“I said nine-ish.”
“There was no ‘ish.’ I have it written down.” I hold up my clipboard as evidence.
Ben straightens, wiping his hands on a rag that’s already more grease than fabric. When he finally looks at me, his jaw tightens for just a second before he smooths it out.
“Course you do.” He tosses the rag aside and leans against the Volvo, arms crossed. “Car’s done. Keys are on the counter.”
“Great. Thank you.” I don’t move toward the counter. “Now about the auction?—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Didn’t need to. Answer’s still no.”
“Ben.” I take a step closer, and his scent gets stronger. My skin prickles with awareness. “The community center roof is literally falling apart. Annie Winslow had to put out buckets last week. Buckets, Ben. During the senior knitting circle.”
“Tragic.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” But his mouth is twitching. “I’m just not doing the auction.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s my reason.” He pushes off the Volvo and walks toward the workbench, putting distance between us. I watch him go—the loose confidence in his stride, the way his jeans sit on his hips. The garage is warmer near the space heater in the corner, but I can still see my breath fogging slightly in the colder pockets of air. “You’ve got seven other guys. You don’t need me.”
“I need eight. The budget requires eight.”
“So find someone else.”
“There is no one else!” I follow him, because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts. “You’re the last bachelor I need. Milo helped me get the other four, so it’s just you.”
Ben’s shoulders tense. “Yeah. Milo mentioned that.”
“You talked to Milo about this?”
“He might’ve brought it up.” His voice is carefully flat. “At the bar. Last night.”
Great. So everyone in town is discussing my bachelor shortage. “Well, then you know the situation. I need eight. I have seven. You’re the last one.”
“And I’m still saying no.”
“Why? What is your problem with this?”
“I’m plenty helpful in other ways. I fixed your car, didn’t I?”
“For which I’m paying you.”
“Damn right you are.” He grabs a socket wrench and fiddles with it, not really doing anything. His hands are big, capable, knuckles scraped from work. “Speaking of which—where’d you park my truck?”
“Out front.”
“Good. I’ll need to—” He stops. Sets down the wrench. “Actually, hold on.”
