Which is weird, because I don’t do this. I don’t banter. I don’t tease. I’m the woman with the clipboard, the one who runs meetings and keeps everyone on track. I don’t joke about bruises or make comments about sentimental french fries.
But something about Ben Wilson makes me want to poke at him just to see what he’ll do.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“Show me the car.”
He leads me to the other side of the garage, where my Honda is parked looking cleaner than it has in months. He must have washed it too, which is definitely not standard mechanic service. The cold is sharper over here, away from the space heater, and I pull his jacket tighter without thinking.
“Replaced the timing belt, fixed the oil leak, rotated the tires.” He pops the hood, propping it open to show me. His hands move with easy confidence as he points things out, and I’m watching his fingers instead of the engine. “Brake pads were getting low so I swapped those too. Didn’t charge you for those since I had extras.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He’s not looking at me, focused on the engine, and it gives me a moment to study him. The curl of hair at the back of his neck. The grease still smudged on his forearm. The way his throat moves when he swallows.
“Why did you?”
Ben closes the hood with a solid thunk, the sound echoing in the cold garage. His eyes meet mine, then skitter away. “Customer service.”
“Right. Your famous customer service.” I circle the car, running my hand along the hood. The metal is cold, but the garage is warm, and I’m still wearing his jacket, and everything smells like him. “The same customer service that made you throw keys at my head and blast your radio to avoid talking to me?”
“The keys were gently tossed. And the radio was already on.”
“It was not already on. You lunged for it like a lifeline.”
“I don’t lunge.”
“You lunged.”
He’s almost smiling now, fighting it but losing. I like this version of Ben—the one that bickers with me, that matches my energy, that doesn’t run away.
“Fine,” he says. “Maybe the radio wasn’t already on. But I had a good reason.”
“Which was?”
“None of your business.” He leans against my car, arms crossed, watching me with those annoyingly pretty brown eyes. “Why do you care so much anyway? About the auction. About getting me specifically.”
“Because you’re the last bachelor I need.”
“There are other single alphas in this town.”
“Most of them are either married, too old, or don’t live here full-time.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Trust me, I’ve been through the list. Twice.”
“So I’m your last resort.”
“You’re my only option.”
Because you’re infuriating. Because you make me feel things I don’t want to feel. Because every time I’m near you, my entire body lights up like I’m standing too close to a fire.
“Because you’re local, single, and reasonably attractive,” I say instead. “And Mrs. Henderson would bid good money on you.”
“Did you just call me reasonably attractive?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He’s definitely smiling now, a real one that reaches his eyes, and—nope. Not thinking about how that makes him look. “Reasonably attractive. I’ll put that on my business cards. Ben Wilson, Mechanic. Reasonably attractive. Terrible at answering simple questions.”
“I’m not wrong.”
