“Are you listening?”
I peeked at him. “Do I have a choice?”
“This is what you should do.” Roscoe began pacing, and his pacing hurt my head. I closed my eyes as he continued, “The next time you see her, be aloof. Pretend you don’t see her at all. That drives them crazy. Then when she comes over to you—’cause if she wanted you before, she still does—don’t even mention the last time you saw her. Compliment something she’s wearing, like her earrings, and then—”
“What in tarnation are you going on about?” I opened one eye to glare at him, and even that felt like tiny knives stabbing my retina.
“The lady. The beautiful woman you’re in love with.” His eyebrows hovered, perched over his widened gaze. “The one who wanted to have sex with you, but you—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I swung my arm out, holding up a hand between us as my forehead fell into the other one.
It came back.
It all came flooding back, a rush of frustration, anger, remorse, and misery. My head throbbed with it. And with the worst hangover of my life.
“Beau?”
“I love you, Roscoe, but you’re an idiot when it comes to women.”
* * *
Silver lining: a hangover gave me something to do—sleep—and a reason to avoid my family. However, since I’d slept all day Sunday, I slept fitfully that night.
Yep. That’s why I slept fitfully. Not because of anything else.
My plan had been to loiter in the morning, drink some coffee, read the newspaper. But the sight of Cletus walking around with his yoga matt was enough to propel me out of the house. Cletus before his yoga was like most people before their coffee.
“Happy Halloween, handsome.” Ashley stopped me on my way out; she was holding a box of pastries. “See what I did there? With the alliteration?”
“What you got in there?”
She held the box away. “Oh no, pumpkin head. These are for Sienna. Jennifer Sylvester made these just for her. And I’m bringing them over as a favor to Jethro.”
“Ashley,” I placed my hand over my heart, “I’m sure Sienna wouldn’t mind sparing just one.”
“Are you kidding? You want me to give you food meant for a pregnant lady?” She smacked my hand away. “You think I have a death wish?” Fast as lightning, she gave me a kiss on my cheek and then rushed past before I could snag the box. “Maybe if you’re real nice, I’ll bring you some carrots and blue cheese.”
I made a face at her back and then proceeded to the GTO, taking some comfort in the consistency of my car.
Maybe I wasn’t to be with a woman.
Maybe the healthiest and longest-lasting relationship in my life would be with my car.
I could do worse.
Then I thought of Shelly, standing in her doorway wearing nothing but a T-shirt, glaring at me with those devastating eyes.
Damn.
I spent the drive to work attempting to figure out what I could do to get back in her good graces. Don’t make any refrigerator jokes. I also added to the list, ignore Roscoe’s shitty advice as I claimed the parking spot next to hers.
With my heart in my throat, I left the safety of my GTO, wishing I’d brought her flowers. But then I didn’t, reminding myself that she probably hated flowers. I could have brought her more potholders, but that felt unoriginal.
When I entered the garage, I spotted her toward the back, washing something in the sink. Making a beeline for her, it was on the tip of my tongue to remind her what Dr. West had said about washing tools, but then I saw she was rinsing off a greasy carburetor and I bit back the comment.
“Morning,” she said, cold as ice.
I sighed, gritting my teeth, studying her back. “You’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Listen—”
“I’m working, and I’m busy.”
Shut down.
“Okay. Fine. Talk to you later then.” A rush of heat gathered around my neck, racing over my cheeks to the top of my head.
Nevertheless, I turned and walked away. I didn’t subscribe to the Roscoe Winston school of thought of playing games. I teased and flirted, but I wasn’t a game player. And neither was Shelly. So that meant she was pissed.
If she needed time, I’d give her time.
If she needed space, I’d give her space.
And that’s when I was certain I didn’t want to just end up with my car. I wanted her. I’d give her anything and everything she needed. She didn’t even need to ask.
So, this is what it feels like to be wrecked.
I almost felt sorry for Cletus.
* * *
The good news was, I didn’t use the wrong motor oil or forget to check the torque spec. My work day was free of mistakes.
The bad news was, Shelly’s ice wall had returned, and it was just as impenetrable as I remembered.
I dropped the wrench I’d been using and it made a loud clatter against the cement floor, startling me. I glanced up, my eyes connecting with Shelly’s. We were the only two left in the shop.
I was running behind on my work, way behind. Dolly Payton had come in with a huge oil leak and most of my afternoon had been spent calling around auto parts stores before they closed for the night, looking for a replacement tank. There was no patching hers. Since it was my night to close, I still had the rest of my regular load to finish as well.
I didn’t know why Shelly was still there, but I had my suspicions. I was pretty sure she’d finished her load over an hour ago. Now she was standing at one of the Master Lock toolboxes. It looked like she was cleaning the tools, reorganizing them, and putting them away.
I wanted to call her on it, tell her to stop. Because why the hell was she cleaning them when she was still pissed at me?
She looked from me to the wrench, and then back again, but made no comment. Shaking my head at myself, I gave her a taut smile and bent to retrieve it, hating the way I ached when I thought about her, and how the pain sliced new and fresh every time our eyes met.
And that’s when I heard the hum of approaching motorcycles.
I stood quickly and jogged to the front of the garage just in time to see two bikes coming around the bend of the main road. Cursing under my breath, I pulled my fingers through my hair, having no idea what to do next.
I wasn’t ready for this.
After Christine’s declaration, I’d left Hank’s place on Bandit Lake last Wednesday morning without saying another word to the woman. I’d wanted to call her a liar. But looking at her—the red of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the shape of her mouth—the word liar stuck in my throat.
So I’d left.
“Should we take my Buick?” Shelly was by my side and she’d slipped her hand into mine. “It’s not as fast as your GTO, but it’s brown, so I can hide it better.”
I glanced at her, at the stern set to her mouth, the ready tension in her shoulders, and I had a moment of absolute clarity.
I am falling in love with this woman.
But the clarity was engulfed in a cloud of dust and gravel, kicked up by motorcycle tires.
My stomach lurched as I stepped back, drawing Shelly behind me. “You should go.”
“Come with me.”