I look around my room and see him. It’s nothing new. I see him in all kinds of places, but it’s easy to picture him here walking out of the bathroom wearing a towel around his waist, droplets of water sliding down his chest, or sitting on the couch with one of those panty melting smiles on his face, or lying in my bed, grinning with smug self-confidence because he’s just made me glad I’m a woman.
My house is my haven. I’ve loved this place since the first moment I saw it when I was showing it to a client. I knew I had to buy it right then. But if this doesn’t work out with Walker, I’m going to have to move so I don’t see him everywhere I look.
I can’t lie. The reason I’m not asleep yet even though I can’t stop yawning is because I’m waiting for a text back. I know it’s late, but a girl can hope. And I don’t want to miss it when it happens, so instead of plugging it into the charger beside my bed, I hold it in my hand and shut off the light.
It’s a small compromise but I’ll never forgive myself if I sleep through a text he sends. Even if he tells me that he never wants to talk to me again and I’ve blown my chance with him, I want to know it as soon as he sends it.
I roll toward the pillow he laid on, and I’m sad when I can’t smell his cologne. I’ve changed the sheets since he slept here, but I hoped the scent of him would be on the pillow. And it’s gone now. I fall hoping he texts back because I want my bed to smell like him and I want it to smell like him because he’s sleeping in it. And I want him to text me so I can tell him.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
WALKER
I slam the phone down. Like I’m not having a shitty enough week, now the fucking city is screwing with me. I’ve had eleven cars in and out of here this week along with my regular oil changes and brake jobs, and now the mayor herself has called to say that the city needs to adjust the amount they’re contracted to pay me because they forgot to add vehicle maintenance to the new budget and the money just isn’t there.
I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair. There are three mechanics working on city cars right now. They need paid.Ineed paid. Not only because if I don’t there are going to be money problems for me–hmm, I wonder if this is whatshit rolls downhillmeans–and not because I’ve turned down other work so I could make room for the city contract, but because the city has signed a contractwith me. They gave me their word. It has to mean something, and I will hold them accountable.
“Hey, boss.” Jake Copeland is standing in the doorway to the office, holding the keys to the car he’s spent the last couple hours working on–tune-up, brakes, and oil change–and a work order. “We’re all finished with the cars and heading out for the night.”
I nod. “All right. Thanks. See you Tuesday.” We don’t generally work on Sundays, but the same city who wants to lower my pay–probably to nothing but advertising space on the city website–demanded that the police cruisers not in use during the weekend be worked on and road ready by Monday morning. So I called in the guys and we each took a car to work on. Because I can’t afford the overtime pay, now my guys are off tomorrow. But it’s just as well. Right now, I can make their payroll, but if this city thing goes to hell, I don’t want to be in the position of owing them.
“Later.” Jake is a cocky young kid who’s always in the shop talking about whatever woman he slept with the night before. I can’t judge because I used to be that guy. Until I met Belle anyway.
Yeah. It’s the same Belle I can’t get out of my mind. She’s been on my mind since I opened my phone this morning and saw her message. I didn’t answer because I didn’t have time. Also because I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. She misses me. Well, I miss her, too, but I’ve had a couple days to think. A couple long, lonely days where missing her was powerful and I almost called a couple times, even though she’d asked me not to. It took everything I had not to dial.
And now that she’s sent me a text, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I want to tell her I miss her. And I want her. And I am dying being without her. I don’t know if that means that I… like her a lot or what it means, but I don’t want to scare her off. Missing me doesn’t mean that she wants me or that she is done needing space. It only means she had an itchy text finger.
Maybe you should stop over analyzing it.
Maybe, but knowing for sure what she wants would make this whole to text or not to text–who am I kidding? I’m going to text back. But knowing how she feels and what she wants would help me decidewhatto text to her.
I glance at the cell phone on my desk, sitting ignored, screen black. It looks ordinary enough for a piece of tech that is holding my life at the moment hostage. Fucking crazy, right? But true.
I shove the damned thing in my pocket and lock up for the night. I’m tired. I just want to take my ass home, get a shower and some left over beef stew, and decide what to text Belle. A greasy shop that smells like oil and gasoline isn’t as inspiring as one might think.
When I get out to thee truck, shove the key in the ignition and turn the key, nothing happens. Literally. Silence.
There’s no manly roar of an engine. Not even a whimper.
I pull the lever to pop the hood, get out, and slam the door because I just want to go home and now I have to fix my own damned truck. When I lift the hood, I spy the culprit right away–one of the battery cables is off and there’s a tiny ball of fur–white with black spots on its ear and nose and at random spots on its fur–under the hood.
I can’t tell how old it is. Looks like a girl, but could be a boy, maybe. I don’t know enough about cats, particularly cat genitalia, to know if they have innies or outies. I don’t know what to feed this thing either, whether or not it's old enough to eat bagged food or if I should get it a bowl of milk, maybe a can of that soft stuff that makes the cats on TV so happy.
I don’t know a damned thing about cats, but I know someone who does. And this, along with her message is my excuse. Maybe the cat will help fix the things I broke with her.
The cat purrs like we’re best friends then climbs up to my shoulder and hangs on like a baby, head next to my neck and I hold her so she doesn’t fall. I pull out my phone, look at the screen and consider shooting a text back, asking for her help with the cat, but more than anything, I want to hear her voice.
When her phone rings, I suck in a breath. I’ve made important phone calls before but none that feel so big as this one. Her voice is one of the things I miss most. It’s husky for a woman, sexy as hell, but then when she’s nervous, it gets higher pitched and breathy like that hot chick from Baywatch that was married to the drummer.
She answers and her voice says she should be wearing a bright red swimsuit. “Walker.” It’s one word, and one I’ve heard a zillion times in my life, but relief swims through me.
“Hey.” I should’ve at least thought about what I need to say to her. “Can you come to the shop? I have something…” I can’t finish because the answer matters too much.
She sucks in a breath and I can’t breathe at all. I’m weak for her.
“Yeah. Give me ten minutes?” It’s like she’s asking my permission.
That gives me time to hook the battery back up and get a charger out here.
