“WHAT?” I cup my hand to my ear, shaking my head. “STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU! YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GO HANDLE THOSE VENDOR MEETINGS! IT’S COLD OUT THERE!”
Her eyes narrow to slits. She points at me, mouth forming words I’m definitely pretending not to understand, then throws her hands up in frustration.
“THURSDAY!” I shout helpfully. “EIGHT A.M.! TRUCK’S GOT HEAT!”
She mouths something that looks a lot like “You’re impossible” and storms out into the cold, my truck keys clutched in her fist.
The second the truck door slams, I turn the radio back down.
Bea’s standing in the office doorway, laptop in hand, wearing one of my old hoodies because she claims the office is freezing. She’s been helping me with social media and marketing stuff for the shop. Turns out her business degree is useful for my shop.
“Did you just...” She’s trying not to laugh. “Did you seriously just give her your truck and pretend you couldn’t hear her?”
“The acoustics in here are terrible.” I turn back to Mrs. Henderson’s Buick.
“Ben.” She comes over, setting her laptop on the workbench. “She was asking you about the bachelor auction, wasn’t she?”
“Don’t know. Couldn’t hear her.”
“You know she’s just going to ask you again on Thursday when she brings your truck back, right?”
Shit. I didn’t think that through.
“And now you don’t have a truck for three days. In January. In Montana.”
Double shit.
Bea’s grinning. “This is the worst avoidance strategy I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m not avoiding anything. I’m helping a customer.”
“By giving her your truck and shouting about acoustics?”
“It’s good customer service.”
“It’s ridiculous.” She leans against the workbench, studying me. “You like her.”
“I appreciate her business.”
“Ben.”
“She needed a ride. I provided a solution.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m working.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I make the mistake of glancing at her. There’s that look—the one that says she’s seeing right through my bullshit and deciding whether to call me out or let it go.
“You know,” she says finally, softer now, “it’s okay to like someone. Even someone terrifying with a clipboard.”
“I don’t—” I stop. Because lying to Bea never works. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s not looking for anything. She’s got her entire life planned out. No room for complications.”
“Maybe she needs complications.” Bea picks up her laptop. “Or maybe you’re just scared.”
