“Damn dog,” I mumble under my breath.
Noah chuckles behind me, his warm breath skating up my neck, and I purposefully avoid turning back even though I really want to see his face.
A neon sign that flickers the word OPEN buzzes above the entrance, and Noah brushes past me when I hesitate from going in. He places a hand on my shoulder and offers me a smile, the warm pressure of his fingertips seeping through my skin and straight to tug at something in my belly.
Is he trying to be reassuring? Or does he want to touch me?
I roll my eyes at myself, shaking off the ghost of his lingering touch.
As we step in, the faint smell of gasoline blows out through the open doors, and the concrete floors are scattered with oil stains in between the uneven cracks riddling the bay floors. What’s more assaulting is the hiss of an air compressor and bursts of clanking metal that grates in my ears coupled with the pungent odors—this is the making of a migraine.
A man stands over by a disorganized workbench, tools hung from pegboards along the wall while spare parts litter underneath, and he raises a hand at Noah.
Noah returns the greeting and leans down close to my ear. “That’s Tommy.”
“I figured.”
He gently elbows me. “Beautifulandwitty.”
I grin at him, wanting to play. What the hell is wrong with me?
Luckily, Tommy makes a wet gurgling sound, like he’s hawking a loogie, but it got stuck. It’s impossible to ignore. It’s disgusting and phlegmy, and it cuts through the heady tension ruining me.
Tommy is the opposite of Noah in every way. He embodies grease and pit stains dressed in a navy-blue mechanic’s uniform with an embroidered red name tag that reads Hot Stuff instead of his actual name, and no offense to Tommy, but I’d argue the title of Hot Stuff.
His muddy brown hair is straggly and grimy, like he absentmindedly swiped his fingers through there leaving a trail amongst the sweat-slicked strands. His blue eyes glint with mischief as he does a provocative gesture and nearly humps the air at Noah—I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
I avert my eyes, choosing to stare off at a stack of tires in the corner of the garage.
“Noah! My man. Gotta love it when you and your fine ass graces my shop.”
Is this guy high? Please tell me he’s not the one working on my car.
“And you brought your girlfriend. How nice.”
“What’s up, Tommy. This is Lily,” Noah gestures to me, and I cringe.
No, no, no. I don’t want to be introduced. Wait—girlfriend? How come Noah didn’t correct that? I’m definitely not his girlfriend. I just want my car and to get out of this filthy cesspool.
“Hi,” I mutter, watching as he glides over my baggy T-shirt and leggings. His blue eyes are judgy, and I raise my eyebrows at him, challenging him. As if to saySo what? You look just as bad. Piss off.
The corner of Tommy’s mouth curves up enough to suggest he’s amused. He wipes his hand across his nose, leaving a black stain in its place.
“Lily owns the car I had you pick up from the gas station last night. We’re here to check on it.”
“Ah. That piece shit is in rough shape.” He laughs, and I glance at Noah who doesn’t seem fazed. More like he’s been dealing with Tommy for a long time.
“Where is it? My car,” I ask. Because she may be a piece of crap, but she’s still mine.
“Out back. After we diagnosed it was a worn fuel pump, I moved it while we wait for the part.”
“What do you mean wait?” I ask, again.
Tommy winks at me. “I mean, pretty little thing, that a fuel pump for your make and model isn’t something I keep on hand. I had to order it. Should be here sometime next week.”
Next week? Damn it. No. I have to get to work. I’m already short hours as it is, and Mitch is probably dying to find otherreasons to trim down my time drastically. Plus, I need the money. Pinebrook has gotten too weird, and too …
I look at Noah.Complicated.
