Marrying The Wedding Crasher. Melinda Curtis

“You’re going to come to my wedding.” His younger brother Joe wasn’t asking. “And you’re going to bring that girlfriend of yours. It’s long past time we met her.”

Ah, the girlfriend.

His brothers pestered him less when they thought he was in a relationship. Hence his make-believe girlfriend, the latest of which hadn’t been make-believe a month ago.

Vince’s gaze drifted across the job site to the blonde working the tile saw. Harley O’Hannigan wasn’t likely to go away with him again. “She’s not sure she can get off work.” Besides, Harley would think he was a jerk if he asked her. But she was just the kind of woman who could hold her own against his siblings.

“What’s her name?” His older brother Gabe was nearly silenced by the whir of the tile saw and the punch-punch-punch of a nail gun. “And what’s that noise? Where are you?”

“They’re remodeling my local Starbucks.” Lying, Vince pulled his focus away from Harley. He was part of a crew working on a huge remodel in a fancy neighborhood outside of Houston. “And, no, I won’t tell you her name. The last time I introduced you to my girlfriend, you stole her, Gabe.”

Mandy Zapien, a girl with a heart of gold. He hoped she was married to somebody stable and had three kids by now.

“That was high school,” Gabe scoffed. “There is no girlfriend, admit it. All the more reason Vince needs to come home so we can straighten out his life.”

Vince’s life was fine as long as his brothers stayed out of it. Not that he didn’t love them. He just didn’t want to answer for every decision he’d made, every confidence he’d kept.

“The fake girlfriend is your tell.” Joe sounded disappointed. “The last time you bluffed about one, you’d been clipped by a stray bullet in a bar fight.”

“I wasn’t actually in the bar fight.” He’d been collateral damage, which seemed to be the story of his life. Vince set his jaw. “I’m not bluffing. There’s a girl.”

Correction. A woman. Wearing worn blue jeans, a burgundy T-shirt with the construction company’s logo and scuffed work boots. She wiped a tile dry with a towel, examining the cut she’d made in the white marble.

“Send us a picture,” Joe prodded. “We’ll compare her to Sarah Whitfield. Did I tell you she was back in town? And still single?”

“Guys...” Vince squeezed the tail end of his patience.

“There is no girlfriend.” Gabe pounced once more. “Which means you’re in trouble. Do you need me to spot you some cash?”

“No!” Money was the last thing Vince was worried about.

Harley spared Vince a glance. She was what Texans called a tall drink of water. Long, elegant lines, delicate bone structure, straight blond hair that she kept in a long braid down her back. Everything about her appearance was at odds with her being a construction worker. That contradiction was the reason he’d asked her out. Her gentle humor and sly wit had kept him asking.

“If it’s not money, how’s that truck of yours running?” Joe jumped in on Gabe’s fun. “I could re-bore those heads again and you’d get another fifty thousand miles.”

Vince drove their father’s red-and-white 1976 pickup truck. It had a weak air conditioner, cloth seats and unreliable headlights. Dad had been a mechanic who’d struggled with mental illness, made harder on the family when Mom had left them. Despite challenges, Dad had taught his three boys his trade. Only Joe had followed in Dad’s footsteps. Gabe was a lifer in the military, currently on leave for Joe’s wedding. And Vince—

“Messina! Break time’s over.”

Vince’s boss rounded the far corner of the house they were remodeling. Jerry wore a frown and a sunburn from a weekend spent bass fishing. “That deck’s got to be finished today.”

Vince held up a hand, acknowledging the older man. “I’m fine,” Vince said into the phone. “The truck is fine. My bank account is fine. Harley is fine.” This last came out like a backfire through a rust-ridden muffler.

His brothers crowed over his slip.

“Retire Dad’s truck,” Gabe said when he stopped laughing. “I’ll

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