Protecting Mandy: McCallister Military Brothers, #1

By Leslie North

Even an ace mechanic can't repair a broken heart…

 

When Mandy's father died he left her alone, heartbroken, and buried in crippling debt to an unscrupulous bookie. Now, Mandy's the proud owner of an auto repair business whose only other mechanic just quit. Things couldn't get any worse. Until former Navy SEAL Chance McCallister, the man who broke her heart when they were teens, walks through her door. He's looking to help, and even hotter than she remembers. She'd be crazy to hire him as her new mechanic. 

 

And she'd be even crazier to fall in love with him again…

 

Chance knows Mandy's in trouble. And even though he doesn't want to get involved, he just can't stop those feelings flooding his heart, the same way they did when he was a kid. Nothing has changed… Except Mandy is even  more beautiful, more fierce, more everything. But he's not going down that road again. One messy breakup is enough. He'll protect her. He'll put his life on the line. And he'll do what he can to keep her safe. 

 

But this time, he'll protect his own heart as well…

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223890270

Book preview

1

Chance McCallister peeled his sweaty top off with a relieved sigh. For two hours he’d stood melting in his dress whites, the relentless sun beating on the long-sleeved polyester. Standing by his father’s grave would have been hard enough without the humidity of a July day in Georgia, not to mention all the hardware weighing down his coat—medals, ribbons, badges, and his Navy SEAL Trident.

I need a beer. Harris, his middle brother, dropped his dress jacket—courtesy of the U.S. Marines—onto the back of a kitchen chair and headed for the refrigerator.

Grab me one too. Lee, the youngest at twenty-eight, stretched his arms over his head. He’d lost his top, Army issue, the second they got home.

Standing in wet undershirts, uniform pants, belts, and shiny shoes, none of them would pass inspection, but only Harris had to worry about returning to service in thirty days. Chance and Lee had each retired recently, though for very different reasons.

Chance? Harris held up two bottles by their long necks and arched an eyebrow.

Yeah, might as well. Chance sighed, his skin rippling at the central air conditioning pumping through the vents. It dried the sweat off his biceps and sent a chill down his spine.

Harris nudged the door shut with his foot and thrust the bottles at Chance and Lee, then twisted the cap off the one he kept for himself. To Dad. He lifted his beer. May he finally be at peace.

Chance tilted his bottle toward his brothers, then took a long, fortifying drink. Dad’s funeral had been sad, but not unexpected. Ray McCallister had fought a hard battle with liver cancer, but he’d never stood a chance. Twenty years of hard drinking had given the cancer one hell of a head start. It had run through his body like a forest fire, burned him hollow and left just a shell.

Chance set his beer aside, no longer thirsty. He was an orphan now. An orphan at thirty. It all felt too soon. It had happened too fast, three months from the news to that sweaty graveside. Dad had still sounded fine when they’d talked back in May. By June, he’d gone hoarse, his voice abruptly an old man’s. Chance had barely gotten home in time to say goodbye. He’d been granted retirement on July ninth and buried his father on the twenty-third. He’d only been home a week when Ray died.

He watched Harris down his beer and wince through the brain freeze. Harris had always been closest to their father, but Chance had done his best to catch up before Ray dropped into a coma. He’d read to his dad, filled him in on his life, sat at his bedside into the night. It had felt wrong at first—too little, too late. They’d been on edge, Ray and Chance both, waiting for the spark that would blast them into old patterns of arguments and accusations. But when Chance had stayed calm, Dad had as well, and in the end, he thought they’d found peace.

You made me proud, Dad had said, the last night he’d been fully himself. Still do, but I’m talking about… He’d broken off, wheezing in great, rattling gasps.

Dad—

Lemme get this out.

Chance had poured him some water. Dad had wet his lips.

I’m talking about back when your mother passed on. I’m not gonna apologize. I’m not sorry for—

You had to work. Chance had swallowed his anger, the ghost of old hurts.

I had you three to support. I’m not sorry for that. But the way you stepped up…I never thanked you for that. That’s what I wanna say to you. Not sorry, but—thanks.

Dad had meant it, Chance thought. Still, he wished he wasn’t so versed in planning funerals. Coordinating his mother’s had caused a deep scar, left him bereft and filled with resentment. He’d been just sixteen, and he’d felt so alone. But that was all finally behind him.

Pivoting, he left the kitchen and wandered into the living room. The small, three-bedroom ranch house had seen better days. Worn spots marred the once dark green carpet, and the pale-yellow walls looked tired and faded. Peering out the bay window behind a pillow-style couch, he grunted at how tall the grass had grown in the front yard.

