Built to Last (Hidden Hearts #1)

By Kate McBrien

A one-week road trip.
Two relationship-phobic adults.
What could go wrong?

Max Carmichael finally has a shot to work with a legendary music producer and be something more than a band manager. But first, he has to demonstrate his skill by taking a road trip to scout new acts. The new job will give him the money he needs to help his parents with their struggling London pub and his little sister, who needs rehab. And if he has to spend one week with a free-spirited American woman who drives him crazy, he'll do it. Even if she is a seductive redhead. Max doesn't do redheads. Ever.

Althea Grayson has been living on Santorini for years. She's a trained chef who aspires to open a restaurant that serves amazing food to everyone, not just the people who can afford it. The only thing standing in her way is money. A paid road trip as a traveling companion is a means to an end; it will pay her way back to San Francisco to claim her trust fund and put her on a path to seeing her dream come true. And If she has to spend a week with a grumpy Englishman who drives her nuts, she'll do it. Even if he is a sexy beast.

NOTE: Max and Althea are secondary characters from the Indigo Series. It is not necessary to read the Indigo Series before reading Built to Last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate McBrien
• Release date: Feb 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463174241

Kate McBrien

Kate McBrien writes sexy and witty contemporary romance.She has an MA in art history and has taught art history at a local college. For many years, Kate has worked as a dental hygienist, courageously offering encouragement to her non-flossing patients.She has always enjoyed writing but became more serious after being encouraged by a friend to participate in National Novel Writing Month. She began writing historical fiction but soon realized that the romance was taking over the history.Kate is a San Francisco Bay Area native who lives near the beach with her husband and Lola, their spoiled Labrador Retriever. When not writing, she enjoys cooking, music, movies, reading, and fangirling over Jamie Dornan.

Book preview

DEDICATION

To LB, RDH. After all these years, I’m finally on the bus.

Scarlet > Fire

CHAPTER 1

Max

Max Carmichael took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. For the first time in his thirty years, he understood there was a fine line between life and death. He had been lucky, and he couldn’t shake off what might have happened if the Russian mobster’s henchman had shot him in the head instead of the shoulder. He shoved the pillow under his head, trying to get comfortable, his gaze traveling around Eva’s pristine bedroom. He’d been coming here for years, and this was the first time he ever paid attention to this room. Everything was white. White furniture, white bed linens, white tulips tastefully arranged in a white ceramic vase. Even the chandelier over the bed was white. Who hangs a fucking chandelier in a bedroom? The only hint of color was a pool of soft, golden light on the ceiling, reflected from the white bedside lamp. He focused on that light as if it were the sun itself.

Eva rolled onto her side, nestling closer to him, her finger tracing the scar on his left shoulder. You never told me what happened that day.

Max shifted away. It’s because I don’t want to talk about it.

Eva flopped on her back in a huff, gathering the sheets over her surgically enhanced breasts.

I’ve got to go. Max rolled out of bed and dressed as fast as he could.

You just got here, she said with a scowl.

He ignored her as he slipped his jacket on.

I don’t know why I bother seeing you, Eva said, raking her fingers through her bleached, blonde hair.

You know why. We figured that out the night we met years ago, Max headed for the door.

Wait.

Max turned around, barely concealing his impatience. Yeah?

Our arrangement has always been casual, but I do care about you.

Max glanced at his phone. Sorry, I’m late.

Eva’s blue eyes widened with his tone. Will I see you soon?

He knew that expression. It was hope, and Max wasn’t prepared to fulfill her expectation. Apparently, Eva was beginning to change her mind about their casual hook-ups.

I’ll text you when I’m free.

You don’t always have to play the tough guy.

Bye, Eva, he said with a curt nod before leaving.

Max, Eva called after him, but he left without looking back.

Max left Eva’s posh Mayfair flat and climbed into his Land Rover. He switched on the satellite radio and shuffled through the stations, stopping on the Broadway channel.

