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  Drive Me Wild

  The Bellamy Creek Series

  Melanie Harlow

  Copyright © 2020 by Melanie Harlow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Photography: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf

  Cover Design: Hang Le

  Editing: Evident Ink; The Romance Bibliophile

  Paperback Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Promotions: Social Butterfly PR

  For anyone who needs a little more joy in life.

  Let go of your umbrella

  'cause darlin' I'm just tryin' to tell ya

  that there's always been a rainbow

  hangin' over your head…

  It’ll all be alright.

  “Rainbow,” Kacey Musgraves

  Contents

  1. Griffin

  2. Blair

  3. Griffin

  4. Blair

  5. Griffin

  6. Blair

  7. Griffin

  8. Blair

  9. Griffin

  10. Blair

  11. Griffin

  12. Blair

  13. Blair

  14. Griffin

  15. Blair

  16. Griffin

  17. Griffin

  18. Blair

  19. Griffin

  20. Blair

  21. Griffin

  22. Blair

  23. Griffin

  24. Blair

  25. One Year Later

  Blueberry Lemon Thyme Scones

  Lemon Lavender Shortbread

  Spinach, Caramelized Onion & Gruyère Galette

  Pesto Twists

  Southern Comfort Strata

  Blair’s Apple Pie with Mascarpone Cream

  Also by Melanie Harlow

  Be a Harlot!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Griffin

  A watched pot never boils, but a watched mechanic will.

  I don’t remember how old I was when I first heard my dad say it, but damn if he wasn’t right. There was nothing worse than a hoverer, and old man Dodson was a serial offender.

  “Are you sure you need to hit that so hard?”

  Clench jaw. Count to three. “Yes.”

  “Is that really the right way to do it?”

  Take a breath. Don’t throw things. “Yes.”

  “Are you going to be done soon?”

  Not if you keep standing there asking me stupid questions.

  My temper was nearly at the boiling point, but since I really couldn’t afford to lose customers, I turned around and attempted something resembling a smile.

  “Shouldn’t be too long now, Mr. Dodson. Why don’t you take a walk? Maybe grab a cup of coffee and a donut at the diner? By the time you get back, I’ll have your vehicle all ready for you.”

  The old-timer scratched his head and hitched up his kelly-green pants. “You know, Swifty Auto said they could have this done in half an hour. And their price was cheaper than yours.”

  I gripped the wrench I was holding even tighter.

  Fucking Swifty Auto. The fast food chain of automotive repair. High volume, low value, shitty rush jobs done on the cheap—but customers didn’t seem to care. Apparently, a chandelier in the lobby, glossy TV ads, and free cookies were more important than good service. “Well, they’re a bigger shop. And they’ve got a different philosophy.”

  “But I’ve always brought my cars here, and your dad was a good honest guy. Knew what he was doing. I figure you’re a good honest guy too.”

  “He taught me everything I know,” I said. In other words, I too know what I’m doing, asshole. Now go get a fucking cruller and let me finish this up. You didn’t even have an appointment—I squeezed you in as a favor.

  Dodson exhaled and gave up. “Guess I’ll take a walk then.”

  I watched him wander out to the sidewalk and begin his old-man shuffle down Main Street, then got back to work.

  “Damn, that guy is annoying,” called McIntyre, the other mechanic at Bellamy Creek Garage. I owned the place, but he’d been working there almost as long as I had. We also had a helper—a “stack the tires” guy—whose real name was Andy, but we referred to him as Handme, since we were always telling him to hand me that wrench or hand me a towel or hand me the 10mm socket I just dropped in the engine bay and couldn’t fucking find if my life depended on it.

  “Yeah, he is. But he pays his bill, at least.” I checked the clock on the shop wall. “Hey, where the hell is Handme? I thought he was supposed to be here by seven. It’s almost nine.”

  “I think he had to take Lola somewhere.”

  “Oh, right. He mentioned that yesterday.” I shook my head as I went back to work under the hood of Dodson’s Buick. “Poor kid.”

  “What do you mean, ‘poor kid’? He’s getting laid all the time.”

  “I mean, he’s a fucking mess over that girl.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s Handme. She’s gonna eat him alive and spit out his bones.”

  McIntyre laughed from beneath a Ford Mustang. “He might enjoy that. I know I would.”

  “You and Emily fighting again?” McIntyre was engaged to be married in six months—if he and his high-maintenance fiancée could stay together that long.

  “She broke up with me last night.”

  “What was it this time?”

  “Hell if I know. I think her words were something like, ‘Because you’re an insensitive asshole who doesn’t care about anything important.’ But by important, she means shit like what color the flowers will be at the church or what flavor the wedding cake will be, or who sits where at the reception. What do I care about that stuff? It doesn’t matter!”

  I couldn’t agree more, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “It’s all bullshit,” he rambled on. “Why can’t we just say ‘I do’ at city hall and go drink beers afterward like normal people? I’ll even wear the suit.”