I mowed last Friday. Chance raised his voice to be heard over his brothers dissecting the attendance at the graveside service. You two can fight over who’s tackling the lawn next.

Hey, Lee. Harris bounded by him and crossed to the fireplace. Remember this? He plucked an old Polaroid camera from behind Lee’s 8x10 high school graduation photo on top of the stained-wood mantel.

Deep creases formed between Lee’s brows and he rubbed his right eye, the same eye that had earned him a medical discharge after a stray fleck of shrapnel damaged his vision. As a decorated sniper for the Army Rangers, that had been the kiss of death for his career, given that Lee had refused to start over in another specialization.

You never went anywhere without that thing. Chance glanced at Lee. So annoying.

Harris chuckled. You used to boast about becoming a world-famous photographer.

Guess the joke’s on me. Lee chugged the rest of his beer in one go, and Chance felt bad. He needed to figure out a way to reach his brother before this bitter, restless man fully replaced the smartass he’d grown up with. The kid who loved pranks and practical jokes.

Chance strolled down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. You may have been irritating—man, you drove me nuts, actually—but you did get some great shots. He pointed at a Polaroid tucked between the glass and frame of his parents’ wedding portrait.

Harris and Lee crowded in to admire the photo of their father holding a bag of boiled peanuts, caught mid-shock when he walked into the house for his surprise birthday party.

Oh, man. Harris cracked up. Look at his face. I forgot about that day.

But this one’s my favorite. Chance plucked a Polaroid out of another frame. The entire family—three brothers and both parents—stood in front of the house on a sunny day only months before their mother got sick. I still can’t believe you talked Mrs. Mabry into taking this. Their old neighbor, seventy-one at the time, had always complained about everything and everyone.

Lee smirked and for a moment, his amber-brown eyes twinkled like they used to. That old bird was easy to figure out. The second I promised to scoop all the poop out of her yard and dump it on Pete Walsh’s porch, she was putty in my hands.

A bark of laughter erupted from Chance’s throat. That damn dog had been a menace and Pete had deserved what he got. Replacing the photo, he peered up the hall, then back toward the living room. Can either of you picture living here anymore?

Tension leached the small bit of levity from the room. Their father had worked two jobs in an effort to keep a roof over their heads and their mother’s medical bills from consuming him. He hadn’t been able to save anything extra to pass down, so he’d only left the three of them the house as their inheritance.

I think we should sell it, Lee announced, turning away and tromping down the hall.

You don’t want to stay now that you’re out? Chance asked, following behind.

Lee paused in the living room. "Are you saying you want to stay, now you’re out, too? You think Springwell is going to welcome you with open arms?"

A muscle ticked in Chance’s jaw. For most of his teenage years, their hometown of Springwell, Georgia, had not been kind to him. Small towns had long memories, and no transgression was ever truly forgiven or forgotten. Chance had managed to earn himself a reputation as a fighter—not just a fighter, but a bully, no less. Even now, the idea had him boiling with resentment. He hadn’t started those fights, but damn right, he’d ended them. That was what strength meant—standing up for the weak. Cutting the real bullies back down to size. That meant he’d settled a lot of situations with his fists. But what else could he have done? He’d just been a kid.

Could’ve told someone. Gotten an adult to help.

He could’ve…but he hadn’t. Maybe on some level, it had felt good, taking out his anger on some two-bit bully. After the way he’d lost Mom, and basically lost Dad with the man checking out like he had, he’d been carrying more than his share of rage. Rage that had needed to be vented somehow, on someone.

Thankfully, twelve years in the Navy—with eight of them as a SEAL—had given him an outlet for that rage until he no longer had to channel it into aggression. The type of bond he had formed with his teammates had given him the emotional support he hadn’t realized he needed until his confidence grew with each successful mission and the vise squeezing his chest disappeared.

You’re probably right, he said, snapping back to the present. This town’s going to have the same opinion of me as before. Chance drove his fingers through his sweat-slick hair. I can’t say I want to stay, but I didn’t exactly have enough time to figure out what comes next when I retired. Dad’s health started to nosedive before I even landed, and I haven’t had time to focus on anything else. He eyed his brothers. Harris only has bereavement leave, but what about you, Lee? What are you going to do now?

