Hard Working Hero Read online

  Hard Working Hero

  Penny Wylder

  Contents

  More Must Reads by Penny Wylder

  1. Narissa

  2. Oliver

  3. Narissa

  4. Oliver

  5. Narissa

  6. Oliver

  7. Narissa

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2021 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  1

  Narissa

  Shit shit shit. Come on, move already!I slam on my horn, but I know it doesn't really matter. No one is going to suddenly jump out of my way. Both lanes are backed up so tightly, I can't even sneak down the breakdown lane to get off the exit.

  I lean side to side, pushing up in my seat and using the steering wheel to lift me a little higher so I can see what's going on ahead of me. All I see are brake lights. Trucks and cars are all wedged together bumper to bumper as far as my eyes can see.

  “Fuck L.A. traffic!” I call out, slapping the steering wheel. Throwing myself back against my seat, I rub my forehead with the pads of my fingers. “This sucks,” I say to myself.

  I'm supposed to be at my father's fiftieth birthday party. It started half an hour ago and everyone is going to be there; from top bankers, to day traders, to legendary actors my father has crossed paths with over the years. He's one of those men that seems to know everyone, and you never really understand how or why. There's always a story he never really ends up telling me.

  I promised my parents I'd be on time. Instead, here I am in traffic on the ten.

  It's an honest mistake. Nodding to myself in the car, I let out a slow breath. “Yeah, an honest mistake.”

  Time got away from me, I couldn't help it. I only have one real addiction and it comes in the form of silk gowns, puff sleeves, and feathery head-wear. Bridgerton. It's my obsession. I love everything about it. Lucky for me, it seems everyone else in the digital world does too.

  I easily lose track of time when I jump online and start a conversation with someone who can appreciate the story just like me. The online world is my home. It's so easy to meet people that think like me.

  Around here everyone is obsessed with money, status, and fame.

  I'm all set with pretending I'm one of them. It doesn't matter how much money my family has, it never seemed like it was enough for the kids I went to school with.

  Maybe I'm just strange. A square peg in a round world.

  Doesn't matter, I'm over it.

  The cars ahead of me start inching forward. It's slow, but it's enough for me to breathe a sigh of relief. I'm only about ten minutes from my parents’ sprawling mansion in Brentwood.

  Cyprus trees tower over the thick iron fence around my parents’ house, making it impossible to see the house from the street. A veritable fortress. I glance at clock on my dash, and I figure I’ll surely make it on time for Dad’s cake. As I drive closer to their house, I see the gate is wide open, so I blindly whip my car into the driveway, only to come to a slamming stop. The front of my car crunches, the hood folding up like a fan as I smash into a big green truck.

  Fuck.

  My hands are tightly squeezing the wheel, knuckles going white as steam billows out from under my hood on both sides.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” A man yells suddenly, running around from the front of the truck.

  With jet black hair that shines blue under the sun, he throws his thick muscular arms up and rakes his hands across the top of his head. He tugs his hair tight against his scalp, allowing me to see all of his face. His handsome, devilishly sexy, face.

  He has a sharp jawline with a shadow of stubble that runs from his chin up both of his cheeks and connects with his sideburns. He's wearing a white t-shirt that fits so snugly to his chest I can see his bulging pecs and the rippling abs of his washboard stomach. Biceps threaten to tear through the short sleeves as he continues to squeeze his head.

  I'm stunned for a moment, my eyes fixing on him and him alone. I don't see the damage to my car, or hear what he's saying. I don't register the crack spidering across my windshield or the sound of steam hissing from under my hood. All I can do is stare at this beast of a man as he comes toward my car.

  There's an expression of worry on his face as he bypasses the damage and yanks my door open. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  His cologne swirls through the air as the wind blows, rendering me almost speechless. He smells so good, like citrus and basil with a hint of sandalwood. “Uh, yeah, I'm fine,” I finally force myself to answer.

  “You sure? You didn't hit your head or anything?” His eyes scan me up and down as he reaches in and touches my shoulder lightly. His hand is so gentle, like he's afraid I'll crumble if he touches me any harder. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “No, I'm good. Really, nothing hurts.” Peeling my hands off the wheel, they shake lightly. I'm not sure if it's from a rush of adrenaline from the crash or just from him.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I'm struck again by his seductive and rebellious scent. Everything inside my body is fluttering and tingling, twisting and coiling. My stomach is in knots. My hands are trembling so much I have to fold them together and sit them in my lap to make them stop. My muscles are tense, and I can feel the heat begin to pool in my center.

  “All right, good. I'd hate to see that pretty face of yours get all bruised up.” He gives me a little grin and a wink as he straightens his back. “It'd be a shame.”

  I smile nervously, my cheeks flushing red hot. The warmth floods my face, causing me to look off out the windshield. “Thank you,” I say softly.

  Is he hitting on me?

  The man gives me a flirty smile, then moves his eyes back to the front of my car. “I'll need you to back up then, put it in reverse and move back a few feet.”

