11
KADE
Who is this fucking woman? She’s charmed everyone we’ve interacted with today, from the grumpy old bastard arguing over his repair bill to the waitress at the pizza joint to the squeaky-voiced teenager at the grocery store. All of them got sucked into her orbit.
Hell, so did I.
And I’m pretty fucking pissed about it.
I wanted her to stay. I wanted her safe, but I didn’t expect I’d get so obsessed. With my history, I should really rein my shit in.
“Goodnight,” she whispers at the door.
I nod and hand her the last grocery bag. She let me pay for the pizza, but the way she argued with me about paying for her fucking groceries? Christ, I’ve paid more than her grocery bill for a shave. I can’t say I’m particularly proud of that, but when you have as much money as I do, you sometimes buy stupid shit.
My smile creeps back, picturing the way she dropped her body over the debit machine, blocking me. She fucking won that one. Her eyes are wide now, shining at me from the dim apartment. I lock my hands on the doorframe to stop myself from grabbing her.
“Do you want to come in?” she whispers. I really do. Her eyes are wide, warm, and friendly. But I’m too fucked up to handle this. To handle her and not lose myself. I’m already way too fascinated by her. If I spend any more time with her, I'm going to be fucked. I shake my head.
“Nah, it’s late. See you tomorrow.” I turn and bolt down the stairs. I stop and look up at her, still standing in the doorway, loose hairs curling around her face. “Lock the door, Becca.”
The softness has fallen away from her face, leaving disappointment in its wake. As I watch, the disappointment slides away, replaced by a rueful smile. “Message received, boss. Goodnight.” My body locks up as the finality of those words sink in. She softly closes the door. I wait to hear the lock before jogging to my truck. I double-check the gate and doors before jumping into my truck.
“FUCK!” I yell, punching the roof of the cab.
What the hell am I doing?
I started this. I maneuvered her until I got her to stay, and now I’m regretting it. I wasn’t supposed to feel this. This obsession. This ache. Her hooks are digging into me. I already feel panicked at the idea of leaving her here alone tonight. I’m worrying if she’ll be okay. If she’ll be warm enough. If she’ll need anything. I want to take care of her.
I’ve known this woman twenty-four hours, and I already feel like I’m losing the man I’ve worked so hard to be this last year. No way am I going back to being that person. That doormat. The one who gave and gave and gave. The one who believed every promise. Who tried to put her back together every time she fell apart. I can’t let myself get dragged down.
No, it’s obvious that I need to take a step, or twenty, back. It’s better for everyone.
The next day at work,I force myself to keep my distance, physically and emotionally. She takes the lead in the office, looking like she’s been doing it for years. Everyone who walks in the door gets a sunny smile. All the mechanics make excuses to come in and visit with her.
I warn them away at first, but it’s like trying to hold back ten dogs after one ball. Becca seems to handle them just fine, though. Laughing and joking with them like she’s known them forever. I hate that she laughs and teases them.
She doesn’t brush up against me like yesterday.
She doesn’t smile at me or talk to me at all other than the odd question here or there.
I tell myself it’s better this way. That I don’t miss her light. And I definitely don’t ask her any more about her past.
I know if she ends up sad or teary again, I won’t be able to stop myself from holding her. I can’t be the one to fix this broken woman.
I’m not capable of fixing her without breaking myself.
12
BECCA
My three-week probation drags by. I get to know the guys in the back, and Micah and I develop a system to communicate. He wrote me out a list of common words for the garage, and I’ve been watching videos to learn how to sign them. He lets me practice on him, laughing when I screw up.
He actually said three words to me yesterday ‘Thank you, Becca.” When he speaks it’s slow, hesitant. Never more than a few words. So it may be a small thing, but it feels like a big victory somehow.
There’s something about Micah that makes me want to take care of him. To shelter him somehow. Which is weird considering he’s got at least sixty pounds and six inches on me, and I am not a tiny woman. But he doesn’t avoid me anymore. Even letting me sit near him while he works on his cars. He doesn’t even seem to mind all my questions, answering them with a couple of words each time.
It took me way too long to figure out that he does something very different from the rest of the guys in the garage. They’re all working on cars that go in and out daily, their owners coming for them within a day or two. But Micah’s doing restorations, working on three cars for the entire time I’ve been here, only jumping in to help the other guys when he’s stalled waiting for a part.
