All in all, she's been good for the shop; she keeps client appointments running smoothly, and all the employees like her, too.
She gives that three-tone knock on the door, and I bark, "Come in," without looking up.
"Hey, Atlas," she greets, her voice bright and bubbly as she stands in front of my desk.
I glance up briefly, just long enough to clock that she's smiling at me in thatwayagain, the way I noticed months ago that reads a little too friendly sometimes, a little too hopeful.
I'm not exactly sure what that means, if she's hoping for a management position in the future. She's good and efficient at her job, so if I were looking, I would most likely offer it to her and hire someone else at the front.
Aubree always sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the gray, black, and blues of the shop in her long-sleeved, pink top and skinny jeans.
We don't really have a dress code at the shop; the non-mechanics can really wear whatever they want. I do notice, though, that she always wears a full face of makeup, always has her hair done, and usually smells like perfume that's too floral.
Honestly, it just makes me miss Wendy.
My wife always smells light and sweet and warm like vanilla cupcakes. It makes my mouth water every time I breathe her in. She's worn the same perfume since we were teenagers, and I swear that fragrance mixed with her natural scent has some sort of Pavlovian effect on me.
One whiff of it and my chest loosens, my shoulders drop, my jaw unlocks.
Comfort, safety, home, and desire.
My beautiful wife with her bright smile, those fox-like green eyes, those perfect, puffy lips, that long, gorgeous body that slots perfectly against mine like it was designed to be there.
Her soft skin and the curves of her breasts and hips from carrying my sons. I love holding onto them, caressing them, running my fingers over her stretch marks, and not resisting the urge to gnaw on the meat of her thighs when I'm eating her out.
That gorgeous red hair I love running my hands through, love clutching when I'm fucking her, tilting her head back so I can kiss her.
I know no one is perfect, but to me, my wife is, and every other woman dulls in comparison.
She's my one.
Not just her body, it's herpresencethat calms me. My wife is always composed. In any disaster or problem we face, she's able to step back and look at it logically, figuring out a way through without panic or dramatics.
When our sons used to have temper tantrums, she never rose to their level the way I wanted to when they threw a toy at her or screamed that she was a mean Mommy.
Instead, she knelt down, got eye level with them, and firmly told them why that wasn't nice, how that hurt Mommy's feelings, and why they shouldn't throw things or say hurtful words.
It was like watching magic, the way she could just get through to our boys. I would watch in awe as they deflated, asher words reached them and landed exactly where they needed to.
It made me feel a little inadequate, but she was with them constantly; she was theirmommy,and she learned from my mom.
Wendy always has everything handled.
She doesn't need me—but I sure as fuck need her.
And that's what terrifies me more than anything.
"What's up?" I ask Aubree, my eyes already back on the laptop screen.
"Uh..." she shifts a little awkwardly, glancing back toward the door behind her. "There's someone here for you."
I look up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Client?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think so. They mentioned dropping off paperwork. Seemed... official."
"Probably for the expansion," I sigh, gesturing vaguely toward the side of the building where we're adding three more bays and a bigger break room for the techs.
Our home shop at the Mercy Ridge location has grown faster than the others, so my dad wants to expand and refresh the location—new tools, new mechanisms, more education, more, more, more.
