Knox whistles low under his breath as he props the hood open and starts his inspection. I stay planted in the driver’s seat, desperate to create some space between us. Even catching glimpses of him through the windshield feels like a cruel joke.
My eyes scan the dirty blond tufts of hair sticking out of his ball cap. I knew when he took off his hat, there would be unruly curls that would spring loose. I used to love twirling those pieces around my fingers as he laid on my chest.
“I think I figured it out. Can you come here?”
His words snap me out of the innocent memory like a bucket of ice water. I blink away any endearing thoughts and hop off the tall truck seat before walking to the front of the vehicle.
He leans forward and braces a forearm on the edge of the truck while peering into the engine with a lazy sort of confidence. “Looks like you’ve got a blown head gasket. It’s a simple fix, but this is an old truck, so it might take a while for the parts to come in. I can fix it for you at the shop.”
I should feel relieved that he can figure it out so quickly, but all I hear is that our brief interaction will be extended. And said interaction will cost me extra money I don’t have at the moment.
Fuck. This was supposed to be a good day. When I moved into the apartment above my grandma’s shop all by myself, it lit this fire of independence inside me. And then when I found the solid oak armoire online this morning, I could finally see everything coming together. But apparently, this was one of the many bumps my sister warned me about.
“Is it something I could do myself?” I ask, feeling confident. I was a master at the art of DIYing. I was constantly finding ways to save a few bucks by doing what most people pay others to do. That’s how I got into upcycling vintage furniture.
A harsh laugh rings in my ears, and the defiant middle child inside me wants to make this man eat his words. No—choke. I want him to choke on his words.
“I hate to break it to you, Bam—Emery,” he says, correcting himself when his eyes connect with mine, “but this is the type of job you want a professional to do. Someone inexperienced might end up causing more damage.”
His words land like a slap, even if he doesn’t mean them to. I swallow hard and cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m not helpless,” I defend. “I’m not the same girl who needed you to teach her how to drive or wipe away her tears. A lot has changed since then.”
A slow and dangerous smile unravels on Knox’s face. “Trust me, I know.”
My eyes narrow more, squishing his face between twoslender squints. Was he always this annoying, or was I blinded by the boyish Aura that seemed to follow him into adulthood?
“Fine. What happens next then?” I say, twisting my arms around me. My stomach churns thinking about how much all of this is going to cost.
“I’ll tow this beaut back to the shop,” he says, slapping a hand against the faded blue exterior, “and call you with an estimate tomorrow. I can drop you off wherever you’re staying on the way.”
My eyes dart toward the large object perched in the tailgate. “I’ll need help unloading that too,” I say, pointing to my pride and joy.
Knox walks around the truck and lifts the blanket covering the deep oak color, shimmering in the moonlight. “A dresser? What are you doing with this thing?”
“It’s an armoire,” I say, trying to reel in any pretentiousness lingering in my tone, “and please be careful. It’s vintage.”
“Oh, my bad,” Knox replies, holding up both hands. “We should probably strap this down before we take off.”
Without another word, he disappears into the cab of his truck and emerges with a few ratchet straps hanging from his arms. He quietly goes to work, making sure the piece of furniture is secure.
When he starts to crank the pulley, tightening the strap, it’s like nails on a chalkboard. “Not too tight! Be gentle.”
Knox lets out a light chuckle and shakes his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard those words coming out of your mouth.”
The comment shoots right through me, causing heat to crawl up my skin. My breath feels heavy in my throat. “Very mature,” I say, whipping toward the passenger seat, but then I stop dead in my tracks.
If I thought being out here with him was bad, then I sorelymiscalculated how tense it was going to be in a small, enclosed space.
I reach out my hand, but hesitate. The thought of walking a few miles back to town crosses my mind. Anything would be better than being trapped inside a confined space with Knox Cooke.
But my pride is already bruised, my bank account is about to sink to triple digits, and my legs are shaking from standing on the side of the road like some tragic cliché.
Without thinking, I mutter under my breath, “Let’s get this over with.” And then I yank open the heavy door.
“What was that, Bambi?” Knox smiles as he effortlessly slides into the driver’s seat.
“I said if you keep calling me Bambi, you’re going to need an ambulance, not a tow truck,” I reply, complimenting my answer with a huge smile.