  No, he's just being nice.

  I do as he asks, backing up until I see a crumpled pile of wood between my car and his truck. The look on his face changes as the wood comes into view. His smile vanishes, his muscles go slack, and his arms dangle at his sides.

  “Son of a—” He bites his knuckles and turns away before swearing. Grunting angrily, he turns back to look at the pile. “Damn it. God damn it, they're all broken.”

  “I'm sorry,” I say as I climb out of my car. “I didn't see you there. I saw the gate was open and no one is usually parked right here. I just figured I could drive right in.”

  “Didn't see me, huh?” Cocking his head over his shoulder, his brows arch in disbelief. “I'm not sure how you couldn't see me, considering my truck is ten times bigger than your car. How could you miss the giant green GMC?” There's an edge to his voice as he bends down and starts picking up large splinters of wood. “This isn't good. Fuck, this isn't good,” he mutters out loud, but not to me, he's speaking mostly to himself.

  Guilt makes my stomach flip around. Trying to calm him down, I say, “It's not that big of a deal. I'm sure my insurance will cover any damage. Your truck looks fine except for a small dent in the middle of the rear bumper. I can barely see it.”

  Arching a brow, his demeanor changes. “Insurance? Not a big deal? Is that your answer to everything?" I'm caught off guard by his shift in mood.
Eyeballing his truck I finally notice the crunched up pieces of wood. Did I do more than dent his car?

  “It's not the truck,” he snaps. “It's this.” He holds up a shard of wood, his expression a mixture of anger and despair. “This is what I care about.”Crossing my arms over my chest anxiously, I ask, “What is it?”

  “It was cabinets. Cabinets I need for an important job I'm doing for Mr. Thayer.” His lids thin as his eyes fix on mine. “And you drove over them, destroying them.”

  I can hear the obvious anger in his tone.. Heat rolls up my neck from my rising humiliation. “Well, you're in luck, Mr. Thayer is my father. I know he'll pay to replace these. It's not a big deal at all. Just tell him where you got them, and he'll buy more.”

  The man stands quietly, turning to face me straight on. The corner of his lip curls down as the vein in his forehead throbs. He opens his mouth, ready to say something, when the silence is filled by someone else.

  “What's going on here?” My father's voice cuts in, thick and deep. “Narissa, what the hell happened?” He stops next to the man, his gaze moving over my car and the truck. “Is anyone hurt?” he asks, glancing between us.

  “We're fine," I assure him. "I just accidentally rear ended—uh. . .” Pausing, I spin a finger in the man's direction.

  “Oliver,” my father says. “You rear ended Oliver Reed, the new contractor I just hired.” His eyes drop to the cabinets. “I'm guessing this is your doing, too?”Fresh, scalding heat spreads over my cheeks. I hate the way they're both staring at me. I feel terrible for what I did, I want to run and hide. “It was an accident. I didn't see him when I pulled in. I told him you could buy new ones, though.” My eyes move to my car and the buckled mess that was once my hood. “I'm really sorry about the car, Dad. Seriously, I just didn't see his truck, I swear.”

  My father sighs heavily as his eyes steady on mine. I know this look. I fucked up big time. I can feel myself start to shrink. My shoulders roll forward and my head goes down.

  “This is a very big deal, Narissa. Your car can be fixed, but Oliver made these by hand specifically for the new project. Not everything can just be bought and replaced.”My mouth falls open. He made them? Somehow it hadn't crossed my mind they weren't pre-built things off a shekf. I turn to Oliver and ask warily, “You can make new ones. Right?” My eyes slide to the broken wood boxes as I say, “With new supplies from Home Depot or something?”

  Olive flinches like I smacked him. My father pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on his hip. “I've been too easy on you over the years. I've given you too much and had you work for too little. You don't appreciate good craftsmanship and what it means to build something with your own hands. This man spent hours making these cabinets, and you destroyed all of his hard work with one thoughtless move.” He taps his finger against his chin as he lifts his head back up. “You know what, you need to do some actual hard work so you can understand the importance of creating something.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “The work Oliver does is worth more than what you find mass produced in a store. There are real people out there that spend hours creating and building to get somewhere in this world. People aren't always just handed what they want, Narissa. I worked hard to us where we are today.” He looks up at the house. “But this is all you know. It's time for you to get your hands dirty.”

  “I'm sorry, what? Get my hands dirty how?” I ask, furrowing my brows confused.

  “Oliver,” my father says, turning away from me, “my daughter is going to come work with you for a bit. Maybe you can help her appreciate what it means to sweat.”

  “Excuse me?” He snorts in disbelief. “Work with me?”

  “She needs a kick in the ass, and this is going to give her that. She can help fix what she broke and maybe learn a few things in the process.”

