in now, so just f*cking humor me, Logan.”

I take the bottle from her and twist the cap back on before grabbing a piece of chicken from the bucket.

“At least you don’t have to worry that I’m using food to try to trap you into a ring like Emmy Harris. I just want some company.”

I almost choke on my first bite of chicken at the mention of Emmy Harris, the manager of Home Cookin’ who brings apple dumplings and peach pie to the shop on what seems like a regular basis. It started out innocently about nine months ago when I got so frigging busy I didn’t have time to go home and cook for myself, and ended up at Home Cookin’ damn near every day of the week.

Emmy talked me into taking her to the movies a couple of times, and dinner somewhere other than Home Cookin’ once, but when she started dropping hints about wanting to see each other exclusively and talking about how the house she’s building would be great for a family, I backed off. I thought we were friends, but she seems to have developed different ideas. It helps that I’ve been too busy to go on a date anyway, so my excuses to her haven’t been complete BS.

Especially since I’d rather work my ass off and take random breaks to text a woman I’ve never met.

Yeah, I’ve got no explanation for that.

The more I think about it as I pack away the greasy chicken, I decide there’s something seriously wrong with me. I’ve got flesh-and-blood women in Gold Haven who understand exactly the kind of man I am, but instead here I am getting ready to drive to New York because I need to satisfy my curiosity about Banner. She’s from a totally different world, and we’re not going to have a damn thing in common, but even that knowledge isn’t stopping me from doing it.

Julianne knocks back another shot of Wild Turkey, not expecting or waiting for a reply from me, which is smart. I don’t have a whole lot to say when my thoughts are all twisted around Banner.

Why am I pushing this with her?

Because there’s something about her I can’t get out of my mind.

One trip. One meeting. That’s all I need, and I’ll know exactly how ridiculous this has been from the beginning.

My phone buzzes from its spot in the open lid of my toolbox, and both Julianne and I look toward it.

“Someone who’s going to be jealous that I’m sitting here?”

Would Banner be jealous? I have no f*cking clue. I wipe my hands and reach for it.

Instead of the address I asked for, I get a different message.



BANNER NYC: Are you serious?



I give her the truth.



LOGAN: Yes. Friday. It’s time we meet in person.



I wait for a moment, but when her reply doesn’t come right away, I put the phone back in its place and respond to Julianne.

“A friend.”

“Does she know she makes you light up like that? Or that she’s a lucky bitch because of it?”

“She’s not up for discussion.”

Julianne whistles as she grabs for another piece of chicken. “Does Emmy know about her competition?”

“This isn’t any of Emmy’s business.”

Julianne raises an eyebrow. “So . . . who is the mystery woman? Do I know her?”

Finally, I snag the bottle of Wild Turkey, uncap it, and dump some in the empty coffee mug that’s still sitting unwashed from my last fill-up this afternoon. “No.”

“Fine; be difficult. I’m sure I’ll find out one way or another.” She pauses, and the shit-stirrer in her comes to life. “You tell her you’re with another woman right now?”

I give her a hard look. If I’m not careful, Julianne will spread my business all over town. She’s the queen of the gossip grapevine, and I don’t need any part of it.

“There’s nothing to tell. You said it yourself—this was a better alternative than going home by yourself and realizing you just broke up with the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Julianne’s shoulders stiffen. “Granger Ryan wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to me. I was the best thing that ever happened to him. He just couldn’t get his head out of his ass long enough to appreciate what he had, so he lost it.”

My friend Granger, the fire chief in this small town, is still pissed about how she marched into the station and told him it was over—in front of all his volunteer firemen.

Either way, the subject of who is texting me closes.

Now, I just gotta get Banner’s address so I can track her down as soon as this Road Runner is in the hands of its owner.





Chapter 4


Banner


I drag Sofia into my apartment when she knocks on the door Thursday evening. This is the absolute worst time not to have my best girlfriend around to spill to, but I have to tell someone.

“I apologize in advance, but you have to listen to everything I say and tell me what to do.” Because clearly I can’t be trusted to make rational decisions about this man, I add silently.

“What’s going on?” Sofia’s accent is thicker than normal in her confusion.

“You remember the guy I’ve been texting with?”

“The one you’ve been torturing Mrs. Frances with for weeks?”

“I might dispute the use of the word torture, but yes. Him. He’s coming here. Tomorrow.”

“Here? New York, here?”

“Yes. Here. New York. Manhattan. And I don’t know what to do. Help.”

Rarely do I ever have my confidence totally knocked off its axis, but this situation is an anomaly. Logan is supposed to stay inside my little magic box of a phone where I feel like I’m still in control, because the second he becomes real, as in flesh and blood, all bets are off.