Driving through London, he ruminated about how he had been coasting through his life for years. Working as Indigo’s manager had been a fun escape, but he had not followed through with his original dream. However, his new job just might give him that opportunity. And this was the perfect time for new beginnings. Indigo had broken up and its lead singer, and his best mate, Justin Hamilton, had launched a solo career and had a future with an American girlfriend.

Waiting at a stoplight, Max hummed along with a song from Jesus Christ Superstar. Making a left turn into Islington, he turned his attention from his own life to his family.

Max! Reggie, Arthur, and Sadie greeted him when Max pushed open the door to the Carmichael Arms. The scent of beer and potatoes was home to him, as well as music from the British Invasion on the vintage jukebox. His parents grew up in London during the ‘60s, and for them, it was the only music that mattered. He had long ago given up trying to update the pub with new music. Currently, Love is All Around by The Troggs played in the background.

How are you, mate? Reggie asked, shaking Max’s hand. Reggie’s rheumy eyes studied Max with concern.

I’m all right. Thanks, Max replied.

Sadie turned around on the barstool. There’s my big, strong man.

Good evening, Sadie. How’s your granddaughter? he asked with a kiss on her wrinkled cheek.

She’s almost eighteen months old. I love her to bits, Sadie said with a wide, toothy grin.

His mum beamed at him from behind the bar.

How’s the shoulder? Arthur inquired over his ever-present glass of whiskey.

It’s good, Max said as politely as he could. The shooting happened over six months ago, and it was still the main topic for Arthur.

You doing all right? his mum asked, passing him a pint of beer across the bar.

I’m right as rain, Max answered, taking a sip of beer.

Bess Carmichael gave him a scrutinizing once-over. She knew her son all too well to believe that bullshit answer. We’re not busy tonight; stay and have a chat.

Not busy was an understatement. The Carmichael Arms was one of the oldest pubs in London, but many of the regulars had moved due to high rent in the neighborhood. The newer, wealthier residents favored glitzy restaurants and bars rather than a traditional English pub filled with Arsenal football memorabilia. The peeling posters lining the walls and the torn upholstery on the chairs made the pub shabby. But renovations were expensive, and his parents couldn’t afford to do any repairs.

Max took a seat at the end, and when his mum came around the bar, Max gave her a hug. I’ve missed you.

You were here last night, she said with a chuckle. His mum placed a warm hand on his cheek, her pale blue eyes searching his. You look tired. Is something troubling you?

I’m okay. Settling onto a barstool, he took a long sip of beer.

Max! his father boomed, emerging from the back office.

Hi, Dad. Max got to his feet again and greeted his dad with their usual bearhugs and back slaps. At six-feet-two, Mick Carmichael was almost as tall as Max, and, like his son, he used to be a talented rugby player.

Can you stay for dinner? Your mum has made a few shepherd’s pies, but we don’t have many takers tonight. Just the usual drinkers. He nodded to the trio at the bar.

Thanks, but I only dropped in to see how Mia was doing.

Mia, his mum called out over her shoulder. Max is here.

Hey, Max greeted his sister with caution when she emerged from the back office. How are your classes?

Sorry, Max. Mia glanced at her phone. I don’t have time for a visit. Nessa’s waiting for me at the cinema, she said with impatience.

Don’t you have class on Thursday nights? Max asked. Mia was twenty-three years old, and she had yet to find some sort of job to support herself.

I hated it. I’ve decided to take online classes instead.

To do what? Max scoffed.

With a lift of her chin, Mia said, I want to be a teacher.

Since when? Max blew out a harsh exhale. For fuck’s sake, Mia. You’ve been through every kind of educational program, and in the end, you always drop out.

Max kept his attention focused on his sister. Mia was naturally petite and had lost weight recently, making her appear even more fragile looking. Her heavy goth makeup masked the sister he used to know. If she didn’t find some direction in life, she was at risk for another opioid overdose.

Yeah, well, right now I’m late meeting Nessa, Mia said, darting out of the pub.

