An Accidental Gentleman Read Online Free PDF Page A

its white lettering.
    “Partner. Christ.” They hadn’t fucked. They hadn’t so much as kissed. His brain answered the age-old question of how long it took to go ’round the bend: thirty minutes of conversation with a woman. But grease stains and road grime had painted the target, and whatever demanding fucker had taken charge of calling the shots for him refused to lock on anywhere else.
    Hands cupped across his forehead, he peered through the window. Electrics and motors. Household appliances, radios, and hobby toys lined shelves back to a wide counter. Crock-Pots and big kitchen mixers flanked the typewriter in the window.
    Not a damn thing he owned. He’d made his whole life disposable. Well, if he had nothing busted to bring her, he’d have to borrow an appropriate whosie-whatsit. Scanning the list, he unsnapped his phone and placed a call.
    Rob picked up on the second ring. “You miss me in the twenty minutes since you left work?”
    “My heart’s pining for you something awful.” He dropped his ass on the passenger window frame and bent back over the top of the car. Clear blue sky absorbed his sigh. “Can I borrow your mower? Or your vacuum?”
    “You don’t have a lawn.” Dead silence transformed to suspicion just so. “And the last time you cleaned your carpet, the rivers ran red with blood and the sun went out.”
    “I know.” The building’s maintenance guy managed the lawn, and his maid service dropped by once a month to keep a lid on his mess. Valid objections, but neither helped his case. “It’s for a friend.”
    “I know all your friends.” Rob tried to cover, but fuck if he wasn’t laughing.
    “Dammit, man. Can I borrow one or not?”
    “Easy, airman. First time I’ve heard of impressing a woman with a lawn mower.”
    “He’s doing what?” Nora chimed in from the background.
    A spreadsheeted breakdown and overhaul loomed for his whole dating strategy. “Oh, for the love of—”
    “Yeah, yeah. C’mon over, man. Bring a six-pack.” Muffled chatter alternated high and low, Rob’s phone likely smothered against his shirt. “And fishsticks.” The garbled speech continued. “With brown sugar barbecue sauce.”
    “I see who’s queen of your castle.”
    “You want our mower? Beer. Fish. Barbecue sauce.”
    Call ended, Brian hustled around to the driver’s side. The Vanderhoffs lived clear across town and beyond, a good fifteen or twenty minutes. He swung by the grocery store for the essentials.
    * * * *
    The customer bell over the front door tinkled a warning an hour before closing Tuesday evening. Pickup, more than likely. The extra hour gave office jobbers unable to fix a loose screw with two hands and a flathead time to drop their problems in Kit’s lap and take pieces good as new home for dinner.
    From her workbench in the back, she hollered a greeting. “Be right with you.”
    The stand mixer cracked open on the operating table would have to wait for its fresh worm gear. As she walked to the front, she wiped food-grade machine grease from her fingers. “Can I”—holy fuck, Prince Charming had tracked her down—“help you?”
    His dress shirt sported navy pinstripes today. No grease stains, but she could change that.
    He rubbed the back of his neck, driving his short hair up, and flashed her a toothy grin. “I was going to bring you a lawn mower.”
    Snail-slow, she tilted from the waist and scanned the shop floor behind him. She loved a good laugh, but fucking with Brian delivered a charge her body hadn’t learned to measure. “You showed up empty-handed.”
    “Yeah.” He kept his distance, ten feet back from the counter, between the refurbished kitchen appliances and the working antique radios. “It wasn’t mine. Or broken.” Two steps forward, he dropped his hand and lifted his head. In his unblinking stare, his eyes glowed green as a solid grounded connection. “I wanted an excuse to see you.”
    The corner of the intake ledger hung off her side of the