“Catch ya tomorrow, Chuck. We gotta finish that truck, so be here at seven.”
The eighteen-year-old that chose trade school over college throws a leg over the dirt bike he pushed in here six months ago. He wanted a job. And he wanted a bike he could ride.
I gave him access to my garage, and in lieu of a job interview, I watched him fix that bike. Not only did he nail it, but he impressed the fuck outta me so much that he got the job and possibly a place in my will, in case I never marry and have kids.
He can have my garage if there are no baby Alesi’s to take over when I kick the bucket.
I slide into my Charger and grin when Florida Georgia Line sing about love with the reverence only country music singers can manage. I move onto Main Street with the music on low enough I can still think, pull into a sub drive-thru on a whim, and grab a late lunch.
I have a plan. And I have a rumbling stomach.
Two birds, one plan.
I head across town with heaped meatball subs and orange sodas laying out on my passenger seat, and though the garage door is closed when I pull into Kane’s driveway, I don’t write it off yet. I have faith in my plan.
And I’m hungry as fuck.
“Hello?” I climb out of the car with my bag of food and make a bunch of noise. I won’t ever be accused of sneaking up on her. I won’t ever give her reason to turn around and scream bloody murder because she didn’t know I was there.
I tap on the sliding garage door and smile at the loud echo. “Anyone here? Do I need to go into the house first?”
I’ve worked with engines for longer than I’ve been wiping my own ass. When a kid has nothing but a yard full of junker cars to tinker with, he learns how to work them the way a regular toddler learns puzzles and TV remotes.
Which means I also know the sound of a socket wrench being laid against the frame of a car.
And I know the sound of a scared woman moving closer on shuffling feet. “Ang?”
There she is.“Hey, it’s just me. Can you flip the lock?”
“What are you doing here?”
Don’t take it personally. This is about her, not me.“I’m here to work on my car.”
I hold my breath at the seemingly endless pause that screams louder than any words, but when the locks click and the seal at the bottom of the door cracks, I glance down and grin at the sight of her feet.
Her sweatpants.
Her hips.
Her trim waist and moving arms as they pull the chain and open the door.
Any other girl, any other time, and I’d have ducked under the door to help with the chain. But not here, not today, and not Laine.
Laine doesn’t need a hero. She needs to find that woman from before Graham walked in and broke her apart. She needs to find the cow tipping, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound fighter abusing, toe-to-toe going, skateboard-wielding spitfire she used to be.
That girl doesn’t need a guy to hold a door for her.
“Hey.” I duck my head a little lower to catch her eye. “How’s it going? What are you doing in here?”
When I step further into the garage, she steps back with a shrug. “I’m checking out the Buick. Was curious.”
I knew she would be.
I knew she wouldn’t be able to help herself.
Setting my bag of food on the leather backseat, I move toward the hood and peek at the missing battery and the disconnected fuel lines.
She already started.