His mum tucked a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear and shot a quick glance to his dad. She’s on the waiting list for the rehab unit.

Let me help pay for a private clinic.

We can’t ask you to do that, his dad said with a shake of his head. Mia’s doing all right. She doesn’t mind waiting to begin treatment.

Of course she doesn’t mind, because while she’s waiting to go to rehab, she’ll hang out with her drug-using friends, Max said through clenched teeth.

Nessa doesn’t do drugs. And she promised to bring Mia straight home afterward, his mum said, trying to reassure him.

He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. How long is the wait to get Mia into the rehab unit?

The NHS didn’t give her a specific date, but it’s probably going to take six to eight weeks to get her a bed, his dad said in a calm voice. They’re backlogged, so it might take even longer.

I can move back home and pay rent. That will help cover the cost for Mia’s rehab.

His father’s expression was sympathetic. Your mum and I appreciate your concern, but it’s not your responsibility, son.

My new job with Phil Rothstein has potential. If I make more money, I can help.

His parents passed a glance to each other before his dad said with a shake of his head, You’ve given us too much of your own money over the years to keep the pub in business. That’s income you’ve earned for yourself. We can’t ask you to pay for Mia’s medical care, too. You have your own life and career.

My family is the most important part of my life, Max said with sincerity. Please give it some thought.

We will, but the answer will be the same. His dad gave his mum a wink when she slid a beer to him. His dad took a sip of beer. Poppy stopped by the other day.

She wants to see you, his mum said carefully, wiping down the bar to avoid looking at him.

Max barked out a laugh.

I asked her to leave, his dad said.

Good, Max bit out.

Poppy left you a note. She said it was important. His mum took a white envelope from under the counter and handed it to him.

Max snatched the envelope, tore it in half, and tossed it on the counter.

Reggie, Arthur, and Sadie turned in their direction with quizzical stares.

I’ve got to get going, Max said, his voice harsh.

You just got here. Stay, and join us for dinner, his mum said.

I’m sorry, but I really do have to go. Max kissed his mum on the cheek and gave his dad a slap on his back. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

CHAPTER 2

Althea

I heard you the first time, Kiki, Althea said, loading the refrigerator with groceries while she talked to her stepsister through the speaker of her cell phone.

Daddy needs that painting. A career retrospective exhibit is a big deal for an artist. It’s important to have all his paintings shown together. Kiki’s normally controlled voice had turned shrill.

Don’t lecture me about what’s important for Dad, Althea said, taking the produce from the eco shopping bag and packing it carefully in the crisper bin.

You are so incredibly selfish, Kiki snapped.

Althea smiled. It took a lot to piss off Kiki, and she had managed to do it in record time.

I’ll think about it.

Silence on the other end. Althea glanced at the phone. Kiki hadn’t hung up yet. Are you there?

"I’m not hanging up until you agree to come to San Francisco and attend Daddy’s exhibit, with the painting you stole."

I didn’t steal the painting. Althea pushed a few strands of hair away from her cheek and closed the fridge. And I’ve told you—each and every time you’ve called me, texted me, and emailed me—I’m not coming unless I talk to Dad himself.

The retrospective won’t be complete without that painting.

The exhibit isn’t for a while. I have time, Althea muttered while scanning her to-do list.

No, you don’t. The Robinson Museum needs to know as soon as possible what works from Daddy’s collection will be included.

It was Althea’s turn to pause. She grabbed her phone and walked toward the sliding glass door that led out onto the terrace. The Santorini sky was crystal blue this morning with only a few wispy, white clouds on the horizon. Althea loved living on the island, but deep down, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stay here forever.

Kiki said with a bored sigh, If you can’t afford the ticket, I’m sure Daddy will pay for it.

I don’t need his help. Althea toyed with the end of her braid.

It’s time to grow up, Althea.

I am a grown-up, Kiki. She had always hated that stupid nickname. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy. Althea took one last glimpse around the villa. Her final task was to make the bed in the master bedroom and then she’d have the rest of the morning to complete her other odd jobs.