Lee sneered. I doubt Springwell has a need for a useless sniper in SWAT—not that we’re big enough to even have a dedicated unit. He swished his hand over his high-and-tight shorn head. Nothing’s holding me here, but I have no clue where to go.

You’re not useless, Harris snapped, rounding on Lee. You’ve still got skills no matter what the Army says.

Agreed. Chance jabbed a finger at the youngest brother. Lee’s unit had dubbed him Puma for his eye color, and for the way he hunted like a cat—a solitary killer, stealthy and smooth, stalking his target with patience and strategy. Your vision may not meet Ranger qualifications anymore, but I’d bet my life if I slapped a rifle in your hands, you’d nail the center of a bull’s eye with ease.

Lee’s chin jutted mulishly, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he sauntered into the kitchen and opened the door to the single-car garage. How’s this coming?

Getting the message to back off, Chance stepped into the sweltering garage. His taut muscles loosened at the welcome sight before him. A black 1967 Ford Shelby Mustang sat with its hood propped up, facing the garage door. His father had found the classic muscle car at an auction years ago, but he’d never gotten it running. The body was in pristine condition but whoever owned it before didn’t know jack about engines. To be fair, their dad hadn’t had much of a clue either. In their family, Chance was the only one who really knew what he was doing under a hood.

I think I might be close to getting it started. Chance fingered the blanket he had spread along the fender to keep it from getting dinged by tools or parts. Working on the car had given him a modicum of peace the past week. A much-needed outlet after watching his father die, then all the fallout of dealing with notifying banks, companies, insurance, etcetera while planning the funeral. In fact, the carburetor I ordered should be in today at the shop. He picked up a wrench off the multi-colored quilt. I took a risk and ordered a much cheaper one that’s supposed to be equivalent to the original Holley. Not ideal, but I wanted to keep my savings instead of blowing it on original parts.

The shop, huh? Harris asked, his voice sing-songy.

Chance stiffened.

Would this be the same garage where your ex-girlfriend works? Lee piled on.

The wrench bit into Chance’s palm.

Lee, do you remember him always coming home late with grease on his hands? Harris kept going with a laugh. I swear, he lived more at that shop than here. His brother paused just behind Chance. You gonna start hanging around there again like the good ol’ days? Showing up early with shakes from the diner?

Oh, yeah, those thick shakes. What was it she liked, again? Chocolate? Strawberry?

Half-’n-half strawberry and vanilla. Harris was full-on grinning, like a smug Cheshire cat.

Chance tossed the wrench on the blanket and crossed his arms against the memories trying to pull him under. Nope, he muttered through a tight throat. I stopped in once and spoke to a mechanic named Vince, who didn’t bother to share his milkshake preference. He offered to order parts through the garage so I can use their discount with their distributor. He glanced at his watch. I should probably get over there if I want to catch him before he gets off his shift. And with any luck, he’d miss…her.

Take a shower before you leave, Lee shot at Chance’s retreating back. "I bet Vince likes it when you smell pretty."

Chance thought about not showering, just to spite Lee. But he did kind of stink, and that wouldn’t do. A sailor was always shipshape and squared away, and that was why he was showering—definitely not for any other reason. That was why he soaped twice, went heavy on the Speed Stick, and picked out a shirt that hugged his pecs tight. Not because he was heading into her territory. Nothing to do with potentially seeing her again after twelve years. He marched down Main Street, strong, resolute. He wasn’t thinking about Mandy, not at all. Hadn’t thought of her in years, and he wasn’t about to start n—

Oh, Jesus. Just one glimpse and he ground to a halt. He swallowed hard, floored by the same gut-punching, mind-numbing reaction he’d had the first time he saw her, fifteen years ago.

Mine.

His chest tightened as he stared across the street. She was talking to someone, some guy in a suit, the two of them framed in the wide garage door. Twelve years fell away, and he was back in high school with the same shake in each hand, the same thumping of his heart in his chest, that he’d experienced then. She’d changed, but she hadn’t. Her thick, russet curls still framed her round face. Her skin was still milky and charmingly freckled. But time and hard work had made her stronger, filled out the lines of her arms and thighs into something stronger and more toned. Turned her from a princess to an Amazon queen.

Somehow, impossibly, she’d grown even more stunning.

Chance swallowed, but he found he couldn’t look away. Her charcoal coveralls hung loose on her body, but the drape of the material revealed mouth-watering curves—those same luscious curves he used to lick and suckle for hours. A vision ran, unbidden, through Chance’s head. A memory so powerful, it made his mouth water—the time he’d spilled a milkshake on