Never Too Late

NEVER TOO LATE CHELLE BLISS COPYRIGHT @ 2023 BLISS INK This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content. All Rights Reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Publisher © Chelle Bliss April 18th 2023 Edited by Lisa A. Hollett Proofread by Read By Rose Cover Design © Chelle Bliss Cover Photo © Furious Fotog Cover Model: Alex Turner Want a behind-the-scenes look at the chaos of my author life? Maybe you want early sneak peeks and other kickass treats. CLICK HERE to join the fun or visit menofinked.com/news CONTENTS 1. Franco 2. Chloe 3. Franco 4. Chloe 5. Franco 6. Chloe 7. Franco 8. Chloe 9. Franco 10. Chloe 11. Franco 12. Chloe 13. Franco 14. Chloe 15. Franco 16. Chloe 17. Chloe 18. Franco 19. Chloe 20. Franco Epilogue BONUS CHAPTER FREE EBOOK Open Road Series About the Author 1 FRANCO “Frankie, for fuck’s sake. Answer your phone.” Jack’s voice carries through the shop, echoing from deep under the hood of a late nineties town car. I’m leaning my elbows on the ancient metal shop desk, sorting through a goddamn mountain of paperwork as though the answer to the meaning of the universe is on one of those purchase orders. The even more ancient desk chair creaks under my weight. “Frankie!” Jack times his shout to the momentary pause before the bass of the song booming through the speakers kicks up to eardrum-splitting. “Fuck, man, you want me to find that slip or what?” I yell back. I’ve got a one-track mind, and I mean that literally. You want my attention, you get it. All of it. You want diagnostics run on a fuel pump, the best cup of coffee you ever had, a night of mind-melting orgasms courtesy of my tongue, or even a lost purchase order found—I can do every one of those things exceptionally well. But only one damned thing at a time. Finding that piece of paper Jack lost in this mess on the desk will take every shred of patience I have left. And to be honest, I didn’t even hear my phone. I can’t believe he can hear anything over the hair band he has blaring. I curse under my breath and try to find the slip of paper that my buddy insists is here—somewhere. If Jack’s parents weren’t going through some shit, I would have gotten my ass out from behind the desk and back under one of the dozen cars we have waiting for work, telling him to find the goddamn paperwork himself. But Jack’s my oldest friend, this is his shop, and without his mom here to keep the books, he’s in way over his head. “Come on, man. Did you find it?” Jack demands. I want to tell him to find his own needle in this haystack, but instead, I just hold up a hand and flip him the bird while I shove aside papers of all shapes and sizes. One problem at a time. I grab my phone and swipe the screen, and I see not one, not two, but three different messages, all from the same sender. Mom: Frankie, sweetheart, it’s your mother. Can you take a quick break and meet me at Latterature? It’s urgent but not life-threatening. Love, Ma Mom: Franco, honey. It’s almost lunch. Do your mother a favor and run down to the bookstore. I won’t keep you long. It’s very, very important. Love you, sweetheart. Ma Mom: Son, please, now I’m getting worried. You work five minutes away. Are you coming? Love, your mother Lucia Three separate text messages composed in full sentences. Each one addressed to me. Each one signed by my mother. No matter how many times I’ve explained that she doesn’t have to sign her texts, it’s a habit she’ll never break. And just like when we were kids, Ma escalates the urgency of her texts by switching from Ma to your mother. And worse, her full name. “J!” I yell over the music, rolling back on the wheelie chair that normally belongs to Carol, Jack’s mom. “I got to run out. You want me to bring back lunch?” Jack isn’t listening or didn’t hear me, so I head over to the hood of the town car and press the off button on that damn Hello Kitty speaker. “Yo!” I shout in the sudden silence. “I’m running to Latterature. You want somethin’?” Jack shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “My mom made me lunch today, man. I’m sorted.” Even though the marriage stuff going down with his parents is rough, I have to give him shit about it. “What, she pack you a Lunchable and a little note?” I tease. Jack kicks a work boot at my leg, but intentionally misses. “Fuck off.” Then he sighs. “She’s staying with me this week. She insists on packing me lunches and making dinners. It’s her way of thanking me for letting her crash at my place.” I clap a hand on the hood of the car and nod. “All right, man. So, you’re set with your ham sando with the crusts cut off. You want a coffee or something while I’m out?” “Nah.” Jack sniffs and gives me half a grin. “Ma packed my camping thermos. She thinks I spend too much money eating out.” I snort-laugh and almost give him shit for that. Almost. Yeah, we may be grown men in our late thirties, but if Ma makes it, we eat it. Ma says it, we pay attention. Hell, I’m