Kiki sniffed. Cooking and cleaning for people is not a career.

"At least I earn my own money, Althea said, ending the call. Bitch!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the villa. She hated to admit it, but Kiki had a point. For years, Althea had dreamed of opening her own restaurant, a special kind of place. Real food for real people. Cleaning homes and odd jobs on a Greek island was not moving her any closer to achieving her goal.

Taking a deep, restorative breath, Althea scrolled through her contacts until she found Justin’s name. She typed out a text, letting him know Villa Kyaneos was ready for him and Lucy.

****

Althea drove around the windy roads of Santorini with all the windows down, singing Scarlet Begonias at the top of her lungs. This was her favorite Grateful Dead song, and the happiest memory she had of her childhood.

Parking in one of the few open spaces, Althea hopped out of her car, pulled a canvas shopping bag from the back, and walked up the hill to her next stop, her flip-flops slapping against the cobblestone street.

Hey, Vincent. Althea scratched the purring orange tabby cat lying in the sun near the steps of her friend’s home. Have you been a good boy? Althea whispered to him, rubbing his notched left ear. Vincent regarded her with indifference, as if he was offended by such a ridiculous question.

Althea climbed the stone steps and knocked on the front door.

Good morning, Althea.

Hi, Miranda. I’m not too early, am I?

Not at all. Would you like to join me for some tea?

Althea had no idea how Miranda managed to look so put together this early in the morning. Miranda was stylishly dressed in a pink and white floral skirt with a white cotton jersey sweater. Her dark hair was pulled into a chignon.

Sure. But I still need to clean your house. Don’t let me get distracted.

Of course not, Miranda said, opening the front door of her home.

Each time Althea visited Miranda, she was impressed by how someone could live in a small home and keep it so tidy. The décor was sophisticated without being fussy, just like its owner.

Althea followed Miranda into the galley kitchen and set the canvas bag on the counter. How do you get anything done in this small space? she asked, removing plastic containers from the bag.

Miranda scoffed. I don’t have to do much cooking since you bring me so many delicious meals on a regular basis.

Althea opened the mini refrigerator and stacked the containers inside. It’s no big deal, she said, closing the fridge with her hip. They’re leftovers from a dinner party I catered. I made potato-leek soup, a salad of baby beets with prosciutto and goat cheese, and roasted lamb with caramelized garlic.

You could be working at any restaurant on the island.

Nah, I don’t like being told what to do.

Then you should open your own restaurant.

Maybe I will someday, she said with a touch of melancholy. But cooking for people who need help works best for me right now.

I understand, Miranda said with a warm smile, pouring boiling water into an elegant teapot decorated with butterflies.

But these, Althea said proudly, holding out a glass dish, I made especially for you.

Miranda lifted the tin foil and inhaled deeply. Madeleines.

They’ve always been my favorite, too.

Let’s have some now, shall we?

Miranda wiped her mouth with a napkin and took a final sip of tea. I should never have told you my weakness for them.

Life’s too short to be good all the time.

They sat at a small, weathered wood dining table, but it was cozy and welcoming.

Why do you keep doing this for me? Miranda asked.

Doing what?

Why do you bring me food just when I need it? Miranda’s voice was quiet.

Althea only knew a little about Miranda’s past. She had been a successful fashion designer in New York City but left it all behind. There were rumors that Miranda had some sort of breakdown and ran away to Santorini. She had never asked Miranda for details. If Althea sensed someone needed help, then she was happy to offer a shoulder, an ear, or a meal.

I’m a born nurturer. It’s what I do best, and I enjoy it.

I’m fortunate you chose to do something nice for me.

That makes it all worthwhile. Now, Althea said, standing and collecting the plates, time to get busy cleaning.

You’re a whirlwind of activity. You’re always on the go. You should take some time for yourself.

I do. Althea made quick work of washing the dishes and placing them to dry in the rack on the counter.

When was the last time you went home?