  Oliver gives me a sharp side-eye. “I don't think—”

  My father holds up his hand and thins his lips. “I'll compensate you plenty, don't worry about that. Just make sure she pulls her weight. This new project is a big one.” Grabbing Oliver's shoulder, my father gives him a squeeze and a slap on the back. “It'll be good for her, and don't worry, your efforts won't go unnoticed. This isn't the only house I'm working on.”

  There's a small crowd of guests forming at the front of the house. Family and friends all huddle together like a school of fish. They all lean in the same direction trying to look down the driveway, then they all move forward, and back again.

  “Is everything okay?” my mother calls down from the top step.

  “Everything's fine. Narissa just got herself a new job for a bit,” Dad shouts back.

  “What?”

  “I'll explain later, but right now, it's time to celebrate. I only turn fifty once.” He starts for the front doors, waving his hand over his head. “Oliver, you come too. Have some cake with us.”

  For a brief moment I'm standing there alone with Oliver. His hands are in fists at his sides, a line of tension along his throat as if he's clenching his teeth. I want to say something to fix this mess. Any sort of words or phrase that will make him happy, or even better, get me out of this jam. Is my dad really expecting me to go do woodworking? I can barely make a paper airplane.

  Suddenly Oliver inhales deeply. He looks at the house, still quiet. "Hey," I start to say, hoping to come up with a new apology. Fuck, if he just grasped how awful I feel...

  Oliver strides away from me before I can finish. I hover by my broken car. I can't leave, where would I go without a way to drive? Why leave after coming all this way? Biting my bottom lip, I take a small step--my shoe crunches on fragments of wood. My heart tightens. I do my best to ignore it so I can finish the walk to the house.

  The party is awkward and uncomfortable. Every time I look up, I swear Oliver is staring at me. I'm trying not to make eye contact with him, so I move around the room, doing my best to blend in with small groups of people.

  But my eyes always find his no matter where I go. I expected him to be glowering still. Instead, I catch his smile. It's coy and intriguing. It makes me notice how handsome he is, the way I had before I was told I'd ruined all his cabinets.

  What the hell? Why did my father invite him in?

  Pouring a glass of wine, I down it quickly, and pour another one. My eyes dance around the room, refusing to land on him again. Yet, they do. They find him despite my resistance and determination to avoid him.

  “He's cute,” my mother says over my shoulder.

  “Who?” I gasp, startling.

  “Oliver.” She gives me a grin and bounces her brows. “I think he's single too.”

  “Mom, stop. He works for Dad.” And he hates me, I think privately.

  She holds her glass up and crosses her arms over her chest. “I'm just saying he's cute. It isn't a crime to say he's cute, is it?”

  “No, but I know what you're doing.”

  “Narissa,” she says, giving me a nudge, “I'm not doing anything, but it isn't going to kill you to maybe try to get out a little more. Have some fun for once.”

  “I have plenty of fun.”

  “Do you? With who? I haven't seen you with any of your friends since you were back in high school. When do you ever go out anymore?”

  “I'm here, aren't I?” My head twinges like a migraine is coming on. I don't want her to remind me of how bad I am with making friends. “Thanks for the advice.” I walk off, heading to the window that overlooks the pool in the backyard.

  Over the music I hear the footsteps of someone approaching. I think it's my mother again, but then an exciting scent fills my nose. “Hope you’re ready for what's ahead,” Oliver says over my shoulder as he steps up and looks out the window with me. “I'm not going to go easy on you. You're going to actually work.”

  I hold my breath, sputtering out a response. “Did my father send you over to remind me?”

  “No," he says, giving me a wink. "I just want you to know what to expect
tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. You think I have time to wait around until your schedule opens up?” he asks, not waiting for my answer. “I don't. You're on my time now.”

  “Who the hell—” I start to say, when the room collectively starts to sing “Happy Birthday.”

  Oliver smiles, taking a small sip from his glass, then turns and walks away.

  And I'm left wondering why he's gone from acting like he wants to avoid me... to treating me like he can't wait to get me alone.

  2

  Oliver

  I wonder what time she'll decide to stroll in. . . If she strolls in at all.

  That girl isn't going to last one hour here. I'm sure she'll be afraid of the dirt or breaking a nail, maybe she'll complain the sawdust is irritating her delicate skin. I chuckle to myself as I imagine her cringing and whining about having to work.

  Her poor beautiful face, smeared with sweat, making her makeup run. My mind wanders, picturing the sweat trickling down her face and neck until it disappears inside her shirt.

  The image of her skin glistening, begging to be licked from head to toe, is in my head. I can't lie, she's gorgeous. Never in my life did I expect Ethan Thayer's daughter to be this beautiful. I was left slack jawed when I saw her behind the wheel.

  Her nipples were poking through her shirt, her jeans tight, hugging her around the hips. And when she bent over to check out the damage on the front of her car, her black thong peeking out of her jeans made my dick twitch.

  Even now, just thinking about her bold green eyes and heart-shaped lips is making my blood run hot. My cock jumps in my pants, thickening instantly as I imagine her wrapping her mouth around my dick and sucking my length.