Turn My Crank (Spoiled by My Blue Collar Man #1)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Colby

The damn alarm didn't go off. Or maybe it did, and I slept through it. Either way, I'm screwed.

"Susie!" I call, my voice echoing through our small bungalow as I throw off the covers. "Time to get up, pumpkin!"

No response. Of course.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and wince at the time. 7:42 AM. School starts at 8:30, and we're supposed to be there early today because it's Ms. Reeves' birthday, and Susie insisted on bringing cupcakes.

Cupcakes that are still sitting in a box on the kitchen counter, waiting to be transferred to the plastic carrier I forgot to buy yesterday.

"Shit," I mutter, yanking a clean t-shirt over my head. I step into yesterday's jeans—they don't smell too bad—and run my fingers through my hair. No time for a shower.

"Susie!" I try again, louder this time, as I make my way down the hallway. "We're running late, baby. Rise and shine!"

I push open her door to find my six-year-old daughter still bundled in her unicorn comforter, nothing visible but a tangle of dark curls on the pillow.

"Five more minutes, Daddy," she mumbles, disappearing further under the covers.

"No can do, pumpkin." I flip on the light and move to her closet. "We've got cupcakes to deliver, remember? Ms. Reeves' birthday?" I pull out the outfit she'd laid out last night—thank God for small favors—and set it on the bed.

At the mention of cupcakes and her beloved teacher, Susie's head pops up. "Is it really her birthday today?"

"Yep. Now, can you get dressed while I make breakfast? We need to hurry."

She nods earnestly, suddenly wide awake. "I can do it fast. Super fast."

"That's my girl."

In the kitchen, I pour cereal into bowls with one hand while texting Lane with the other. Running late. Cover for me at the shop? We're supposed to be working on a vintage Harley this morning, but family comes first. Lane knows that.

My phone pings with his reply: Got you covered, man. Tell the munchkin I said hi.

I smile despite the chaos. Good friends are worth their weight in gold.

"Daddy! I can't find my left shoe!" Susie's panicked voice calls from her bedroom.

Of course she can't. Because nothing can ever be simple.

"Check under the bed!" I yell back, pouring milk and grabbing two spoons.

I glance at the cupcakes, mentally calculating how I'm going to transport two dozen chocolate cupcakes with pink frosting without a carrier. The box they came in is falling apart, and I don't have time to run to the store.

"Found it!" Susie announces triumphantly as she skips into the kitchen, mismatched socks on her feet and her shirt buttoned wrong. But she's dressed, and that's what matters.

"Good job, pumpkin. Eat up," I say, sliding her bowl across the counter. "We've got ten minutes."

She climbs onto a stool and eyes the cupcakes. "How are we taking those to school?"

"I'm working on it."

I rummage through the cabinets, finding a large plastic container that usually holds leftovers. It'll have to do. As I carefully transfer the cupcakes, Susie chatters about Ms. Reeves and how excited she is to surprise her.

"Ms. Reeves is the best teacher in the whole world," she declares between bites of cereal. "She lets me help with the class fish, and she says my drawings are ex-qu-is-ite." She pronounces the word carefully, proudly.

"Is that so?" I smile at her enthusiasm. I've only met Ms. Reeves briefly at the beginning of the school year, but Susie talks about her constantly. According to my daughter, Ms. Reeves hung the moon and stars.

"She's really pretty too," Susie adds casually, giving me a sidelong glance that's far too knowing for a six-year-old. "And she's not married."

Jesus. My kid is trying to set me up with her teacher. Again.

"Finish your breakfast, matchmaker," I tell her, pointing at her still-full bowl. "We need to go in three minutes."

"But you said we had ten minutes," she protests.

"That was seven minutes ago."

I glance at my watch and curse under my breath. We're definitely going to be late.

Somehow, we make it out the door by 8:15.

The cupcakes are precariously balanced in the plastic container on Susie's lap as I navigate my old pickup through morning traffic.

