The Firefly Cafe (Billionaire Brothers, #1)(2)

“I thought I heard someone out here,” she breathed. “And thank the sweet lord, because my shift starts in half an hour and I can’t afford to be late. Come on in, the toilet’s this way.”

“Toilet?” Wrong house. Man, I even manage to screw up my vacation.

Somewhere, his brother Miles was laughing his ass off.

Obviously clocking his confusion, the angel flushed and brushed a self-conscious hand down her front. “Right. The uniform. I know, it doesn’t look right, and I swear I don’t usually wear it around the house.”

For the first time, Dylan noted her getup, which looked like a costume for a diner waitress in a fifties movie, complete with a sea-green skirt that bared long, slender legs and a tiny white apron emphasizing the curves of her waist. THE FIREFLY CAFé was embroidered in pink over her left breast.

“You look just fine to me,” he told her honestly. Dylan was no stranger to beautiful women, but this woman, with her messy, tumbled-out-of-bed hair and slightly tired eyes unaccentuated by makeup sparked something in him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

She managed to look so nice, even while rolling her eyes; maybe it was the good-natured twist to her pretty pink mouth. “You’re sweet. A liar, but sweet. And I’ve got a plumbing issue that needs to be fixed or the Richie Rich one percenters who own this place will throw a hissy.”

Dylan frowned—was she talking about his family? Maybe this was Harrington House, after all. But what was this woman doing here? Stalling for time to figure out what the hell was going on, he said, “I’d like to help you out, but I’m not sure I’m the guy you want.”

The smile that lit her face heated Dylan’s blood faster than the most seductive pout. “Oh, you’re definitely the guy I want.”

Arousal, all the stronger for being so unexpected, tightened his belly. “Is that right?”

Pink bloomed over her cheekbones and down her neck, but instead of getting bashful, she lifted a flirty brow and said, “That’s exactly right, sugar. So long as you can snake my pipes.”

His bark of laughter surprised even Dylan. “Is that my cue to make a crack about showing you my tools?”

“Don’t strain yourself, sugar.” She waved a cheerful hand. “I work the night shift at the only restaurant on this island that serves alcohol. Trust me, I’ve heard every dirty joke there is. Now get in here, the clock’s ticking and the plumbing isn’t the only issue. I’ve got a whole list.”

When Dylan hesitated, reluctant to own up to belonging to the family she’d rolled her eyes over before, a slimly toned arm shot out and grasped the lapel of his leather jacket. With a laugh, she hauled him over the threshold and into the dimness of the house.

Half a second later, Dylan Harrington, third son and heir to the multibillion-dollar Harrington fortune, stood in a small white-tiled, paisley-wallpapered bathroom staring down at the plunger in his hand.

Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of his own bemused expression in the gilt-edged mirror above the pedestal sink. The wry half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth gave his face an unfamiliar lightness, but it felt good.

So much for a vacation from women who wanted something from him.

But somehow, as he faced down a misbehaving toilet and whipped out his smartphone to search the Internet for tips on plunging, Dylan admitted to himself that this was something different.

The mystery of who this woman was, and why she was living in his grandparents’ old vacation house, roused Dylan’s curiosity. But the bigger mystery was why he found himself attracted to a woman whose clean, fresh looks screamed “good girl.”


Dylan gripped the handle of the plunger, his rusty laugh echoing off the bathroom tiles. For the first time in a long time, his life had taken a sharp turn … and he couldn’t wait to find out what was around the corner.





Chapter 2



Penny Little smoothed her palms down the front of her oft-mended uniform, fingertips automatically worrying the loose buttonhole at the collarbone, and breathed deep to calm her racing heart.

When she phoned her employers for help, Penny had been expecting Grady Wilkes, the local handyman, or one of the Hackleys who ran the hardware store on Main Street. Not some tall, muscled, motorcycle-riding, scruffy-chinned vision of hotness on her doorstep.

“Bad Penny,” she muttered as she escaped to the kitchen to fix a pitcher of sweet tea. “Quit thinking about borrowing trouble. You’re full up already.”

And a man like the one who’d peeled off his leather jacket to reveal a white T-shirt straining across broad shoulders was nothing but trouble. A dark band of ink circled one muscular bicep, and Penny’d had to stop herself from asking where else he was tattooed.

Still, trouble or not, good manners dictated that she offer him a glass of something cold, Penny told herself as she headed back down the hall to the sound of muffled curses from the bathroom. Good manners. That was all.

But she recognized that for the dirty lie it was the instant she cracked open the door. Her breath caught at the sight of trouble leaning over the toilet in a way that molded those sinfully tight jeans to his lean hips and … well. Penny wished she had a hand free to fan herself with.

His surprisingly high-tech phone buzzed from the side of the sink, and he frowned down at it as he reached to heave the lid off the tank. The muscles in his corded forearms bulged briefly, drawing Penny’s gaze to the tanned skin dusted with hair a shade or two darker than his light brown buzz cut.