***
RYE
“The car is fixed,” Wrench says, grinning at me like he’s waiting for my reaction.
“You’re sure it’s ready? No issues at all?”
“Positive,” he affirms.
Tag walks in, and Wrench continues grinning. “You two need a minute?” Tag asks, noting the stare-down.
“No,” I snap, and Wrench starts laughing.
“The Camry girl needs to bring it in for regular maintenance so this doesn’t happen again. Your wallet will appreciate it.”
He turns and walks away, leaving that in the air for Tag to pounce on. And he does.
“Camry girl? Brin? You’re doing something to her car and paying for it?”
He sits down, eager to grill me. But I don’t have time to deal with him. “Ash’s car is ready. It’s been ready. You were supposed to pick it up a couple of days ago.”
He rolls his eyes while grinning. “I’ve been busy, as you saw last night. I’m here to get it now, but you’re deflecting. What’s going on with you and Brin?”
Shit.
“I don’t know what you mean. We’re friendly neighbors who torment each other. Nothing else.”
“Dude, you’re either talking about her, talki
ng to her, seeing her, or plotting a way to drive her crazy. You’ve got it bad, or you’re just plain crazy. I’m going with option one.”
I snort derisively, even as my nerves clam up in my throat.
“I don’t have it bad, and we both know I’ve been crazy for years. She’s cool. She doesn’t pout or whine when I do something reprehensible. She just plots her own attack, and we have fun. It’s completely and totally normal.”
“There’s not a single normal thing about anything you just said. But if you want to live in denial, fine. Just a warning, though; my dick stopped working for anyone but Ash the second I started falling for her. When’s the last time yours worked?”
He’s fucking with me. No way is that a real thing.
Jessica walks in, and she struts all the way to my desk. She bends over farther than necessary to hand me some paperwork to sign, and then she struts back out.
“Get anything from that?” Tag asks, looking smug as hell when I bring my eyes back up from all the shit I have to go through.
“From what?”
“The girl just did a catwalk performance to your desk, shoved her tits in your face, and you barely glanced at her. And she’s just your type.”
My type. I’m getting sick of hearing about my type.
“I noticed,” I say with a shrug.
“Oh? What color of dress was she wearing? Was her hair up or down? And what did she say?”
What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?
“I rarely notice a girl’s dress color, I never pay attention to hair, and she didn’t say a word.”
He laughs as though I’ve said something ludicrous, so I lean back while arching my brow.