  I laughed. “Got me. You’re the one who asked her to marry you.”

  “I know, but it’s like she lost her mind with all this wedding stuff. She used to be so fun. We used to hang out and listen to music and talk about shit that matters, like cars and baseball. Now all we do is argue. I have to say I’m sorry like ten times a night.”

  “So stop apologizing. Let her crawl back to you for once.”

  “That could take weeks, Griff. I can’t wait that long to have sex. Not all of us have the discipline to be a celibate monk like you.”

  “I’m not celibate, asshole. I’m just not a slave to my dick like everyone else who works here.”

  “But don’t you miss it?” McIntyre asked.

  Was he kidding? Of course I did. But needing something or someone so badly made you weak, and I prided myself on being strong. Sure, I was human like anyone else, and occasionally a cute ass in tight jeans got the better of me, but I always followed my rules: I was a one-night-only attraction, I always used protection, and I never slept over.

  “There are more important things in life than sex,” I said.

  “Like what?” McIntyre sounded genuinely curious.

  “Like keeping this business alive despite the fact that we’re bleeding customers and Swifty Auto is soaking them up. Like finding time and money for hands-on training so we can stay up to date with advanced diagnostics. Like getting that small business loan so I can afford advertising, another mechanic, and better tools and software.” I straightened up and grabbed a blue shop towel. “Like winning the league cham
pionship.”

  He rolled out from under the Mustang and looked at me, his expression somber. “Amen, brother.”

  McIntyre and I played for the Bellamy Creek Bulldogs in a league my sister referred to as “old man baseball.” It’s true, we were all over thirty, not as agile or fast as we’d been in high school, and we consumed a lot more beer, but we took it very, very seriously. We lived for those Thursday night games, celebrating every victory—and drowning our sorrows after each defeat—at The Bulldog Pub, the bar that sponsored us. And it looked like this summer’s championship game would be a match-up between us and our most bitter rivals, the Mason City Mavericks. We’d won the title the last two years, and they were anxious to get it back.

  “You’re coming to practice tonight, right?” I asked. McIntyre was our center fielder. He wasn’t a big hitter, but he was quick and had a good throwing arm.

  “Definitely.” He paused. “If Emily says it’s okay.”

  I shook my head—the guy was a hopeless case—and tossed the towel aside.

  After closing the shop just after five, I locked the doors and re-entered the building from a door on the far left of the façade, which opened onto the staircase leading up to my apartment.

  The garage was actually an old firehouse with two bays. It had been vacant for at least a decade before my grandfather bought it in 1955 and repurposed it into a service station. My father took it over in the early 1970s when my grandpa retired. Back then, they used the second story over the lobby as storage, but after I got out of the Marine Corps four years ago, my father offered to let me convert it into living space.

  That hadn’t been the plan, of course, but life as I’d imagined it was no longer an option. So I returned the ring, withdrew my offer on the house, drank myself into oblivion and generally behaved real fucking badly for several months before my dad and my three best friends told me to get my shit together, because life goes on.

  Having a project helped, and my buddy Enzo Moretti was a builder, so he’d worked with me on the apartment after hours. There was something cathartic about spending my spare time putting up walls.

  It was a cavernous space with high ceilings, exposed brick, and wide-plank wood floors. My bedroom and bathroom were at the back, and the front was basically one big rectangular room, with a kitchen in one corner and a seating area by the three front windows overlooking Main Street.

  Thanks to Moretti’s connections, I’d scored nice materials on a limited budget—leftover tile and granite from someone’s new vacation home, reclaimed wood floors from a lumber dealer, doors and fixtures salvaged from old barns and farmhouses, even some of the original details from the firehouse itself. It might have been a little mismatched to an expert decorator’s eye, but it didn’t bother me.

  The only thing I wished I had was some land. If I could ever afford it, I wanted a piece to call my own. All his life, my dad had talked about saving up enough to buy some decent acreage when he retired. He’d planned to move out to the country and spend his days tinkering with old cars in a barn, going fishing whenever he felt like it, and teaching his grandchildren how to play pinochle.

  Unfortunately, a heart attack had claimed both him and his dreams too soon.

  “He worked himself into an early grave,” my mother said the day of his funeral. “Don’t do it, Griff. He wouldn’t want it for you. Find some other way to honor him.”

  But my dad had worked his fingers to the bone to keep his father’s business alive, and I’d be damned if it was going to die on my watch. If it meant working longer hours to keep our customers loyal, so be it.

  But tonight, there was baseball.

  Hungry, I went to the fridge, hoping for a miracle, like maybe I’d forgotten there was a fresh-baked lasagna in there. Or a steak and potatoes. At the very least, a chicken pot pie.

  No such luck. Clearly, I’d forgotten to grocery shop again.

