“No,” I say, cutting him off again. I was getting good at it. “There’s no way I’m taking money from my baby brother. Especially when your ass is going to be swimming in student loans after med school.” Yes, soon I would be the only non-doctor among the three of us. Add that to the list of things my parents hate about me.
A grumble vibrates the speaker. “You’re not supposed to remind me.”
“What are big sisters for?” I croon.
“But seriously, Ree. If this is something you feel like you need to do, then I’ll support you. But if this dickhead hurts you again, I will personally make the six-hour drive and beat his ass.”
I bite my lip, trying my best not to laugh as his tone turns serious. My brother has never been in a real fight in his life. He is more of the type to mediate a conflict—not work it out with fists. But it still warms my heart to know he cares.
“Thanks, Eli,” I say, squeezing the phone in my hand. “I miss you like crazy, you little dweeb.”
“Okay, you’re getting sappy. That’s my cue to hang up.”
“Whatever, kid. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”
“Love you too, Ree. I can’t wait for more updates on your weird small town escort business.”
Before I can shoot off a retort, a beeping noise comes through the speaker telling me that the little shit hung up. I shake my head before tossing my phone on the couch cushion beside me.
And then my delightful conversation is sullied by the thought of what comes next. My smile sinks into a deflated frown when the imaginary to-do list in my head expands into a very irritating scroll.
Top of that list? Agree to becoming Knox Cooke’s fake girlfriend.
The smell of anti-freeze and motor oil hits me instantly when I walk through the front door ofSal’s Auto Shop. The smallbell above the door loudly announces my entrance—similar to the one at the antique shop. Except this one sends a fresh jolt of annoyance up my spine.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
I could’ve simply called or texted the guy, but I have to get used to his presence if we are going to make our relationship look legit. Besides, there are ground rules to establish, and I am far less intimidating over the phone.
My eyes trail around the freshly painted waiting room. It’s clean and tidy. Almost inviting enough to draw my attention away from the pile of papers strung across the front desk. It looks eerily similar to my own desk.
I sigh and swivel my head back and forth, searching for any kind of life. I can feel my pulse buzzing across the surface of my skin. God, I’m nervous and Ihateit. My body snaps to life when I hear the light banging of metal-on-metal echoing from the other side of the wall. I walk toward it.
The soles of my boots squeak against the polished linoleum floor as I make my way toward the door, hopefully connected to the garage.
I know Knox is here. I saw his pick-up parked beside the building. I can’t believe he still has the same truck. I can’t believe that thing still runs. I have a very vivid memory of me steering while he pushed the hunk of junk off the road until he could get cell service to call his friend to come pick us up. I also remember what we did to pass the time.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memories to fall back into the mental box of things I don’t think about. Except once that box is open, it’s impossible to close.
Another clang of metal bounces off the walls, vibrating through my body. “Hello?” I call out, my voice quiet and shaky. Hearing no answer, I walk deeper into the garage, sidestepping random oil stains painted on the concrete.
It doesn’t take long to spot two boots poking out fromunderneath a Honda Civic. There’s another clang, but this time it’s followed by a few mumbled curse words.
I stand in place, not sure whether to announce my presence or awkwardly hang out until he emerges. But luckily, I don’t have to decide.
“Bambi, can you do me a favor and grab me the 9 mm socket off my workbench?”
My bottom lip falls open. How did he know it was me? I clear my throat and mutter a dense, “Okay,” before following his directions.
It doesn’t take long to find the right socket. His workbench is surprisingly organized. Everything is neatly stowed away in the proper nook and cranny. If Knox ever saw my workspace, he might combust.
I fight the smile playing on my lips and grab the socket before crouching down to hand it to him. A greasy hand pops out, and I plop it down effortlessly without a second thought. This may be the most normal interaction we’ve had since seeing each other again.
“Yup, that’s much better,” he says. The sound of wheels against concrete scratches my ears and the rest of Knox’s long body appears from under the vehicle.
He pops up effortlessly, and when our eyes connect, something simmers in the air. No. More like crackles. I wish I knew how to bottle that feeling up and toss it over a cliff just high enough that I can’t hear the sound it makes when it crashes to the ground.
“You know your tools, Bambi,” he says, pointing the socket at me.