I've fixed up dozens of cars, but mine remains a work in progress.

The engine groans in protest as I accelerate, and I make a mental note to look at it this weekend.

"Don't forget Bunny has to come home with us tonight," Susie reminds me, referring to the well-loved class stuffed rabbit that gets to visit a different student's home each weekend. "It's my turn."

"I won't forget," I promise, though I've already added it to the mental list of things I'll probably forget. Between the shop, the club, and single fatherhood, my brain is perpetually overloaded.

We pull into the school parking lot at 8:28, technically not late but definitely cutting it close. I help Susie out of the truck, taking the container of cupcakes so she can grab her backpack.

"Walk, don't run," I remind her as we make our way across the parking lot. She's practically bouncing with excitement, her uneven pigtails—when did she do those?—bobbing with each step.

We reach her classroom just as the morning bell rings. Kids are still filing in, parents saying goodbyes at the door. I breathe a sigh of relief. We made it.

And then I see her.

Ms. Reeves stands at the door, greeting each child with a warm smile. She's wearing a simple blue dress that matches her eyes, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. There's a quiet grace about her that I didn't notice during our brief introduction months ago.

Susie breaks into a run despite my warning, throwing her arms around her teacher's waist. "Happy birthday, Ms. Reeves! We brought cupcakes!"

Ms. Reeves laughs, the sound light and genuine. "Thank you, Susie! What a wonderful surprise."

Her eyes lift to meet mine, and my breath catches. They're the kind of blue that reminds you of summer skies, clear and bright.

"Mr. Reynolds" she says, still smiling. "Thank you for the cupcakes. You really didn't have to go to all that trouble."

I shift the container in my arms, suddenly aware of how haphazardly I've arranged them. "It was no trouble," I lie. "And please, call me Colby."

"Colby," she repeats, and something about the way my name sounds in her voice makes my heart beat faster. "I'm Lacy."

Lacy. It suits her—delicate but not fragile.

"Daddy made a special effort," Susie pipes up, not-so-subtly looking between us. "He says it's important to celebrate special people."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I think what I said was that your teacher works hard and deserves to be celebrated."

"Same thing," Susie shrugs, before ducking past Lacy into the classroom, mission accomplished.

Lacy takes the container from me, our fingers brushing briefly. "These look delicious."

"Store-bought, I'm afraid," I admit. "Baking isn't exactly in my skill set."

"Honesty is refreshing," she says with a small laugh. "Most parents pretend they've slaved over homemade treats."

"Not this parent. If it can't be fixed with a wrench, I'm pretty much useless."

"A mechanic, right?" She tilts her head slightly. "Susie mentions the garage a lot."

The knowledge that Susie talks about me in class warms my chest. "Yeah, I co-own Mountain Mechanics in town."

"So you fix things for a living." There's something in her expression I can't quite read. Interest, maybe? "That's a valuable skill."

"I try my best," I say, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager instead of a thirty-year-old man. "Though clearly my time management could use some work." I gesture vaguely at Susie, who's now showing off the cupcakes to her friends.

Lacy's smile widens. "You made it before the bell. In my book, that's winning."

Another parent approaches with a question, and I realize I'm holding up the line. "I should let you get back to it. Have a good birthday, Lacy."

"Thank you, Colby." She hesitates, then adds, "We're having parent-teacher conferences next week. I look forward to catching up properly then."

Is it my imagination, or is there an invitation in her eyes?

"I'll be there," I promise, backing away before I can say something stupid.

As I walk back to my truck, I find myself smiling. Maybe Susie's matchmaking attempts aren't so misguided after all.

My phone buzzes with a text from Lane: Harley owner just called. Wants to know if we can add custom pipes. You in?

Work calls, but for once, my mind isn't racing ahead to the day's tasks. Instead, I'm thinking about summer-blue eyes and the way my name sounded on Lacy Reeves' lips.

Next week can't come soon enough.