I am home. I’ve lived on Santorini for years. Althea wet a sponge, sprinkled cleanser into the sink, and scrubbed the tea stains off the white porcelain.

I mean home as in seeing your family. It’s San Francisco, isn’t it?

Althea gripped the sponge, the grit of the cleanser pushing under her nails. It’s not my home anymore, she muttered, resuming her scrubbing.

Sometimes you have to know when it’s time to turn and face whatever you’re running away from.

I grew up in San Francisco, but it’s not where I want to be. She gave the sink a final rinse before storing the cleanser and sponge away. Turning to Miranda, she said, My life is here now.

Miranda held her hands up. I’m not judging you. When I came to Santorini years ago, I never wanted to leave. But, as much as I love living here, I realize it’s not really my home. I think you do, too.

Yeah, well, thanks for the insight, but I’ve got lots to do. Althea pushed away from the sink, took out the house-cleaning caddy from another cupboard, and got to work. She cleaned Miranda’s home in record time, pouring all her focus into her tasks. On any other day, Althea would have thought it was just friendly advice, but after the phone call with Kiki, Miranda’s comments struck a chord. Her father’s exhibit loomed in the not-too-distant future. He wanted the painting, and sooner or later there would be a confrontation.

When Althea finished, she picked up the envelope containing her cash payment and knocked softly on Miranda’s studio door.

Come in, Miranda answered.

Althea cracked the door open and peered inside. This room intrigued her, because it was a place of artistic creativity: sketches on the design table, a mannequin covered in champagne-pink tulle, and a variety of fabric swatches all around her.

Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to let you know I’m done.

Miranda glanced up from her sewing machine, taking off her glasses with a sigh. I need to apologize. I consider you to be a friend, not my cleaning lady. What I said was out of line. You do so much for me. I’m concerned that no one is looking out for you.

No worries. I have friends, and we look out for each other.

All right, but if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me.

I will.

I mean it. Miranda got to her feet and came toward Althea. She took her by the shoulders and gave her a hug. You have a big heart, and you give love away too easily, Miranda said into Althea’s ear.

Althea was surprised by this outpouring of affection from the usually aloof Miranda Eastwood. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Miranda. I’ll see you next week.

Closing Miranda’s door, Althea’s phone pinged with an incoming text. Stuart was back in town.

Hey, firecracker. Wanna get together?

CHAPTER 3

Max

It’s still not right, Phil Rothstein said through the microphone that piped into the studio.

The members of Arrow, a new American group, responded with a collective groan.

Shit, growled Logan, the lead singer. I don’t understand what you want, he said with frustration, raking a hand through his shoulder-length hair.

Phil rolled his chair away from the board. Getting to his feet, he left the control room for the studio. He patted Logan on the back saying, Relax and take a break. We’ll get there. I’m a stubborn son of a bitch, and I won’t stop until I get what I want.

Logan nodded, shuffling away to join his bandmates.

Remind you of anyone? Phil asked Max when he returned to the room.

I was thinking the same thing. Max laughed. You challenged Justin when he recorded his solo album with you.

Phil smiled. My thoughts exactly. Logan has a great voice. It’s not as flexible as Justin’s, but Logan is young and inexperienced.

Justin is in a league all his own, Max added. He has an incredible range, and his ability to convey the emotions of the lyrics is unparalleled. Max paused and cleared his throat. It’s just my opinion.

Phil studied him for a few moments. It intimidated him whenever Phil did this, because he was never sure what the producer was thinking.

Phil tilted his head to one side. You have a keen ear for music.

Max tried to interrupt, but Phil held up a hand to stop him.

I’ve seen how your eyes fly all over the control board when we record. You’re eager to take the chair and make suggestions.

I’m not trying to move in on anyone’s territory. Max gave a shake of his head. You’re the producer. I’m just here to observe and learn.

That’s right. I am the producer—a phenomenal producer. I can find talent that’s hidden under years of poor training and lack of discipline. I think you have that gift, too.

Phil kept