The Harty Boys, Book 5
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Christmas, a time for family, cheer and Joy getting her groove back.
It’s nearly Christmas and the Hart brothers and their families are getting ready for another loud, crazy and wonderful holiday. But when they show up at their mother’s house with a freshly cut tree in tow, they’re in for a surprise nobody ever expected.
After losing her husband thirty years ago, Joy Hart raised her four sons on her own, got her doctorate and became an accomplished sex and relationship therapist. As much as she loves being a nana, a mom and a mother in-law, she’s far from dead and wants more in her life. For a long time, she pretended she was satisfied with the flings she had while away at conferences. Love was not on her radar. But a chance meeting with a dashing man has opened this Hart’s heart to new possibilities.
Too bad her sons aren’t onboard with the new man in their mother’s life. They’re giving Grant the gears and think he’s all wrong for their mother—for their family. He has no place at their Christmas dinner table, and the Harty Boys are determined to get the dirt on Grant before the timer on the oven says the turkey is done.
Will Brock, Chase, Rex and Heath take things too far and ruin Christmas for everyone with their stubborn, meddling, alpha ways? Or will Grant save the day, save Christmas and prove to everyone that Joy deserves a happily ever after just like the rest of them?
Note: This is the fifth book in the Harty Boys Series. It’s highly recommended to read the Harty Boys quartet first. But not every Hart found their soulmate, so I thought why not give Joy the happily ever after she deserves too? So grab your rum and eggnog, put your fuzzy slippers up, get cozy by the fire and dive into a fun, lighthearted read featuring your favorite family at Christmas time.
Excerpt
“Mum?” Brock barked louder than the rest of them.
“Anybody packing?” Rex asked.
One by one they all shook their heads. All of them except Krista. “I have my glock in the safety box in the truck,” she said. “Want me to run and get it?”
Brock nodded, but didn’t glance at his cop wife.
She nodded and disappeared.
“Get the women and children outside,” he said to no one in particular.
Heath turned to his wife and murmured something to her, passing her Raze.
Against the children’s wishes, they all started to file back out just as Krista arrived back inside.
The click of a bedroom door had them all pausing, including everyone on the threshold.
Brock watched the knob turn and the door open.
His heart was in his throat.
Making gimme fingers to his wife, he asked for the gun.
“I’m a better shot than you are,” she muttered, elbowing him out of the way.
Holding his breath and not blinking, he kept his gaze focused on where his mother’s bedroom door was and the whispers filtering out of it. It was definitely two people. He knew that now.
“Mum?” he barked, making his wife in front of him jump, glance at him over her shoulder and glare.
A head poked out from the doorway and his mother’s brows furrowed.
Sighs echoed through all of them.
“What the hell are you doing with that, Krista? Put that away right now,” his mother ordered, stepping into the hallway, all four-foot-eleven inches of her.
“Sorry,” Krista murmured, stowing the gun in the holster that she had clipped to her belt.
Their mother approached. “What is going on?”
“I’d like to ask you the same question,” Brock said, realizing he was still holding the damn tree on his shoulder and leaning it up against the wall. “Why didn’t you answer us? Why is the house cold, dark and quiet? Why are the curtains pulled? Whose truck is that?”
Color burned in his mother’s cheeks.
“Yes,” Krista said in what sounded like a hiss. Her smile grew mischievously wide.
Yes?
Brock took in his mother’s appearance for a moment.
She was wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and a long-sleeve button-up blouse of some light shade of pink. But the buttons were askew, not fastened properly. The shirt was also wrinkled. Her hair was disheveled, too.
Which was so unlike Joy Hart.
The woman was always put together.
Since as long as Brock could remember, his mother had tucked her hair up into a no-nonsense bun on the back of her head, and rarely was a hair ever out of place. But the bun on the top of her head now looked like it’d been tossed up in haste.
Her lips were also puffy.
And there was a red rash or something on her cheeks.
A throat cleared down the hallway and Brock lifted his head.
He could hear his mother swallow as he watched a man about the same height and build as him walk down the hall, buttoning his shirt.
“What the fuc—”
“Watch it,” his mother said.
“Holy crap,” Rayma murmured behind Brock. “Have him stripped, bathed and brought directly to my tent.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“He’s old enough to be your dad,” Heath scolded her.
“And I’m sure he could help me work through any daddy issues I may have,” Rayma retorted. “And for the record, all y’all burly Harty Boys are old enough to be my father. Hasn’t stopped the fantasies during the dry spells.”
“Rayma!” Pasha admonished, nearly dropping her son as she gaped at her young twenty-something year old sister. “That’s my husband.”
Brock noticed Rayma’s indifferent shrug. “I know, and I’m respectful. It’s not like in my fantasies we’re cheating. You’ve been dead a respectable amount of time, and I am there for Heath to help him raise the children on his own.”
“You kill me?” Pasha practically screamed.
“This just keeps getting better,” Lydia, Rex’s wife said with a chuckle.
The man from the hallway with the dark, close-cropped hair, facial scruff and light gray eyes came up suspiciously close behind Brock’s mother and rested his hand on their mother’s shoulder.
Brock’s body turned molten hot.
He heard his brothers grunt and suck in breaths beside and behind him.
Their mother glanced at the man behind her, smiled and turned back to the rest of them. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Grant.”
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