  But I had some lunch meat and half a loaf of bread, so I slapped a ham sandwich together and scarfed it down while changing out of my work clothes into some sweats.

  I was hurrying around to the back of the building where my truck was parked when my cell phone buzzed.

  “Hello?”

  “How’s my favorite big brother ever?”

  “You mean your only big brother ever?” I jumped into the truck, tossing my glove onto the passenger seat.

  “Seriously, Griffin, how are you? Have I told you how handsome you look today?”

  “We’re on the phone, Cheyenne.” I started the engine. “You can’t even see me.”

  “Then I think you should come over to the shelter so I can say it and mean it.”

  “And what else?” I asked, because I know my little sister.

  “And nothing else,” she said.

  “There’s always an else with you, Cheyenne.” I shifted into reverse and backed out of my parking spot behind the building. “And you never say nice things to me. You must need something.”

  “So suspicious,” she scolded. “Frankly, I’m offended.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I was only hoping to see you.”

  “Right.”

  “And show you something.”

  “Something like an animal you want me to rescue?”

  “No, Mr. Know It All, it’s not an animal I want you to rescue.” She paused. “It’s just a kitten.”

  I groaned.

  “A tiny little orphan kitten.”

  “Stop it. I’m not fostering any more animals. They poop on everything. They chew shit.”

  “Please, Griff? You’re the one who brought in the stray pregnant cat.”

  “Because I didn’t want a pet and she kept hanging around my door.” Of course, that was because I’d been feeding her, but I’d felt sorry for the thing.

  “Well, the babies are ready to be adopted, and it’s breaking my heart to see them there every day. I’d take one but you know how allergic Mom is. And of course, I gave up my lease so I could move in with her after her surgeries.”

  “I am well aware of your sacrifice, Cheyenne.” My sister loved to bring this up in order to guilt me into doing things. And it always worked—there was no way I could have survived moving back home. I loved my mother, but she drove me nuts. “How long would I have to keep it?”

  “Not long, I promise. Just until I can find it a permanent home, which I’m sure I’ll be able to do as soon as school starts up in a month.” Cheyenne was a kindergarten teacher at our old elementary school.

  “Fine,” I said grudgingly, heading toward the ball field. “But I can’t pick it up right now. I’m on my way to practice.”

  “I would not dream of interfering with old man baseball,” she said, laughing. “Just come to the shelter tomorrow. I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

  “You know, you shouldn’t make fun of me after I just agreed to do you a favor. I could still change my mind.”

  She laughed again. “No, you couldn’t. I know you, Griffin Dempsey. Granite on the outside, gooey on the inside. You’re like a soft-serve ice cream cone covered with Magic Shell chocolate. You’re like a Cadbury egg. You’re like a—”

  I hung up on her. Little shit.

  After practice, most of the team met up at The Bulldog Pub for a few beers, some pizza, and a lot of trash talk about the Mavericks. I sat at an outdoor table on the sidewalk with Cole Mitchell, our star pitcher, and Moretti, our second baseman and fastest runner.

  “We’re gonna crush those assholes,” said Cole. “They’re not gonna know what hit ’em.” Then he winced as he adjusted the bag of ice on his shoulder.

  Cole was a cop, widowed way too young, now a single dad with a little girl he adored. We’d grown up next door to each other and had been best friends from the day we met. His family had moved in when we were six, and he was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was also the best human being I’d ever known, straightforward and honest, even if he was slightly in denial about our team’s ability to crush the Mavs.


  Not that he was the only one.

  “Fuck yeah,” agreed Moretti, lifting his beer bottle. He worked for Moretti & Sons, his family’s construction business, and we’d been buddies since his family had moved to Bellamy Creek when we were in middle school. “We’re gonna decimate ’em. And I’m gonna steal home just like I did the last time.” He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “Hope my groin injury is better by then.”

  I laughed and took a long pull on my beer. “Don’t fall apart on me now, assholes. We looked decent tonight. Solid hitting. Good pitching. The Mavs are tough, but I like our chances—if you don’t turn into a bunch of old ladies in the next two weeks.”

  “Where’s Beckett tonight, anyway?” said Cole, reaching for another slice of pizza. “He think he’s too good for practice or what?”

  Beckett Weaver was the only guy in our childhood foursome who’d left Bellamy Creek for college and hadn’t come back—not right away, anyway. It didn’t surprise any of us, since he’d always been the book-smartest in our group—straight A’s, Valedictorian, scholarship to an Ivy League school. He’d gotten two degrees, moved to Manhattan to work in finance, and fucking hated every second of it. He’d grown up on a farm and decided he missed it too much, so three years ago, he’d left the Big Apple behind and moved back home to help run his family’s cattle ranch.

  It was awesome for the team, since Beckett had always been the biggest hitter of any of us. I was a close second, and a damn good first baseman, but against the Mavericks, we’d need all the muscle we could get.